Jacrys bunched the blankets beneath his chin and watched as the sun rose over Pellia Harbour and a massive frigate made her way slowly towards a deep-water pier not far from the spy’s waterfront safe house. Two others remained moored on the inlet, and a convoy of flat-bottomed barges were waiting to transfer passengers and cargo ashore. Captain Thadrake, still in uniform, dozed in a chair near the smouldering fire.
‘Thadrake!’ Jacrys wheezed, coughing a constellation of crimson droplets onto the bedding.
‘Sir?’ Thadrake roused himself, adjusting his tunic as he said, ‘Sorry, sir; I must have drifted off.’
‘Of course you drifted off, Captain. It’s not yet dawn and all of Malakasia is sleeping.’
‘What can I get you, sir? Some cheese? Or there’s a bit of fruitOh, no, that’s right; you eat only bread and tecan for breakfast. I’ll run down and fetch us a fresh loaf and a couple of warm flagons. I’ll need a bit of copper, though. I spent a bit too much on last night’s dinner.’
He was halfway to the door when Jacrys found the strength to call him back. ‘None of that, Captain, but come here, if you please,’ he asked.
Thadrake dragged his chair over beside the cot Jacrys had chosen as his deathbed. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘Those ships, the frigates, how long have they been here?’
‘They arrived yesterday.’ He sliced a piece of cheese from the remains of the block standing on the little table and nibbled at one corner, then pointed. ‘Those two there have been offloading what looks to be a division of soldiers, I don’t know which corps, but I can find out when I go down for breakfast. They appear to be en route for Welstar Palace, just like the other vessels that have been running upriver since we arrived, sir. These frigates are too big to get to the military encampment so they’ve commandeered anything that floats – every available barge, schooner, even rowboats. I can’t think why Prince Malagon would need another division at the palace, but they’re here.’
‘It seems he’s still alive then,’ Jacrys muttered.
‘Yes, sir.’ Thadrake paused. ‘There were rumours all over Orindale that he had died, or disappeared, maybe been taken prisoner, but from the looks of these curious troop movements the prince is very much alive and well and most likely back home.’
‘Perhaps,’ Jacrys said, holding a bloodstained cloth near his mouth.
‘Anyway,’ Thadrake went on, ‘this frigate coming in must be hauling something other than just troops, because she’s about to tie up – maybe, if she’s come up from the south, from Praga, maybe it’s General Hollis. Who knows? And if they’re from the east, Falkan or Rona, well, it could be anyone. I didn’t hear anything about Prince Malagon calling General Oaklen home, but I’ve been out of touch.’
Jacrys ignored him, continuing to stare out the window as the wooden giant eased its way alongside the pier. Finally, he whispered, ‘Captain, I need you to do me a favour.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Thadrake stood.
‘Take the money we have left, along with whatever you can find amongst my personal effects… I would like you to locate my father-’
‘Should I bring him here, sir?’
‘Don’t interrupt, Captain!’ Jacrys spasmed and started coughing. He rammed the stained kerchief into his mouth and bit down, breathing through his nose, until the shaking stopped. When he removed the cloth, soaked through with blood and phlegm, he repeated, ‘Find my father, give him the money and let him know where he can find me. Keep enough – a silver piece or two – to get yourself back to General Oaklen. Sell the fennaroot, keep whatever you get – consider it a bonus for a job well done.’
When he was sure Jacrys had finished, he asked, ‘Sir, it may take me several days to locate your father. What if-?’
‘I don’t care,’ the spy whispered. ‘I don’t anticipate any meaningful reunion. I want my father, because I want him to give me my rites. He’ll know how and where.’ He paused for a while, then added, ‘Consider yourself dismissed, Captain. I wish you well.’
It took just a few moments to gather together Jacrys’ scant belongings. Anything else before I go, sir?’ he asked, feeling rather strange about leaving, even though it was a direct order from a superior officer.
‘Please.’ The word felt strange on Jacrys’ tongue. ‘Stoke up the fire, and pour me a goblet of that wine we had last night, fill it up right to the brim.’
Thadrake picked the chunks of wood most likely to burn longest, then passed Jacrys his wine. The dying man cradled the goblet with both hands and watched the frigate, which had tied up at the pier, where it was immediately set upon by a team of stevedores rolling a block-and-tackle crane amidships. A twin-masted ketch, a quick, shallow boat, came alongside and lashed on to the starboard rail. Opening their shallow hold, her crew waited for whatever cargo they were to haul upriver. ‘Must be someone special,’ Jacrys muttered, but Captain Thadrake was already gone.
‘Where are you going so early?’ Alen appeared in the open doorway across the hall.
Hannah whirled. ‘Jesus! You scared me.’ She rested a hand against the wall and willed her heart to stop beating so fast.
‘Can’t sleep?’ Alen asked quietly.
‘Did you see those ships that came in yesterday?’ Hannah whispered. ‘One of them has finished offloading soldiers and now it’s heading in to the wharf. I want to go down there and see what’s happening.’ She didn’t want to wake Hoyt or Milla. ‘The tide’s about to turn; so unless they’re planning to stay all day, they’ll only be here until they can start upriver. That gives us about half an aven.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ he said, ‘and I’ll come along.’
‘You don’t have to; I’ll be fine. I just want to-’ She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Alen, what are you doing awake? It isn’t like you to be up this early.’
‘Something’s happening,’ he said, fussing with his clothes, ‘but I’m not sure what it is.’
‘Steven?’ Hannah tried to ignore the sudden lurch in her stomach.
‘It’s something – or someone, I should say. It’s not like the bark shipments. This is different.’
‘Then let’s go. Bring Milla in here with Hoyt; we’ll be back before either of them wakes up.’
‘How is he?’ Alen whispered once they’d tucked Milla into Hannah’s bed.
‘He needs antibiotics, penicillin or something – this voodoo horse-shit isn’t working.’
‘But he’ll sleep for now?’ Alen looked worried. ‘Yes, deeply, and the querlis poultices keep his fever down, at least for a while, anyway.’
‘Very well,’ Alen said. ‘Lead the way.’
‘This is a big gamble,’ Captain Ford said, ‘and I don’t like it.’ He followed Brexan and Garec through the twisting maze of Pellia’s side-streets; Gilmour trailed behind.
‘I agree,’ Garec said, ‘but I don’t think it’s one we can avoid.’ He kept a look-out for morning patrols.
‘We need to find a healer, now,’ the captain said for the third or fourth time.
‘I understand that,’ Garec replied, also for the third or fourth time, ‘and we will.’ He carried his bow and quivers wrapped in a length of sailcloth, draped over his shoulder, effectively camouflaging the weapons.
‘Out here, on the wharf? Come on, Garec, you know as well as I that-’
Garec stopped and took Ford’s arm, allowing Brexan to push on to the next corner alone. She checked the cross-street then motioned the others forward.
