“Ho!” Willem called when he saw Jolan. “The alchemist decided to stick it out. You got bigger stones than I thought. Figured we’d seen the last of you once Cumberland gave you a chance at the door.”
Willem was already slurring his words. Jolan decided the best time to tell him not to drink too much had already departed.
“Aye,” Sten said. “For a smart kid, heading to Black Rock with us is a pretty stupid decision.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Oromir said, motioning for Jolan to take the spot across from him. “Here, I saved you a drink.”
Oromir pushed a mug of rain ale across the table—the frothy head had a mouth-shaped hole in it.
“Willem tried to steal it,” Oromir explained.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Willem took a huge gulp from his own ale. Burped. “So like I was saying, why’re the Papyrians helping us so much? This ain’t their war.”
Oromir shrugged. “High-Warden Carlyle was close with Ashlyn back in Floodhaven. If I was the empress of Papyria and my niece had been murdered by some Almiran lord who’s calling himself the king now, I’d probably prefer he didn’t control the whole country, too.”
“And now Oromir, amateur political strategist, arrives,” Willem said. “Been a while.”
Oromir shrugged. “Well, whatever reason they have, you can’t argue the advantage of having the widows on our side of a fight.”
“No, you cannot,” Sten muttered. “Gods but they are murderous women.”
“Speaking of the dark-haired devils…” Sten jerked his thumb to the door.
A Papyrian woman wearing black armor had come inside. She had a half-full saddlebag slung over one shoulder.
“Must be the other one,” Oromir said. “Iko.”
Despite the fact that they were the only other patrons in the room, Iko ignored the wardens. She hopped over the counter and fiddled with a stove back there—getting a pot of water boiling with practiced efficiency. While the water warmed, she started rooting through cabinets and drawers—taking whatever bits of dried meat and hard cakes were still available.
By the time the kettle started whistling, Iko had filled the saddlebag to bursting with food. She produced a small ceramic mug from her pocket and tapped a vial of green powder in the bottom. Then she filled the mug with hot water and took a spot on the far side of the hall. Began sipping from the ceramic mug in silence.
Willem smiled at Jolan. “You should go introduce yourself. Offer her some of your ale.”
“Uh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Fine, I’ll do it then,” Willem said, lurching up from his seat and heading over to the keg for a refill. He dunked his mug into the top of the broken keg rather than pouring from the spigot. “If we’re gonna travel together, best get to know each other.”
“This’ll be good,” Oromir muttered.
They all watched as Willem stumbled over to the table and offered up his mug. She eyed the drink as if it was a dead rat.
“I do not drink ale,” she said in a thick Papyrian accent.
“No?” Willem asked. “Too bad, this is decent stuff.”
He went to take a sip, but spilled about half of his remaining ale on the sawdust-covered floor.
The widow turned back to her mug.
“I’m Willem, by the way.”
“Iko.”
“Nice name. It got a special meaning or anything?”
“No.” Iko blew on her tea, then took a sip.
“So, what’s that beverage you got there?”
“Oricha.”
“Ori-ka?” Willem repeated, butchering the pronunciation. “Any good?”
Iko ignored him. She seemed to have forgotten that he was there. The widow took a few more sips of her tea, then dumped the dregs on the floor, shouldered the heavy saddlebag, and left without a word.
Willem lingered for a few more moments, swaying. Then returned to their bench.
“Appears you charmed her tits off,” Sten said.
“Was just trying to be social,” Willem murmured into his mug. “She don’t drink ale though. Just some Oriki shit. Whatever that is.”
“Jade-leaf tea,” Jolan said. “It’s good for you.”
“You speak Papyrian?” Oromir asked.
“A little.”
“Huh,” Willem said. “Does this, uh, leaf thing get you drunk?”
“No,” Jolan said. “But it helps with blood circulation and—”
“Then I don’t give a shit about it. Who’s for another round?”
The wardens raised their glasses in unison. Willem turned to Jolan. Frowned.
