Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 33

 Somewhere in the dark hours since the Spartan's fatal visit, Apollo had hitched up his chariot, and begun his journey across the heavens. Light shone from the east, no brighter than a candle in a bronze mirror, and it cast much of the city in shadow. Above, red clouds loomed over the city, as if the sky of water had gained a bloody twin.

In the months and years passed, he would have thought to meet no one at that hour, no one to see his pain and humiliation as six of Kalliphas's pet guards marched him from the palace in chains, their brothers left behind; the court needed cleaning. Yet the curfew he'd made had spurred the people to uncommon energy, in their race to squeeze every drop of trade from the hours of light. If it as death to be about your work at night, it was also death to miss the first second of light.

Already the docks thronged with fishermen working on their small boats, and the few merchant sailors whose vessels had survived the fire now commanded incredible prices for the hire of their craft, while those who had lost theirs were willing to grab any chance to make up for the loss. They haggled and argued, cursed each other for beast spawn and cacodaemons, but they always came to terms; everyone needed the sea trade. The city would starve without it.

Starvation had crept into their brains when the harvests failed. The talk of a curse had swelled it, and the curfew, too, had swelled it. Then came the fire, and so many holds, so many jars and jugs, barrels and crates of food had burned or been swallowed by the sea. Young boys splashed out of the water, their hands stuffed with spoil from the bottom, but it was spoil, and it would spoil, for the salt water tainted everything it touched.

With the fire, hopes had burned, and hunger grown. The docks were crammed with men and women, the few with food selling it dear, the many paying twice and thrice the common sum, and squabbling over the little they got.

The water of the harbour lay in the shade, black as rotten blood, and twice as black with the ruin of burnt ships still creaking and grinding on the waves. Some men would have called it evil luck, or a murderous trap, but they didn't care. The sailors and fishermen rowed through the water, weaving around the floating wreckage. Some even hauled it out of the water, seeing treasure where others saw but waste. Not all of the wood was burnt to ash, and once dried it could be cleaned up and used again, and if it proved to be nothing but a ruin, you could still sell it to the tanners.

The crowd had risen early to work, and they went to it with energy and humour; they traded jokes and sang songs, but when they saw the party coming from the palace, silence crept among them.

A greybeard fisherman, with a red rag for a hat, stood on the deck of his little smack, chewing dried dates while his sons stowed the nets. He watched the soldiers march along the king's road, and spat a gobbet of brown spittle on the path. One of the soldiers scowled at him, and he lowered his gaze, but he wasn't alone. The soldiers got hard looks, and with every footfall, the dock grew quieter.

Silence reigned on the docks. Silence ruled the city. Silence could hide any number of secrets, any amount of anger, any depth of woe. Like a secret, the word that is not said may sound the loudest in your heart. In Nikias's heart, there was everything except silence.

Kalliphas. Kalliphas. Kalliphas.

The name came again and again. Every time his sandal struck stone, he heard it.

Kalliphas.

Every breath he took was a whisper in his ear.

Kalliphas.

Every time a guard's scabbard slapped his thigh, or the butt of his spear tapped the ground, every time a gull cried in the air above, or a child saw the soldiers, and ran crying for his mother, every time he saw a poor man working at his boat, rushing to seize the hours of light to feed his family, and that man looked at him with eyes of anger, sorrow, pity, confusion and hunger, and never dared to speak his heart, he heard them speak nevertheless.