‘Captain, right now, they’re both resting,’ Garec said, ‘and they’re both as comfortable as we can make them. Pel and Kellin are with them, and they will stay there until we get back. We watched those frigates closely last night, all night, and none of us saw them unloading cargo; it was all soldiers. Now one of them is making its way to the pier and we have to assume that’s Mark, and we have to assume he has the table with him. We’ll find someplace to sit for a while; I’ll buy you breakfast. We’ll wait a bit, and we’ll watch. If he has the table, we’ll hit him with whatever we can, try to knock him off balance while we steal it, break it, drop it to the bottom of the harbour; I don’t know quite what, but we have to try something – and right now, we have to do it alone.’
‘Without Steven.’
‘You’ve seen Steven,’ Garec said, trying not to sound as exasperated as he was. ‘He’s in no shape to help us. And from what I understand, if the table is closed, Mark isn’t nearly as powerful.’
‘So what exactly do we do? I don’t like confrontations on dry land, Garec; they make me nervous. Why don’t we bring the Morning Star around the marina? She’s no good to us over there; we can take Mark out as soon as he shows his face; you can hit him from two hundred paces and Gilmour can blast that table to shards.’
‘Unfortunately for your plan, I think we need the table intact,’ Gilmour said quietly. ‘And as much as I would like us to find a healer and hurry back to the ship, we must first find out what Mark is doing. If he ties up at the pier and makes no move to unload the table, then yes, we need to hit him – who knows what he might do this close to Welstar Palace? He flooded Orindale just to stop us; he might destroy all of Pellia in his attempts to stop us pursuing him upriver. But I don’t think that’ll be the case; I’m betting the next round that he’s bringing it to shore. It’s heavy, so maybe he needs a crane. Maybe he doesn’t want to risk an accident in the water. He’s obviously in a hurry and dropping the table overboard would delay him here for a few days, maybe a Moon.’
Pale and sweaty, Gilmour looked like a man on a head-on collision course with Fate. Losing Steven had been an unanticipated blow, and Captain Ford worried that the Larion Senator would soon see the rest of his strategy begin to unravel as well. He checked that his knife was loose in its sheath and joined the others as they hurried after Brexan.
‘How much further?’ he asked when she was within earshot.
‘Not far,’ Brexan said quietly. ‘A few more blocks, and we’ll be back on the river. It’s still early, but the wharf’s going to be busy in just a little while.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ Garec said. ‘It’s a lot easier to get lost in a crowd, and we all know the way back to the Morning Star. So if things come apart, don’t wait around, just get back to the ship, as quickly and as quietly as possible.’
Ford had paid to moor the brig-sloop in a small marina just south of the city wharf. They had been lucky crossing the Welstar River, for most of the Malakasian capital had turned its attention north to Mark’s mini-fleet. With the help of Steven’s camouflage spell, the Morning Star had passed through the barge traffic with little more than a wave from the flat-bottomed river-runners. But now, not sure what the four of them could do against the might of the Larion spell table, Captain Ford wished they had remained onboard; at least there they could escape. His little brig-sloop would easily outrun the prince’s barge fleet and be quickly out of reach of the deep-keeled frigates.
‘It’s cold,’ he grumbled aloud.
Garec looked around. ‘I said I’ll buy you breakfast, just as soon as we get in sight of that fat wooden bitch. I’ll find you a nice tavern and buy you anything you want.’
‘I want a healer for Marrin,’ he complained.
‘Soon enough, Captain,’ Garec said.
As if reading their minds, Brexan stopped behind a shipwright’s workshop. ‘There it is,’ she said.
‘Excellent work, my dear,’ Gilmour said, moving past her into the road running along the top of the wharf. Here, the city was wide awake, with dockers and stevedores bustling about and customs officers and shipping merchants reviewing manifests and inventory lists. A group of beggars huddled around a small fire someone had kindled on the cobblestones, and a trio of drunken sailors sang, off-colour and out of tune, as they stumbled towards their waiting ship. As the sun rose behind them, it lit up the Falkan frigate, even larger than they had imagined, which creaked and groaned alongside the deep-water pier. A team of workers rolled a wooden block-and-tackle crane out to greet her the moment she was made fast.
‘Look at that,’ Captain Ford muttered, ‘there’s a ketch coming up to starboard. Rutting whores, I should have thought of that.’
‘Of what?’ Garec whispered. He had been distracted by a Malakasian officer approaching through the early morning mist that hung over the slowly brightening docks. ‘Did you think we could sail up and have them load the table straight into the Morning Star? That’s an interesting thought, my friend, but I’m afraid there are quite enough innovative ways to die out here today without going looking for any others.’
‘No, but the ketch answers Gilmour’s question.’
‘How’s that?’ Brexan, noticing the officer now, moved into the crowd gathering to watch the great ship take shape in the rising sun. She slouched under her cloak, trying to become invisible.
‘What’s with her?’ Ford whispered, then turned to the officer and said, ‘Good morning, Captain. Impressive sight, isn’t she?’
The Malakasian, a young man, looked around the wharf, then whispered, ‘You lot interested in a bit of fennaroot?’
‘Root?’ Captain Ford said, surprised. ‘Thank you, Captain, but no. We don’t get paid until our captain signs the manifest; so for now, fennaroot is a bit out of our price range. We were looking for a decent place to get some breakfast, however.’
Thadrake frowned. ‘Can’t help, I’m afraid,’ he said curtly, and moved off without giving them another glance.
Garec watched him go. ‘Well, he seemed nice, didn’t he? You can come back now, Brexan.’
‘You all right?’ the captain asked her.
‘I know him,’ Brexan whispered. ‘He was the officer leading the searches in Orindale. I don’t know what he’s doing up here.’
‘Who cares?’ Garec grimaced. ‘He’s a sour one, anyway. I hope his wife beats him up for wearing her underclothes!’
Captain Ford laughed for the first time all morning. ‘So are we planning to just stand here all day or can we get some food now?’
‘You were telling us how that little ship there-’
‘The ketch.’
‘Whatever,’ Brexan said, ‘the ketch, then: so how does that answer Gilmour’s question?’
‘We may actually be too late.’
‘How’s that?’ Garec asked. ‘That crane’s only just rolling in, so they can’t have offloaded the table yet.’
‘Right, but we’re at about low tide, and I’m surprised the captain of that beast dared to bring her in here at all.’
Gilmour said, ‘I’m quite sure Mark is making all the decisions aboard that ship, Captain Ford.’
‘All right, so that makes sense, then. With the tide about to turn, he’ll probably move that table onto that little twin-master and ride the incoming water halfway to Welstar Palace.’
‘What?’ Garec blanched. ‘So we need to move now! I have to find a place to make a shot, someplace out of sight from the frontage-’
‘No,’ Gilmour cut him off, ‘we’re all right. They’re not going to move it yet.’ He had taken a few steps towards the pier and was staring into the frigate’s rigging, where sailors moved to and fro, as confident aloft as they were on the ground.
