38. Nothing Personal

With the storm letting up, it’ll soon be time for Jira to depart the tribe once more, and us with her. Elder Feena hasn’t made her move yet, but according to Jira, it will be soon. Even though we’ve prepared as much as possible and know what to expect, I’m still nervous. Jira’s a capable leader, and she’s got her foresight, but there’s still a lot that can go wrong. Nevertheless, I just have to trust the plan. After all she’s done for us, I owe her that much at least.

“All set here,” Fargo announces as the crew finishes securing the last of our cargo. “We should be ready to sail on your word, Captain.”

Jira slaps him on the shoulder and grins. “Good work, sailor! You’ll make a fine grandson yet!”

He coughs awkwardly and glances around as if worried that Remi might overhear, but she’s busy in the village.

“I don’t think that’s likely, Captain, but I’m pleased you think so.”

She just cackles and moves on with her final checks. Msshi is up in the rigging helping with the sails, since it turns out that serpentfolk are exceptionally good topmen. They can hold the bulky sails in place with their thick upper arms while handling the delicate knotwork with their more dexterous lower hands—all while coiling securely around the rigging without any risk of falls.

It makes me feel a bit useless. Fargo’s an experienced sailor, Msshi is a natural talent, and even Talla’s magic is valuable for visibility and navigation. All we can do is mend sails and do laundry, and while that’s necessary and valuable work, it’s stuff that anybody can do.

“I don’t see anybody else blowing up enemy ships,” Maggie argues. “We’re the secret weapon.”

“I’d really rather we didn’t have to do that again,” I sigh.

We’ve got enough blood on our hands as it is, and I worry about how much we’re going to end up adding to that already. I don’t know what awaits us at the Blessed Lands, but it’ll be an invading army following us, and I can’t imagine that being anything other than messy.

And speaking of messy, there’s Feena and her entourage approaching the docks. She’s got a small army of her own—enough men to crew at least two ships, or perhaps more critically enough to overpower the crew of one ship if it comes down to a fight. As expected, she means business.

They’re not heavily armed, at least—though there’s no shortage of clubs, daggers, or even the occasional sword among them. No spears, no bows, and maybe most importantly, no guns. Well, aside from the one Feena herself carries at her hip—a simple matchlock, its fuse unlit.

In short, she’s prepared for violence, but this isn’t an attack. At least, not that kind of attack.

“Hail Chieftain!” she calls out once she’s within earshot. “Permission to board?”

Jira leans lazily over the railing next to me. “Quite the farewell party you’ve brought, Elder. I’m afraid there’s not enough room for more than one or two of your followers to join you if you’d like to come see me off in person.”

“That’s fine by me,” Feena agrees readily, picking out two of her burlier—and more well-armed—crew to join her as she makes her way up the boarding ramp.

Once aboard, she looks around at the bustling crew and nods approvingly.

“Well disciplined as always, eh?” she chuckles. “You always did keep an orderly crew. Where is the young lady Goa?”

“Indisposed,” Jira replies. “Did you need her for something?”

“No, no,” the elder says, shaking her head. “I was simply curious.”

She runs a hand along the railing as she approaches, stopping a few paces short of me and Jira.

“Truly a fine vessel. Perhaps one of our best,” she muses. “In better times, it would serve as an excellent flagship for the fleet. Almost a waste, isn’t it?”

The captain scoffs and shakes her head. “Too small for that. This ship is as seaworthy as any of our craft—and has proven itself by crossing the ocean—but it’s made to sail on Sagaa. A river, no matter how large, is still a river.”

“Perhaps.” Feena shrugs. “But my point remains. Our finest ships, our best captains—all wasting their talents as mere merchants and traders. We were greater once, when you and I were still young.”

“Were we?” Jira asks, leaning casually against the railing, though keeping her eyes fixed on Elder Feena. “The mainland always needs quality timber, and we’re the only ones on this side of the great wheel that the Blessed Lands are willing and able to trade with. I’ve provided more to the tribe as a trader in a single decade than any two I spend raiding.”

“Tch, but at what cost?” Feena insists. “When did our tribe become so weak that we’d allow some spoiled young clans from the mainland push us around?”

The captain’s eyes harden as she levels a firm glare at the other elder. “You wish to speak to me of cost, Feena? Will you look me in the eye and tell me that your way does not have its own costs?”

To my surprise, Feena looks genuinely contrite, averting her eyes for a moment and hastily shaking her head.

“No! Never. Brianna’s loss was a blow felt by the entire tribe—I will not deny that.”

“She had a husband as well,” Jira notes coldly.

“Emmet’s loss was a tragedy as well, of course,” Feena replies. “If not quite so dearly felt.”

“Tell that to the girl who lost her father,” Jira sighs.

The elder opens her mouth to retort, then seems to think better of it and clears her throat before changing the subject.

“We’ve received word from the Shaa family,” she says. “They’ll be sending envoys soon to discuss the terms of our arrangement.”

“‘Arrangement’?” Jira asks. “An interesting word for surrender.”

It makes sense, actually. Using military might to force Degala’s hand would be an unpopular move back home, since they are nominally part of the empire. They’d probably get away with it, since the tribes are more like satellite protectorates that range from begrudgingly accepting to openly opposed to imperial rule, but if they can spin it as a cooperative effort, that’s political capital that they don’t have to spend.