“Don’t go soft on me now, kid. Drink with us.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Just one more, though. Cumberland said that we shouldn’t have too much.”
“Cumberland says, does he? Best slow it down then.” Willem drained his mug and dunked it into the keg again. “Can’t go wandering away from Jon Cumberland’s advice.”
* * *
By Jolan’s estimations, Willem drank about half the keg of beer by himself.
He looked like he was on the verge of needing a seashell when Cumberland kicked him awake the next morning. Jolan made him a tonic derived from Dainwood beets and ginger, but the hungover warden vomited the whole thing up almost immediately.
“That’ll be three silvers,” Jolan said.
“Fuck yourself.”
Shoshone and Iko were waiting on the western edge of town. Shoshone was adjusting the bridle on her horse when they approached. Iko was eating an apple.
“Morning,” Cumberland said.
Shoshone gave a nod of acknowledgment.
“We have horses for each of you,” Shoshone said. “Fully rested and outfitted.”
Apparently, Iko had been busy that night. Everyone’s mount had a full saddlebag of provisions.
“Appreciated. Been a while since we put leagues underneath anything besides our own heels.”
“What’s the closest crossing?” Shoshone asked Cumberland.
“Grealor’s Bridge is closest, but that don’t make it the best option. Elden Grealor hired a bunch o’ Balarian-trained architects to build the massive thing so as he could move more lumber out of the Dainwood. Those gray-eyes took their work to heart. The bridge has more fortified checkpoints and towers than Castle Malgrave, and Linkon’s men control them all. No way we make it across there.” He paused. “We’ll use the Devil’s Confluence—two weeks’ ride west.”
“Two weeks?” Shoshone asked. “I saw many viable bridges on the map.”
“No bridges. Too many turtles on the far side of them.”
“I know a place we can cross due south of Mudwall,” Jolan said. “I’ve done it before.”
“You’ve crossed the Gorgon out in the middle of nowhere?” Cumberland asked.
“Yeah. On a raft.”
“I thought the boy was a healer,” Shoshone said.
“You don’t need to train under an alchemist to build a raft. We crossed due south of Mudwall.”
“I know that stretch of river,” Cumberland said. “You took a raft across it?”
“Yeah…”
“How is it that you didn’t get eaten by a River Lurker?”
“I actually pointed that out to the person I was with, and we did see one! But we also made it across.”
“Well, I’m apparently not as crazy as you, Jolan. We’re not messing with any rafts along the warmest section of the Gorgon, where we’re more likely to find a gold nugget in our next shit than survive the crossing. Plus, I know every road and path and passable drainage in the Dainwood. North of the Gorgon, not so much. We’re better off staying in familiar territory for as long as possible, which means we’ll ford at the Devil’s Confluence, then skirt west of the Cragnar valley villages on the way into Black Rock.” He looked at Shoshone. “Or, you’re welcome to find your own way through Almira. But you’ll do it alone.”
Shoshone reacted to the ultimatum with a long, cold stare.
“Your route is acceptable, warden,” she said eventually. “We leave in five minutes.”
“Hey now,” Sten said. “I need to properly outfit my horse before we take off.”
“As I said, the mounts are ready to go.”
“The nags might be saddled, but I like my tack done a specific way. And I guarantee that you widows didn’t do it right. I need twenty minutes at least to get her perfect.”
“Gods you are a pain about your horses,” Oromir muttered.
“We ain’t all young and spry like you, kid,” Sten responded. “Day’ll come when you can’t just hop onto anything with hooves and speed off, either.”
“Enough,” Shoshone said. “Ten minutes. Then we go.”
8
BERSHAD
Realm of Terra, the Soul Sea, Papyrian Coast
Bershad squinted at the Papyrian coastline, which was shrouded in a low fog that hung among the branches of massive cedar trees. There was a small city on a peninsula, but it was difficult to see—only the roofs and edges of buildings poked through the gray haze. On the other hand, it was easy to make out the half-dozen warships that had dropped oars, raised sails, and started digging toward their lone ship as soon as they’d come within view of land.