‘How do you know?’ Brexan asked.
‘Because Mark knows I’m here.’
‘Oh rutters – what do we do? He could be opening the table right now. We’ve got to get out of here, get back to the Morning Star -’ Captain Ford was ready to run; the others looked willing to join him.
‘No,’ Gilmour said again, ‘we have some time.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he’s looking for Steven.’
‘So… what then?’ Garec said.
Gilmour broke from his trance. Grinning, he said, ‘Garec, I think you promised the good captain some breakfast.’
Captain Ford, suddenly pale, muttered, ‘I’m not sure I’m hungry, thanks.’
‘He’s here,’ Redrick whispered. ‘I can smell him, Blackford. I can smell his stench from across the city, but how they survived the tanbak, I haven’t a clue.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blackford replied, unwilling to say anything else, in case it might cost him his life.
‘He’s over there somewhere, on the wharf, probably watching us right now… okay, this is fucking odd: I can’t get a whiff-’ Redrick squinted as the sun crested the rooftops, blinding him. ‘Ah, no matter. He’ll show himself. It’s just a matter of time, and he’ll come. He has to.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blackford repeated, ‘and in the meantime, sir, is there anything I can do?’
Redrick hesitated, as if considering his options, then said, ‘Yes, Captain Blackford, I would like the cargo in my cabin prepared for transfer right away. A river-runner will be coming alongside in a few moments. Make certain they lash themselves amidships. When they’re prepared, and the crane is secure, lash on to the crate; then find me. Do not move it without me, Blackford. I want to be ready to sail with the incoming tide. That gives both of us about half an aven. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The weary officer shook with equal parts fear and cold and exhaustion.
‘Until then, I’m going to do a bit of hunting.’ Redrick paused to shout orders to the men preparing the block-and-tackle to transfer the spell table for its journey upriver. Blackford stood on the quarterdeck long enough to see Redrick meander down the gangplank. Then, literally quaking, he summoned what remained of his courage and hurried towards the main cabin. ‘I’ve got to find that stone,’ he whispered to the gods of the Northern Forest. ‘Please, please let it be in there.’
‘Which one is he?’ Brexan asked, sipping a welcome mug of hot tecan.
‘It’s impossible to say.’ Gilmour peered through the tavern windows. They had got lucky and found a cafe open early for the dock workers. ‘The whole pier is reverberating with Larion magic, and that means the table is still there, somewhere on that ship. But right now I can’t pinpoint Mark, other than to know for certain that he’s here, very close now.’
‘That’s not terribly comforting,’ Garec said. ‘What if he opens the table?’
‘He won’t.’ Gilmour seemed more confident now that he’d had a moment to think. ‘He’ll be too afraid to open it until he knows exactly where Steven is – that’s Nerak’s fear, a Twinmoon later, and still echoing like a fart in a canyon.’
‘Nice.’ Brexan frowned.
‘But true,’ Gilmour said. ‘Mark didn’t know anything about magic, but Nerak did, and Nerak died terrified of Steven Taylor. Thank the gods the creature inhabiting Mark Jenkins had a taste of that insecurity, or we’d all be dead already.’
‘Why the fear?’
‘He knows we’re here, but he can’t find Steven,’ Gilmour explained. ‘If he can’t find Steven, he risks Steven crashing down on him the moment he opens the table.’
Captain Ford dipped a crust of bread into his goblet. ‘So what will he do?’
Gilmour shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Wait? Search?’
‘Bury the whole city under an avalanche of fire?’ Garec added.
‘Perhaps,’ Gilmour conceded, then dug about in his robes for a pipe.
‘Gods, I wish you could feel this,’ Alen said.
‘What’s that? Magic? No thanks.’ Hannah tore off a piece of warm bread and wrapped it about a sausage.
‘It’s everywhere.’ Alen appeared to have developed a nervous tic. He ignored his breakfast and checked the wharf. ‘It’s like Sandcliff used to be, energy all over the place; I can feel it on my skin like summer wind.’
‘Whose energy is it?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s enormous, more powerful than me or Fantus, or even Milla.’
‘Could it be another shipment of bark? That’s an awfully big ship. If even one of the holds was full, it might resonate-’
‘No,’ Alen interrupted, rubbing his arms against the chill. ‘This is like…’
‘Alen?’ Hannah spoke with her mouth full. ‘You all right?’
‘I wish I had contacted Fantus again.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘We should wait. It won’t be long.’
*
Redrick slipped behind the workers nailing wooden braces into the wharf. The block-and-tackle crane towered overhead as they lashed it to the braces and let out a length of heavy rope, then they hefted crude stone counterweights from a trolley, two men to each stone. They stacked them on each corner and checked the stability, tugging hard on the main line – then waved to the sailors waiting near the quarterdeck.
That’ll keep them for a while anyway, Redrick thought as he ducked between the harbourmaster’s office and a boarding house. At the frontage road, still out of sight, he sent a seeking spell through the waterfront, but it yielded nothing helpful: there was too much magic around, too many waves of noisy power emanating from the spell table and the keystone, from Fantus and Steven. They were here, nearby, but lost in the miasma, impossible to locate.
Perhaps a bit closer, Redrick thought, and slunk along the road, back towards the deep-water pier. He kept the seeking spell alive, searching the crowds, the side streets, the buildings.
Then Gilmour was there, stepping from a dockside tavern.
But no Steven.
‘They’re about finished securing that crane.’ Garec was sweating. ‘We should go.’
‘Another moment, please; have another drink.’ Gilmour didn’t look at him, but stared across the Bellan’s decks, watching and feeling for signs of Mark. It was a daunting task, locating anything in the mystical fog.
‘Why didn’t the table give off this kind of power when we found it in Meyers’ Vale?’ Garec asked. ‘I don’t remember you being this overwhelmed by it down there.’
‘Because this is more than the table,’ Gilmour said, ‘this is me, Mark, the table, and… someone else.’
‘Kantu?’ Brexan asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘Who else could it be?’ Garec swilled the last of his tecan.
Gilmour whispered, almost to himself, ‘That little girl, Milla.’
Before the others could respond, Gilmour was bustling towards the door. He tossed a few copper Mareks to the barman and forced a smile. ‘Lovely breakfast, my friend. What’s on for midday?’
‘Fish stew.’ The Malakasian was drying tankards with a cloth. He caught the Mareks and stashed them in his apron.
‘Shrimp, booacore and jemma?’
‘Of course. With potatoes, pepperweed and leeks.’
‘Nice and spicy; excellent,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’ll be back.’
The barman shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Whatever.’
The others hurried after him; Brexan cried, ‘Wait, Gilmour.’
‘Did that fellow just say booacore and jemma?’ Alen craned his head to see over the bar. ‘Delicious. I could do without the leeks, though. They always give me gas.’
Hannah stood. ‘I don’t know about booacore,’ she said, ‘but that woman just called that short guy “Gilmour”.’
‘What? Where?’ Alen leapt to his feet.