“They want to eat their cake and still have it afterwards,” I explain.

The translation is a little awkward, since the more common way to phrase the expression goes from slightly confusing in our language to completely incoherent in Fa’aun, but I think it gets the point across. Feena grimaces at me, both surprised and annoyed that I’ve chosen to insert myself into their conversation. I think she forgot I was here.

“A strange metaphor, but yes,” she begrudgingly admits. “Shaa is open to accepting open cooperation between our tribe and their family, but they wish for it to be just that—open.”

They’ll probably be willing to grant some extra concessions to make that work, as Violet predicted, but that completely throws the idea of complaining to the empress out the window. If it’s not a surrender forced by military threat, then it will just look like the Degala tribe is trying to weasel out of an otherwise fair deal they made of their own accord—a narrative that will be tragically easy for Shaa to sell.

“I trust that Remi will be equal to the task of dealing with their petty ploys,” Jira says. “Especially with capable elders like yourself to aid her.”

It’s subtle, but the chieftain’s words elicit a slight wince from Elder Feena. Whatever she may believe now, the elder still respects Jira—the only reason a compliment like that would sting is if she was in the process of betraying that respect.

“About that, actually,” Feena begins. “I’ve spoken to some of the other elders, and some of us believe that it would be for the best if we cooperated with the Shaa family in earnest.”

Here we go. I try not to let myself tense up, but this is the moment I’ve been dreading ever since Jira asked for our help handling Elder Feena.

“Faith, Allie,” Evelyn reminds me. “Our friends know what they are doing. Trust them.”

I don’t dare respond out loud or even nod, but I clench one fist in acknowledgement.

“Have you now?” Jira asks sardonically. “And what sort of cooperation would that entail?”

“If they truly do plan to wage war in the Blessed Lands, we join forces,” Feena suggests. “Send our men along not just as sailors, but as soldiers. If Shaa is on the rise, then let us rise with them.”

“A dangerous proposition,” the chieftain argues. “Many will die, even should the war succeed, and it would join us inexorably to their causes here on the mainland as well as abroad. Their actions already flirt with rebellion, and should that grow into open conflict we would have no choice but to join them.”

The elder waves her off dismissively. “I don’t fear some cloistered empress cowering in her palace. We’d lose men, certainly, but those who return would be blooded veterans, more than capable of handling themselves in a fight—especially on the winning side.”

“Assuming any return at all,” Jira says. “That Shaa’s crusade will succeed is not a guarantee. Is it a rising wave you anchor us to, or a sinking ship?”

“That’s for us to choose,” Feena replies. “Unfortunately, the young lady was not receptive to the sinking ship, so it shall be the rising wave.”

“Will it?” Jira asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You sound very sure of yourself, Feena.”

The old elder sighs, looking almost remorseful for a moment as she nods. “I am. The elders have already chosen.”

“How many? Is my granddaughter aware of this?”

“Enough,” Feena says. “Young Remi’s opinion is not required for this—she knows only peace, and this is a matter of war.”

Jira straightens her back and stares down at Feena with a hard enough glare that the Elder’s guards shuffle uncertainly behind her, as if preparing to step between them.

“Where is she?” the chieftain demands.

“Indisposed,” Elder Feena replies with a cheeky tone. “No harm will come to her. Nor to you, of course—provided you step down and surrender the dungeon-borne. We’ll be turning it over to our new allies as a show of good faith.”

Jira crosses her arms and frowns. “I had hoped against my better judgment that you were not such a fool, Feena.”

The elder shakes her head. “It’s nothing personal, old friend. You’ve been stronger than most, after the loss of your daughter, but it’s made you too cautious. Fear will lead our tribe to ruin. It’s best if someone more bold takes leadership now.”

The chieftain laughs—a single sharp bark that she just couldn’t quite contain.

“You think it’s fear that guides me?” she chuckles. “That fear led me to cross the ocean with Fargo? That I sheltered these girls from the family you describe as a rising wave because I am afraid?”

Feena furrows her brow, clearly expecting a different reaction. She casts narrowed eyes around the deck, searching for something, but finds only wary sailors pausing their work as they overhear her attempt at a coup.

“What else should I call it?” the elder asks. “When our people must toil and bargain for that which we once seized freely?”

“Wisdom!” Jira retorts sharply. “I saw death ahead of our tribe, you ungrateful cretin, and steered us away. It has been the effort of a decade to reach this point, to emplace our tribe as a valuable asset to our neighbors, rather than a nuisance to be put down.”

“And now it has made us so weak that those same neighbors come to seize what we have built for themselves.”

Jira runs a hand through her hair and sighs. “You still don’t understand. Shaa only entertains your offer of alliance because they fear the consequences of forcing our hand. You would sacrifice the independence we’ve built and turn our tribe into Shaa’s lackeys, then call that a victory.”

“Talk all you like, Jira,” Elder Feena sneers. “Your granddaughter is still—”

A bright beacon of light erupts in the sky over the village, illuminating the marshes below as it lingers in the air.

“Perfectly safe,” I interrupt. “That’s the all-clear from Talla.”

The elder stares at me with wide-eyed incredulity as Jira takes a step forward. This time, Feena’s guards don’t hesitate to step in front of their charge defensively.

“It was a mistake to think that fear rules me, Feena,” Jira warns. “I do not fear Shaa, I do not fear the empress, and I most certainly do not fear you.”