“Does the fleet generally move into attack formation like that when you return home?” Bershad asked Jaku.
“No.” Jaku spat over the hull. “Not generally.”
“What should we do?”
The captain chewed on that for a moment.
“Drop sails. Stay put. Hope they give us a chance to explain before sinking us.”
“What are the chances of that?”
“Depends on the captain.” He paused. “One o’ them mud totems you Almirans like isn’t a bad idea.”
“What’s wrong?” Ashlyn asked, coming up from belowdecks.
“Bit of trouble coming our way, my queen,” Jaku said, pointing to the warships heading them off.
Ashlyn crossed the ship. The Papyrian sailors who’d been pointing and cursing about the warships went silent as she passed. Several of them appeared to suddenly remember an urgent task elsewhere on the ship, judging by the speed with which they moved away from her. It had been like that ever since she sank the skyship. The weight of what they’d seen Ashlyn do hung like a dirty secret everyone knew, but refused to say out loud.
The men were in awe of her. She’d saved their lives, after all. But they were scared of her, too.
Bershad studied the approaching ships with Ashlyn. He figured each one could fit two scores of troops in the hull and another dozen archers in the tower nests near the stern. They were hopelessly outnumbered if it came to a fight, especially with Ashlyn’s dragon thread ruined.
“The empress will have heard about the fate of the fleet she sent south,” Ashlyn said, eyes on the ships. The ocean wind whipped her dark hair around her face. “She’s most likely ordered her navy to attack every returning ship on sight.”
“Seems awfully hostile,” Bershad said.
Ashlyn scoffed. “Hostile is a good way to describe Empress Okinu when it comes to outlanders.”
“Got to agree with the queen on that one,” Jaku said.
The warships swarmed around their lone vessel. Once their escape was cut off, two ships broke formation and headed straight for them, not unlike the Red Skulls’ hunting pattern. Just slower. Their hulls were covered with black iron that had been forged into a pattern of roiling waves and jumping orcas. As soon as they were in range, a score of bowmen appeared on the rail. Crossbows cranked and loaded.
“Ho!” called a man from the deck of one ship. “The fuck are you thinking, bringing that warship back to Papyria unannounced?”
“Didn’t have a method of announcement other than showing up,” Jaku called, moving toward the gunwale.
“We got orders to sink any ship returning from Almira.”
“Why’re we still floating, then?”
“’Cause of my discretion.” The other captain squinted down at Jaku. He had a shaved head, but his beard was all wisps and empty patches. “Don’t believe I know you.”
“Captain Jaku.”
The man grunted. “Heard the name.”
“Who’re you?”
“Captain Po.”
Jaku gave a nod and a firm, Papyrian salute. “Heard of you as well. My old first mate, Tomkin, did a few turns under your command. Said you knew your business well enough.”
“Where is Tomkin these days?” Po asked.
“Swallowed a seashell three summers ago.” Jaku paused. “As to why we sailed up on you unannounced, you’ll understand when you get a look at my cargo.”
Jaku motioned to Bershad and Ashlyn.
Po scanned the ship’s deck, lingering on Bershad’s tattooed face and then Ashlyn’s grim stare. “Who the fuck are you two, then?”
“That’s Ashlyn Malgrave, queen of Almira and niece to the Eternal Empress Okinu.” He paused. Spat. “And that’s the Flawless Fucking Bershad.”
“Huh,” Captain Po said, beard twitching a little. “Show me your arm, lizard killer.”
Bershad stepped forward, attracting the aim of at least a dozen crossbows. He pulled off his jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt and yanked at the sleeve until his flesh was exposed. His arm was covered with sixty-six tattoos of the dragons he’d killed during his fourteen years in exile. More than any other dragonslayer in history. Po licked his lips, eyes fixed on the legend drawn with ink.
“Fuck me.”
“Uh-huh,” Bershad grunted.
“So?” Jaku pressed. “How about you tell your men to stand down and let us through? We have news from Floodhaven, and it isn’t good.”