‘There, going out the alley door, that woman. She just called that little stout one “Gilmour”. I heard her from here.’
Alen moved towards the window. ‘No, it can’t be. He’s too…’
‘Young?’ Hannah laughed. ‘Call me crazy, but have you looked in a mirror recently? You look pretty good for a man three hundred years old.’
Alen was only half listening. He brushed his fingers over the goosebumps that had risen on his forearm.
‘What is it?’ Hannah asked. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
‘You can’t feel it,’ he said, ‘but the air in here just changed, as if it was sucked out into the street.’
‘So what does that mean?’
He looked out of the window and peered down the alley. ‘It means you’re absolutely right: that’s my old friend, Fantus.’
Jacrys finished the wine, tilting the goblet far enough to catch the last drops on his tongue. He let it slip from his fingers and it shattered on the floor.
‘Rotten vintage,’ he wheezed, ‘but if that’s the last thing I taste, I suppose it’s better than nothing.’ He propped himself on a pillow and looked over the wharf. ‘Though it would have been nice to have one more Falkan-’
Jacrys’ voice faltered; his skin tingled with pins and needles. When he finally remembered to breathe, the noisy rasp that filled the room with the wet sound of death unexpectedly unnerved him.
But I’m not dying. Not yet.
Through sheer force of will he rose from the cot – his deathbed – and drew Thadrake’s knife from the block of cheese, then staggered towards the stairs.
It’s not her, you dumb rutter. Get back into bed. You can’t get down there; you’ll die in the stairwell.
But Jacrys ignored his own advice. It was her, just below his window, emerging from the tavern beneath his own room. She had probably been enjoying breakfast with her friends. The one with the roll of sailcloth looked like the bowman, Garec Haile, still alive despite taking an arrow in the lungs that night in Orindale.
Get back into bed, he told himself sternly, you’re hallucinating. This is it; this is the end – of course you’d see her at the end. And Garec’s dead; you know that, you killed him yourself.
At the top of the stairs, the former spy, white, wide-eyed with pain and looking like a man possessed, clenched his teeth over the blade and braced his hands against the narrow walls. Blood soaked his tunic in a scarlet bib as he sucked in tortured breaths through his teeth. His lungs felt heavy, like waterlogged bags of sand in his chest. He took a step, then another. Pain lanced through his hips; his leg muscles twitched. Another step.
I’m coming for you, Brexan. I’ll be down in just a moment.
Redrick sneaked into a doorway. ‘It’s him, the short one, sonofabitch,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve gotta get back to the table. I never should have boxed the damned thing up. I should have known, should have felt them coming, worthless frigging tan-bak. Shit!’
He peeked from his hiding place. Gilmour was still there, searching the crowds, hustling back and forth along the wharf, obviously panicked about something. His little partisan friends scurried after him.
‘What are you looking for, Gilmour?’ he asked. ‘What do you think you know? And where is Steven?’ Redrick watched another moment then stepped onto the road. The table wouldn’t help him; Blackford probably had the crate so tangled in crane lines, it would take all day to reach it. ‘All right, fine. Better this way, with the surprise element, than from the Bellan. He expects me up there.’
Blackford spun around. Someone’s coming! He took an interminable moment to search the captain’s cabin for a hiding place, then gave up – it was no use, the creature haunting Redrick Shen would find him in a heartbeat. He had to lie, and make it look convincing. The crate was his only option.
He moved quickly behind the wooden box and pretended to check the top and sides, as if ensuring the box wouldn’t fall open during transfer. Make it look good. You’ve got to make this look good.
There was a soft knock at the cabin door. Blackford snapped to and shouted, ‘Who is it?’
‘Captain Blackford, sir, it’s Kem. The crane’s ready, sir. I have the lines here.’
Blackford exhaled quietly in relief and bade him enter; Kem came in, followed by three sailors, each dragging a length of hawser.
Kem looked the box over for a few moments, then announced, ‘We’ll have to turn it on its side, sir,’ he said.
Blackford’s heart thudded. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He considered slipping over the rail, disappearing into the Pellia streets and making for home – he could be there in less than a Moon.
‘How’d he- uh, she- Well, you know, how’d it get it in here in the first place?’ Kem asked, brushing a callused palm over the rough slats of the packing crate.
Remembering himself, Blackford shook his head.’ That’s not your concern. Just get it onto the deck and wait there for me.’
Run, fool. Redrick’s gone. You’ll be home in less than a Moon.
‘Yes sir,’ Kem said smartly, then turned on the others and shouted, ‘Right you lot, let’s get this motherless whore turned over.’
Blackford ignored them and was pushing past the crate, making for the companionway, when he saw the chest of drawers. It was fashioned from some ebony-coloured wood from southern Rona, and tucked discreetly away in a recessed area beneath the berth.
That’s it, Blackford thought, a leap of excitement making his heart beat faster. Unless he has it with him, that’s where it’ll be.
Kem and the sailors worked behind him, quickly and efficiently, desperate to avoid damaging the stone table – given the probable punishment for damaging it, Blackford could understand why. However, he wasn’t about to search the chest until he had the cabin to himself. The sailors wanted to see Redrick – the monster possessing him – leave the Bellan, for ever, but Blackford knew scared men would say anything to save their own lives. If they caught him searching the captain’s cabin, they’d squeal on him in a heartbeat.
Despite the cold, the men were sweating.
‘Kem, go and fetch another two men to help you,’ Caption Blackford ordered. ‘You three, get above decks and have that dough-headed horsecock of a crane operator slacken the hawsers. Now!’
‘But sir,’ Kem began, ‘we’ve got-’
‘Now!’ Blackford shouted again.
‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison. At least they had shared accountability should the table fall and crack.
The moment the cabin was empty, Blackford knelt to rifle through the chest. It didn’t take long. The stone, a hand-sized lump of grey rock wrapped in a bit of cloth was nestled at the back of the top drawer. He pocketed it, carefully closed the drawer and hurried above decks.
Home in less than a Moon, he thought, but not without this rock. He crossed the main deck and made his way towards the gangplank. Kem, two additional sailors in tow, spotted him and called, ‘Should we carry on with the crate, Captain?’
Without slowing, Blackford nodded and said, ‘Yes, please- I mean, yes, at once! I’m off to fetch Redrick. We’ll be back in a moment.’
Home in less than a Moon. Blackford reached the pier, turned along the wharf and didn’t look back, even after the explosions echoed across the harbour.
‘Gilmour, what are you doing?’ Brexan asked.
‘Milla, the girl I told you about, the one with Kantu?’ He searched the crowd, looking for children. ‘I think she’s here somewhere. I can feel her.’
Garec, still shouldering his disguised weapons, felt like he was looking pretty suspicious, hurrying back and forth with a rolled length of sailcloth over his shoulder. ‘What does she look like?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘like a little girl, maybe forty, fifty Twinmoons, not much more.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Garec said. ‘How many little-’
‘Fantus!’ someone shouted from the tavern, ‘Fantus, get down!’
Gilmour turned to see a strange young man waving frantically and charging into the road. The stranger was obscured for an instant while a cart laden with headless jemmafish passed between them. When the explosion shattered the morning, the cart flipped end over end, spilling its cargo and splintering on the cobblestones.
With the instant’s warning, Gilmour shouted something unintelligible to his friends and dived for the gutter, but it wasn’t enough. Mark’s spell struck him solidly, casting him up and through the thin wooden walls of a workers’ hut. He fell through the stove, burning his back and arms, and crashed into the block-and-tackle crane next to the Falkan frigate.
Garec couldn’t make out what the stranger had shouted, but he watched as Gilmour wheeled, shouted as well, then threw himself face-first onto the street.
Acting on instinct, Garec tightened his grip on the sailcloth roll and grasped a fistful of Brexan’s sleeve. He heaved himself backwards, hauling Brexan with him, and slammed into Captain Ford. The three of them tumbled into the street beside the tavern as the dockside windows burst outwards in a cloud of flying glass. Several shards ripped through Garec’s tunic, tearing open his back.
The street was unforgiving; Garec felt more skin scrape from his hip. Beside him, Ford cursed, and rolled over with a moan.
Brexan lay still, unnervingly silent.
‘See to her!’ Garec shouted, slipping an arm through one of his quivers, but the captain didn’t move. ‘Captain Ford!’ Garec kicked him hard in the lower leg.
‘What? What was that? Garec, what was that?’ Shaking, obviously in shock, he covered his face with his hands.
‘See to Brexan,’ Garec repeated and strung his bow. ‘I’ll be back.’ He watched long enough to see the seaman push himself onto all fours. Good enough, he thought, trying not to worry that he’d seen no sign of life from Brexan. There’d be time for that later.
He hesitated at the corner, ignoring the screams of the injured, the headless jemmafish strewn about and the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. He felt blood trickling down his back and soaking into his clothes. His side ached and his hip blazed where he had scraped it raw. Not much time, he thought. The waterfront guards will be here in two breaths. There was another explosion, this one further away, somewhere east of the tavern, but like the blood, the fish, the screams and the broken glass, the Bringer of Death ignored it. He’d have one shot, maybe two, before Mark Jenkins found and killed him.
‘The whoreson was in the tavern the whole time,’ he murmured.
Jacrys was a few steps from the tiny foyer when the first explosion rocked the tavern and his upstairs safehouse. Without a banister, his tenuous grip on the cracked wooden walls failed and he tumbled to the lower floor. As the last step creaked beneath his weight, Jacrys took stock of his broken body. His chin dripped blood and a collarbone was broken – painful but not alarming; he needed only one good arm for what he was about to do. One ankle had been wrenched and he recognised the unpleasant tingling sensation that meant he’d torn ligaments. This too was inconvenient, but no real deterrent. The biggest problem was that something had finally broken – irreparably this time – inside his lung. He realised it was filling with blood, and quickly too; he’d drown soon.
So there was precious little time left. Jacrys fumbled for Thadrake’s knife, set his jaw and pushed himself to his feet with a groan, screaming involuntarily when the broken ends of his collarbone rubbed together, and again when his ankle thunked against the wall. The sound was horrific, a penultimate death-rattle.
He barely registered the second explosion, nor did he hear the cries of the injured. With blood smeared over his face and bubbling on his lips, Jacrys Marseth staggered into the street.
Alen – Kantu – had been outside the tavern for just a moment when he felt the seeking spell. He didn’t know why Fantus had failed to detect it, but he would have to act quickly, on faith that he had truly found his old friend. Someone close by was trying to kill him.
He cast a shield to protect himself and Hannah, a spell he hadn’t called in over a thousand Twinmoons. Then he screamed, ‘Fantus! Fantus, get down!’ and pushed Hannah beneath the doorway, hoping the solid construction around the entryway might offer some slight protection. He had an instant’s eye contact with Fantus before a wagon loaded with malodorous fish rattled past, then the blast crashed and rolled along the road. There hadn’t been time to cast a protection spell over Fantus. His ears ringing, his magic boiling in his blood, Alen sprang to his feet and turned to face their attacker.
It was Nerak, it had to be, and whether he was in the guise of Prince Malagon, Princess Bellan, or a dockside shopkeeper, he didn’t care. He had waited half his life for this chance; it was time for vengeance. From the east a muscular South Coaster, a sailor, strode into the carnage, rather than fleeing like most. The sailor stared straight ahead, through the crowds and across the wharf to where Fantus’ body lay crumpled against the base of the wooden crane. He didn’t turn aside, nor did he appear to flinch, or even to notice Alen at all.
Nine hundred Twinmoons he has his slaves searching for me, and now I’m fifteen paces away and he doesn’t know it?
He glanced at Hannah. She was obviously shaken, but unhurt. Brushing bits of glass from her tunic, she looked up at him and shook her head.
I wish you could feel this… It’s like Sandcliff used to be. The energy is all over the place.
Whose energy is it?
I don’t know, but it’s enormous, more powerful than me or Fantus, or even Milla.
Alen was shocked into stillness for a moment: nine hundred Twinmoons, and now Nerak didn’t wish to face him. It didn’t make sense. Then, watching Hannah pull herself up using the door frame, he realised what Fantus had screamed before diving to the cobblestones.
‘It’s not Nerak,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ Hannah said, her ears still ringing. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘It’s not him.’ He pointed discreetly at the Ronan sailor, then clasped his hands together while his mind spiralled, almost out of control. ‘What are we doing here?’ he asked finally. Larion magic swirled around him. He revelled in it for a moment, allowing it to float him effortlessly back countless Twinmoons, to Sandcliff and to Pikan and his friends. He had been waiting half his life for a chance to kill his old colleague, and in an instant, he had lost it. He could still sense vestiges of Nerak, a faint scent, occasional traces of magic employed in recent Twinmoons, but Fantus had been right: whoever that was, it wasn’t Nerak.
‘What are we doing here?’ he said again, still watching the South Coaster push through the crowd. ‘What is that thing?’
‘It’s them, Alen,’ Hannah said, ‘your friends – they’re here! That’s Fantus over there; you said so yourself… Alen, help them, now!’
He looked around, then said, ‘You’re right; Hannah, please, get back inside!’ He raised his palms to the sky, feeling his magic marshal itself for battle. Once he was certain the dark-skinned sailor was preoccupied with Fantus, and when the crowds around the Ronan sailor were thinnest, he released an incendiary spell that sent a second shock wave blazing across the pier.
The magic caught Redrick Shen unawares and he crashed through the front window of the Malakasian customs house. Alen started across the road, watching the wreckage and waiting for the South Coaster to reappear. With another spell at his fingertips, he ignored the warning sensation tickling the hairs on the back of his neck. It was nothing; he was just upset. There was nothing to be ‘Mark Jenkins!’