“Aye,” Po said. His men’s bows stayed exactly where they were. “Word from Floodhaven’s arrived ahead of you on a pigeon sent by the widow Shoshone. We know what happened in the muddy capital.”
A shadow fell across the ship. Po looked up into the sky.
“Is that a fucking Gray-Winged Nomad?”
Everyone looked up. Jaku cleared his throat.
“It’s been following us for a spell. Hasn’t caused any trouble.”
“It’s a dragon. Trouble is all they cause.”
“Gray-Winged Nomads aren’t typically aggressive toward men,” Ashlyn said in fluent Papyrian. She stepped forward. The aim of several crossbowmen moved with her.
Po spat. “I don’t know much about dragons, but I know they don’t generally heed the declarations of deposed queens.” He looked at Bershad. “Might be I should get you a spear and make you deal with it.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“No? Restricting yourself to emperors these days, instead?” He pointed at Bershad. “You got a Balarian bounty on your head the size of a fucking whale for murdering Mercer Domitian.”
“I set his palace on fire, too.”
“Forget the dragon and the Balarians, Captain,” Ashlyn pressed, trying to refocus things. “We have urgent news. Let us take it to Himeja.”
“Not so fast. Along with the pigeon, we’ve also had a bunch of merchant galleys coming through who’ve talked about the battle. They had a little more room for color in their stories, which included tales of Ashlyn Malgrave being a witch who incinerated Cedar Wallace’s army with fireballs shot from her mouth.”
“Do I look like a witch to you?”
“Being honest, I don’t know what a witch is supposed to look like. But I don’t know what Ashlyn Malgrave looks like, either.” Po scanned the ship a moment. This time, he stopped on Felgor, who was sitting on a barrel, picking at his fingernails with a splinter of wood. “You. I do know your face. You’re Felgor the Brothel Burner.”
“That nickname’s not really fair. All I did was char up an attic.”
“Let me get this straight. Sitting on this ship, we have a stranger who claims to be a witch queen. An emperor-killing exile. And a notorious thief. In what realm would I bring the three of you within ten leagues of our Ete
rnal Empress Okinu?”
“That’s a fair question,” Ashlyn said. “But if Shoshone sent that message, she would have also said that I might have escaped Floodhaven on a Papyrian frigate. And Empress Okinu would have given you a way to confirm my identity in the event someone claiming to be me arrived.”
Po paused.
“Aye, that she did.” Po frowned, clearly concentrating to remember something specific. “The empress asked that any alleged Ashlyn Malgraves tell me the best way to stop an outbreak of bloody runs in a small mountain village.”
Ashlyn smiled. “The key is the water sources. In the near term, treat every well, twice daily, with a ten-gallon mixture of equal parts mashed warren apples and Crimson Tower moss. In the long term, any affected village needs a new water source, preferably transported to a single cistern from raised aqueducts that are fed by a spring at high elevation.”
Po’s expression tightened as he listened. He was clearly hearing the expected information, but wasn’t happy about it.
“Aye, all right. My orders are to take you to Nulsine.” He motioned to the fog-shrouded city on the peninsula. “The empress will see you there.”
“We’re not going to Himeja?” Ashlyn asked, frowning.
“No.” He looked at Bershad, then back at Ashlyn. “And you’ll see the empress alone. The thief and the lizard killer get irons and go into the dungeon until this is sorted out.”
“They will stay with me.”
“You’re expected, Queen. They are not. I follow orders from the Eternal Empress of Papyria, not the witch queen of Almira.”
Bershad gave Ashlyn a little shrug at that news, as if to say they should have expected that. She didn’t look happy, but he could tell that she knew better than to fight it.
“They are not to be harmed, Captain,” she warned.
“’Course not,” Po said, watching as Bershad and Felgor were shackled, then led onto his ship.
Just as Felgor was walking past Po, his shackles dropped to the deck with a wooden thump. Felgor held his wrists up and gazed at them in wonder. “Always did have slippery wrists.”
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