Alen heard the shout, louder and more intense than the here-and-there cries of the injured, but he paid it no attention, preferring instead to watch and wait for the thing inside the customs house. It wouldn’t be long; it would be back. Perhaps if he pulled the whole building down, perhaps that might Arrow!
He let go the magic before turning around; Garec’s first shot glanced up and over his shoulder, striking an invisible Larion barrier.
‘You there!’ he shouted Another arrow; rutters, but this boy is fast!
With a flick of his wrist, he set Garec’s second shaft afire, sidestepped it and watched as it embedded itself in the wall of the building behind him.
‘Stop shooting at me!’ he cried, but another arrow was already on the way. He deflected this one too, then called a spell to stun the bowman, who had appeared out of a side street next to the tavern. The spell hit the archer in the chest, knocking him to the ground amidst a mess of fish and broken glass and wooden splinters.
When Alen started back toward the customs house, the creature was gone.
Thunk. The lights came on, not as before; these weren’t swamp lights, orange twilights and red dawns coloured by marsh gases and fog. Rather, these were noisy, overhead lights, the kind one would find in a cafeteria or a warehouse. They came on with an audible thunk as the breaker switched. And they didn’t brighten the room all of a sudden, like bathroom lights or lights on a stage; they took some time to warm up, and afterwards, the entire swamp would be bathed in the cold, harsh glare of shopping-mall white.
‘What the hell is this?’ Mark asked, still hugging the column, still watching for the crippled coral snake. ‘What now?’
There was no answer.
‘Hey,’ Mark shouted across the basin and up through the tangled forest on the other side of the Gloriette, ‘hey, dickhead, what’s going on?’
Again, nothing.
As the marble coping, the marble columns and the narrow arched bridge came into focus, their haunted shadows banished, Mark realised something else: apart from the humming lights, there was no noise; there were no swampy smells. No insects buzzed and nipped at his face; no birds screamed, no frogs belched, nothing moved about in the brush. It was as if he had suddenly found himself on an elaborate sound stage, and all the dials labelled ‘Swamp Effects’ had been turned to zero.
‘Hey, stinky!’ he tried again. ‘You still up there?’
The warehouse lights brightened the forest enough for him to see where someone had been working. The view, obscured thus far by vines, clouds of fog and shadows, was now relatively clear, and Mark couldn’t spot anyone moving on the side of the hill.
‘Must’ve gone out, got hungry,’ he murmured.
But the real lights, the natural lights that he had been trying to reach, those were still on.
Mark gnawed on his lower lip, took a last look around, and said, ‘Screw it. Let’s go.’ If the person on the hill, the one responsible for summoning all those gruesome and disfigured creatures, was truly gone, even for a minute or two, it gave Mark the chance to be there when he got back. ‘Then I can kick your head in for you, motherfucker,’ he murmured as he sneaked along the coping towards the next column in the row.
He was across the bridge and partially up the slope before the warehouse lights went out with a second noisy thunk. A few seconds later, the swamp sprang back to life. Insects buzzed, and nibbled at his ears. The humidity went up as the perpetually fading twilight returned, and Mark could hear animals – snakes, rodents and small birds – moving amongst the branches.
Did you miss me?
Mark was huddled in the folding roots of a banyan tree; he kept silent.
Oh Mark, my friend, where are you?
He couldn’t see anything from his hiding place, but he could hear someone shuffling around. Whoever it was had found his way back inside the swamp, or the Fold, or wherever this place was.
I’m sorry, old friend, but I was- what’s the phrase? – out of it for a while. I ran into your companions, and we had a bit of a disagreement, but everything’s fine now.
No, it’s not, Mark thought. You’re moving around too much. Something’s wrong. Did Steven beat the shit out of you? Got some nasty bruises, have you? He had to bite his lip to keep from answering.
Don’t feel like chatting? I’ll see if anyone down there can find you for me.
Mark searched for the coral snake. It would be coming; it could smell him, taste him, whatever it does with that nasty little tongue. He’d have to move soon.
Just a few seconds, Mark thought, just give me a few seconds to figure out what’s going on, and I’ll come to you, dickhead. I’ll be right there.
‘Blackford!’ Redrick screamed as he stalked up the gangplank, and when he failed to appear, the enraged Ronan shouted for Kem. ‘Is that thing ready to ship?’ He pointed at the crate, trussed up with double and triple safety ropes, just in case.
‘Yes, sir, ah, Redrick, sir. Sorry,’ Kem stammered. ‘It’s all secured and ready to go, sir.’
‘Load it onto the ketch and do it quick, but if you so much as scratch the planks on that crate, I’ll gut the lot of you; understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Kem said, trying not to let the monster see how much he was shaking. His companions nodded agreement. ‘Sir, if you don’t mind, sir, but are you all right? I mean, we all heard the commotion over that way; it nearly knocked the whole crane down on us, sir.’
‘Don’t waste my fucking time!’ Redrick cried, and stormed off, still screaming for Captain Blackford.
‘All right, boys, you heard him,’ Kem said. ‘Let’s get this done right, and we might just live to see tomorrow.’ Despite the intricate system of double-block pulleys and winches, the crate was heavy; two of his mates hurried to help him as he manned the main line.
‘Haul her away lightly, boys,’ Kem sang out, ‘just up over the side, and then we’ll ease her down gently. That’s the way.’ They guided the crate over the starboard rail and slowly let the main line relax back through the pulleys. The crate descended into the ketch’s hold. Kem watched the little boat’s first mate, waited for the correct hand signal, then said, ‘And… that does it, quick and easy. Nice job, boys. First round’s on-’
Kem was thrown to the deck; his assistants were tossed over the side. One fell onto the rail of the ketch; shocked onlookers heard bones snap before he slipped between the two vessels and sank beneath the deep-water pier. The other crashed into the ketch’s hold, striking the edge of the crate they had just transferred with such care. By the angle of his head, it looked like his neck was broken cleanly.
The blast had been close, on deck somewhere, and when Kem came to a moment later and saw Redrick Shen bursting from the aft companionway, leaving the door in pieces and planks in the quarterdeck splintered and jutting upwards up like so many broken teeth, he recognised the cause.
‘Blackford!’ Redrick shouted, ‘where’s my fucking stone, Blackford?’
Kem tried to feign unconsciousness, figuring it might save his life, but he was too late; his movement had been noticed.
Redrick bounded across the deck, crouched down and asked, ‘Did you transfer my cargo?’
‘We did, sir,’ Kem whispered. ‘It’s safely aboard the ketch.’
‘Excellent. Join them, and have their captain set sail for Welstar Palace immediately. I will catch up to you before the midday aven. Remain within hailing distance of the west bank. Understand?’
‘Yes sir.’ Kern’s head felt as though it had cracked. He raised his hand to check his scalp for blood, but stopped when he saw Redrick’s face.
‘Now!’ Redrick said; his voice alone was enough to terrify the veteran seaman. ‘Where is Captain Blackford?’
Garec crawled towards Captain Ford. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s a bit banged about, but she’ll live. How about you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Garec lied. His head was ringing. ‘We need to get out of here. I’m going for Gilmour. You two, get ready to move, and watch for that young-looking prick in the sloppy tunic – that’s Mark Jenkins. He clobbered me, could’ve killed me; I don’t know why he didn’t.’
‘Where’s Gilmour?’ Brexan asked, rubbing her temples.
‘The last I saw him, he had crashed through that hut, over near the pier. Keep my bow; I’ll be back.’ Garec stood with a groan. ‘Be ready to run back to the Morning Star.’
‘Wait,’ Ford said, and pointed towards the wharf. ‘Look!’
The wharf and the road that fronted it were filling with Malakasian soldiers, their black and gold finery bright in the early sunlight.
‘Whoring rutters!’ Garec shouted, ‘we’ll never reach him now.’ He searched the street. ‘I should’ve known better,’ he muttered. ‘I should’ve known the bow would be useless – but I’ve no choice, no rutting choice at all.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ve just got to try.’
‘Garec, look at that,’ the captain interrupted. He was staring at a wooden crate suspended above the Bellan’s main deck. As they watched, it was hoisted carefully over the rail and down into the hold of the small boat lashed to the frigate. ‘Look at the way those sailors are handling that thing; it’s got two extra lines for rutting sake, and it’s bound up tighter than a whore’s purse. You’d think it had Captain’s Mother stencilled on the side.’
‘Then we’re too late.’ Brexan finally spoke. ‘We’ll have to follow them upriver. Can we catch that boat?’
‘If we don’t waste any more time around here,’ Ford replied. ‘That’s a ketch, and they can’t get much sail on her at all. If we can get out into the tide, we’ll run up on her with no trouble. But Mark will see us coming. There won’t be any hiding a brig-sloop under full sail running up his backside.’
There was another explosion, a crushing blast, this time from the Bellan herself.
‘Whoring mothers!’ Brexan shouted, ‘what now?’ She held fast to the captain’s arm as she watched the soldiers along the waterfront deploy. It was clear that no one knew what was happening. Officers and sergeants shouted orders, but were largely ignored. Men helped injured comrades to safety, several choosing to make their own escape at the same time.
Then, through the confusion, they noticed a strange little man with messy hair hurrying towards them. He was carrying a plump young man, an unconscious victim of the morning’s battle, over his shoulder, and was followed by a lithe woman with pale skin, high cheekbones and wispy hair.
‘That’s him, the rutter! And he’s got Gilmour,’ Garec shouted. ‘My bow, Captain, give me my bow!’
‘No,’ Brexan said, teetering as she stood, ‘wait!’
‘Stay right where you are!’ Garec cried, wrestling the bow from Captain Ford. He nocked an arrow and shouted again, ‘I said stop, right now!’
The stranger ignored the warnings and crossed the road to join them in the alley beside the tavern. Glaring at Garec, he said, ‘Put that away, you fool! Do you want to spend the rest of what will be a very short life in a Malakasian prison? What are you thinking? Didn’t Fantus teach you anything?’ He pushed past the startled bowman and rested Gilmour gingerly against the tavern wall. ‘And I would appreciate it if, next time, you check with me before trying to punch me full of holes. I was quite busy just then, I can assure you.’
Stunned, Garec looked to his friends for an answer, and when they shrugged, he wheeled on the presumptuous stranger. ‘Who the-’
Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’ He prised open one of Gilmour’s eyelids and checked the pupil. ‘He knows me as Kantu.’
‘Kantu,’ Garec whispered, ‘then you’re-’
The woman kneeling beside Gilmour reached out a hand, just as Steven Taylor had done, all those Twinmoons ago, in the orchard outside Estrad. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’
Garec smiled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Hannah Sorenson. I know someone who’s been looking for you.’
Gilmour gave a low moan and rocked his head from side to side. Alen, supporting his old colleague, said, ‘He’ll be all right in a moment. Hide that bloody bow and let’s get going.’
‘I’m Doren Ford, Captain Ford, and I suggest we get back to my ship.’
‘Yes,’ the strange little man – Alen – agreed. ‘For the moment that will be safer than our rooms.’
Hannah, who had been looking terrified a moment earlier, now all but beamed. ‘Where is he?’
‘On my ship,’ Ford answered, ‘which is where we all need to be if we’re to catch up with that table.’
Alen froze. ‘Well, that bloody explains it!’
‘What?’ Hannah asked.
‘The magic around here this morning. It’s the spell table, isn’t it?’
Garec nodded.
‘Where is it?’
‘They just finished loading it onto that ketch lying alongside the frigate.’
Hannah blanched, knitting her fingers together nervously. ‘We can’t let them get it to Welstar Palace, not with that army there, those things…’
‘What things?’ Garec asked, then interrupted himself. ‘Never mind, you can tell us along the way.’
‘Hoyt and Milla!’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll go get them.’
‘I’m Brexan Carderic. I’ll come with you.’ To Garec, she said, ‘Do you remember the way back to the Morning Star?’
‘We do,’ he said, ‘but-’
‘I’m fine,’ Brexan assured him. ‘I am, really. We’ll be along in a moment. When you get back, you’ll find plenty of healers in Nardic Street, near the marina where we moored. It was out of the way this morning, but you’ll be able to find someone there now.’
‘There’s no time for that,’ Alen said. ‘The Larion spell table should never have come within a Moon’s travel of Welstar Palace. The fact that it’s within shouting distance is a dreadful sign for all of us. As luck would have it, we already have a healer with us.’
Hannah frowned. ‘Alen…’
‘What? You said you can have him on his feet in a day, two at the most.’
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I can, but we need the far portals.’
‘We’ve got them,’ Garec said, ‘well, one anyway.’
‘Where’s the other?’ Hannah asked anxiously.
‘Your mother has it.’
‘My mother! How in all hells did she get into this?’
‘Ask Steven.’
Hannah’s brow furrowed. ‘I can see we’ve a lot of catching up to do, but this is fine, better even – she can help us.’
‘Good then,’ Garec said. ‘See you two on the ship, and be careful; don’t stop until you reach the inn, and then don’t stop until you get back to the marina.’ He helped Alen get Gilmour shakily to his feet, then led them away from the devastation.
‘The only time Steven ever quiets down about you is when he’s busy defending the lot of us from some demon or a mad sorcerer with a case of constipation,’ Brexan said cheerfully as the two women made their way carefully through the disordered crowds.
‘Steven?’ Hannah repeated, ‘my Steven? Defending the lot of you? I truly don’t understand!’
‘We do have a lot to talk about,’ Brexan said, ‘and actually, I think I’ll let him tell you about it.’
‘And Mark? Is he here as well?’
Brexan started to nod, then shook her head. ‘Yes- No, well, not right now.’ She watched the soldiers slowly bringing order back to the wharf. ‘Um, you should discuss this with Steven.’
Hannah, not appreciating being put off for no apparent reason, pressed for a proper answer. ‘What? Mark’s either here or he isn’t. I don’t – holy shit, look at this guy!’
An injured man, blood pouring down his chest, staggering wildly, appeared behind them, using the tavern wall for support. His head was hanging down, his chin dripped blood, and his obviously expensive tunic front was soaked in crimson nearly to his belt.
Hannah took him round the waist and started, ‘Sir, you need to sit down. We can find someone to help you, but please, you’ve got to sit down.’
Jacrys waited until Hannah had ushered him within arm’s reach of Brexan Carderic, then he whispered, ‘Thank you.’
To Brexan, Hannah said, ‘Help me get him against the wall. We’ll set him down gently-’
Emboldened by the knowledge that he was about to die anyway, Jacrys found a vast reservoir of strength and quickness. Shoving Hannah aside with his left arm, he drew Thadrake’s knife with his right and, screaming a throaty, gurgling cry, slashed wildly at Brexan.
‘No!’ Hannah shouted, falling back. She landed hard on her shoulder and struck her head on the cobblestones. The waterfront and pier flickered white to black, like a camera shutter opening for an instant.
Her eyes rolled back, and a nauseous feeling took hold of her all at once. She wrestled with consciousness, knowing that she needed to get to her feet, but she couldn’t get up, not yet, not even to help Brexan.
Thankfully, Thadrake’s knife had been dulled by a Moon’s use as a cooking tool; the gansel meat, jemma and cheese had taken enough of the edge off that the blade tore through her cloak and tunic, but did little more than scratch her chest. She shouted and stumbled backwards, reeling, more a reflex than anything, and suddenly realised who her attacker was.
‘You,’ she growled at the pale-skinned, gangly stranger with the bloody vestments, ‘not you, not again!’
Unable to take another step, Jacrys wheezed in his dying breath through gritted teeth. He slumped against the tavern wall, hatred alone holding him upright. ‘Come to me, my dear. I’ve been dreaming of this,’ he whispered.
‘That’s fine with me,’ Brexan said.
The Malakasian lunged at her, tried to stab her again, but Brexan batted Jacrys’ hand away and watched the blade skitter across the cobblestones. She took Jacrys’ chin in one hand and wrenched it upwards – she wanted him looking her in the eye – and leaned in close, as if to kiss him goodbye.
Jacrys tried to bite her, but Brexan gently pushed him back against the wall, just hard enough to feel a gust of exsanguinous breath, stinking of old cheese and rich wine.
‘Lieutenant Bronfio,’ she whispered. ‘Sallax and Brynne Farro. Versen Bier. This is for them, horsecock.’ She balled her fist and leaned close enough to feel the greasy strands of his hair caress her face. ‘Oh yes, one more thing: the Larion Senator known as Gilmour is still alive. You did know that, didn’t you?’
His eyes widened. Bubbles of blood dripped from his lips.
Brexan, remembering where Sallax had stabbed him, in the lung, just below the heart, punched him hard, slamming her fist into the same place, hoping it would rip open and bleed, drowning the Malakasian spy in his own blood.
She watched for moment, listening until the last of his breath bubbled to silence at the back of his throat, then she helped Hannah to her feet.
Hannah was speechless. Silently, they went to find Hoyt and Milla.
*
Winter in Pellia was, during cold Twinmoons, a mostly dark time. People living in Pellia grew accustomed to prolonged periods of orange dawn and interminable stretches of violet twilight, the reality of winter in Eldarn’s northernmost city. Glaring yellow sunshine was a rarity during this Twinmoon, so when it did happen, it was a symbol of hope and renewal, of opportunity and rebirth.
Fleeing the wharf, Captain Blackford felt more alive than he had in Twinmoons, and he didn’t hesitate to credit the sun; it had been Twinmoons since he had stopped to appreciate the sun on his face. ‘I’m heading home,’ he said to no one, not caring if anyone heard. ‘My sister’s there; it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.’
He paused to lean against a rail for a moment. He knew he had to get away, but he needed this moment’s grace, a respite from who he had become. With the strange stone nestled in his pocket, he felt he had done something significant, and a moment of sun on his face was not too much to ask in return. He had seen the monster – call it Major Tavon or Redrick Shen; it was still a monster – using the artefact, and he knew the stone was critical to working the table. Without it, he thought Redrick was just hauling an elaborate slab of cold granite north to Welstar Palace. Without it, the table was nothing more than a fancy rock.
For once in his short life, Blackford had done something significant, something genuinely good.
‘Hello, Captain,’ Redrick said, emerging from behind a dockside house. ‘I know you weren’t trying to escape with my key.’
Blackford felt the blood leave his face. Suddenly cold, and very frightened, he stammered, ‘No sir, I- Uh-’
Redrick raised his hands in a gesture that said calm down, please. ‘Don’t be afraid, Captain. Truly, I would not be here if it were not for you.’
‘Please, sir, I-’
‘Captain Blackford,’ Redrick said, his voice all at once harsh, ‘do you have any idea what I plan to do with that chunk of stone you have hidden in your pocket?’
Blackford swallowed hard. ‘No, sir.’
‘I’m going to kill everything, everyone. Do you understand, Captain?’
Blackford felt the world rush away from him, as if it could leave him there alone, leaning against a public mooring post. ‘I- Uh, no, I don’t understand, sir.’
‘What’s to understand, Captain?’ Redrick said, moving closer, looking as amiable as a chainball partner. ‘I have work to do, and you’re keeping me from it.’
‘But sir,’ Blackford started, ‘I…’ He felt his resolve draining away. He wasn’t a brave man; stealing the stone had been the most courageous thing he had ever done. But if Redrick asked for it back, Blackford knew he would crumble.
Instead, the monster came in close and placed his hand flat on Blackford’s chest. ‘What makes you think that you can steal from me, Captain?’ he asked.
Blackford tried to respond, but the demon’s touch was overwhelming. He tried to back away, but couldn’t. ‘What are you?’ he whispered. ‘What is that rock? Why are you doing this? I don’t want to die. I don’t want you to do this to me, not to me. I-’
‘Shhh,’ Redrick whispered in return, ‘It’ll be fine, Captain. Just close your eyes. Do it now.’
Blackford did as he was ordered. There was a gentle press on his chest, and he thought of his sister. She was everything he wished he could be, and tragically, with Redrick Shen’s fingertips pressing on his ribcage, everything he would never be. Blackford tried, in the final moments of his life, to picture his sister, to make her as clear in his mind as he could. If he had to die, that wouldn’t be so bad; she could be with him.
Redrick held the body long enough to withdraw his fingers from Blackford’s chest, then wiped his hand on the dead man’s clothes and felt through his pockets for the keystone. He left Captain Blackford draped carelessly over the hitching stanchion, his body aglow in the unexpected winter sunlight.