Jashandar's Wake - Book Two: Unclean Places

by L. S. Kyles

  Chapter 29

  Seated in the black sands to the north of the rock spur, Brine shifted his head to the side—careful not to dump the old man who was leaning against his back—and peeked over his shoulder.

  Along the tall needle of stone that was the rock spur, he saw the warm glow of first-light spilling across the eastern face. Over there, the clefts and hollows stood out clearly against the background of ebon sand.

  He peeked behind him at the north face of the spur and squinted at the gloom. Back there, the darkness was still as black as ever. Counselor Sneel might be there perched upon his ledge or he might be somewhere else entirely. Brine had no way of knowing.

  Almost there, he thought to himself. Just a little while longer.

  He turned back to the desert in the north and forced himself to breath. Above him, the sky was morphing from a pitiless black to a deceitful gray, and around him the miniature desert was gaining substance from the gloom.

  He could see the fighting men of Lathia beginning to stir in their formation, the cast of their eyes drawn to the

  perimeter of boles, both the east and west. There was no sign of the bole-beast milling about those drooping tongues, but they knew it was coming.

  To pass the time, Brine let his eyes unfocus (not much of a chore for his eyes) and listened to the sound of silence riding through the softness of pre-dawn. At some point through the night, during one of his many uncontrolled bouts of slumber, the screaming had ended.

  He forced his eyes back into action and peeked at the desperate queue of hairy-backed thugs. One of them was chewing his vine like a chipmunk, his jaws just hammering at the pulp. Another sat less than three paces away and did not move a muscle, his eyes set in the east.

  Brine might have felt sorry for these pitiful souls (it was, in fact, his job to feel sorry for them, and to help them if possible), but at the moment he was too busy feeling sorry for himself, and feeling scared as well.

  Unlike the mouth-breathing sad sacks positioned around him, he had not one, but two monsters trying to kill him: He had the one lurking in the boles and he had the one seated on the rocks, and just now he was more concerned with the one seated on the rocks.

  It was simple logic, really. The monster in the boles had shown it held no preference for the origin (or taste) of its victims. The monster on the rocks, however, had shown a distinct preference for all things Jashian.

  What had it said last night? What had it muttered when the lead mercenary inquired about him and Godfry?

  Leave them to me, it had croaked. Leave them… to me...

  Brine clenched his arms around his pack and stewed one more time over the meaning of those words. It might have helped had the hunched adviser actually done something after making his comment, but he had not.

  Brine wasn’t stupid, though. He might not comprehend the meaning of the counselor’s statement, but it seemed a safe assumption the adviser was up to no good. Despite the good-old-boy sunshine that spewed from Godfry’s mouth each time Balthus was mentioned, Brine knew better than to trust him.

  Yesterday afternoon, Brine had heard the Vultureman contriving with their late guide, Sladge. He’d heard them discussing the secret mission affecting their homeland, the secret mission that caused Balthus to toy with Sladge’s mind when the big man tried to gather his men and leave him behind.

  Brine still didn’t know what this mission might be, but it seemed clear the plan involved him and his teacher. The two of them were either being protected or detained, and after their rather harsh treatment last night—the shoving and cursing and general hatefulness on the part of the Lathians—he was inclined to believe the latter.

  Of course, if they were being detained, it certainly was the most noninvasive detainment Brine had ever seen. Following the initial brutality in the desert, he and Godfry had been all but ignored by their captors (or saviors). Balthus might have been watching from the rocks—Brine was almost positive he was—but the other mercenaries paid them no mind.

  Brine ran his teeth along his tongue and thought about the bloody hole he’d put there when Ardose shoved him in the back. Was it possible that last night’s mistreatment was merely the result of hardened men who’d spent the afternoon fleeing for their lives? Was it possible their bad behavior was the result of sore muscles and rattled nerve? Was it possible that Balthus never meant for Brine and Godfry to be handled so cruelly?

  What do you think, Rugs? The belly-fire asked, its voice sounding genuinely curious, if not a little concerned. Grandpa, there, seems to trust him.

  Brine rolled his eyes to the edges of their sockets, as though trying to see the old man leaning on his back, but the belly-fire had asked the question just ten ages too late.

  When Brine was a boy, Godfry had been the wellspring from whence all knowledge flowed. Now that Brine was grown, Godfry had become six and a half stones of useless weight shackled to his wrist.

  All right, fine, shot the fire-voice. But think about this…if the hunchback really wanted you dead, wouldn’t he have just left you to the bole-beast?

  Brine began to nod. Maybe, he thought. Maybe not.

  Brine might have been more trusting had the Lathian counselor agreed to the use the cave. In Brine’s mind, the presence of the desert clearing and the rock spur were provisions from God (provisions Brine had prayed for) and anyone denying him access to those provisions was little better than Sira herself.

  Later, if Brine discovered the whole ordeal was a huge misunderstanding—that the cave actually wasn’t a provision from God, or that it actually was and Balthus was simply being cautious—Well, hey, he’d apologize right then and there. He’d even shake hands with the hunchback. Let bygones be bygones.

  In the meantime, though—and since he very much doubted any of those things would ever happen—he was going to use the first rays of light to make his move. He’d been waiting all night long to make this move and now, with the soft glow of pre-dawn finally licking at the spur, he was ready to get on with it.

  Feigning a yawn, he stretched his arms and leaned his head to the side, leaning until he had a clear look at Balthus. The light had finally traveled along the stones and the Vultureman was in clear sight upon his ledge, still leaning his arms on his cane, still sweeping his eyes from one man to the next.

  So he is watching us, Brine thought, feeling relieved and unnerved both at the same time.

  Brine had wanted to make a break for it last night, but couldn’t assess the direction of the Vultureman’s eyes. If he was going to grab Godfry and go, he needed to make certain he could do so without Balthus bringing his escape to the attention of the mercenaries. If he hoped to elude the Lathians once he reached the cave, he was going to need a massive head start.

  So, leaning back against his teacher (least they both lie down in the sand and smear even more of the feces in their clothes) Brine had bided his time until morning…

  And now it was morning.

  Brine twisted his chin over his shoulder and whispered to the explosion of white hair crinkling at his neck.

  “Godfry,” he hissed. “Godfry, can you hear me?”

  When the snoring persisted, Brine spoke this teacher’s name again and rocked into him. The snoring became a grunt, then a throat-clearing, then the weight that had been Godfry leaned away from him.

  Brine wriggled around so they were seated beside one another and said, “Hey, are you awake?”

  Godfry was awake, but not by much. He blinked at the distant line of wilderness, then around at the sands. He acted as though he’d heard his name not with his ears, but from deep inside his mind. He inspected the mercenaries, the spur, the steadily brightening sky.

  Finally noticing Brine, he leaned close and said, in a voice as loud as it was groggy, “Sam’s boy, did you hea—”

  “Shhh,” Brine hissed, turning just enough to direct his peripheral vision at Balthus. Finding the hunched figure still watching his men, he leaned back towar
ds the rat’s nest that was Godfry’s beard and said, “You have to keep your voice down, okay?”

  Godfry’s caterpillar eyebrows—gray in the coming light—crept down his forehead. “Is something amiss, Sam’s boy?”

  Brine peaked at Balthus once more, then said, “Maybe, maybe not. But we’re getting out of here, okay.”

  Godfry shrank from him, clearly disturbed by the prospect.

  “We need to get back to Onador,” Brine said, “but for now, I don’t care where we go, so long as we go.”

  He nodded at his teacher, as if transmitting an unspoken yet shared understanding, and Godfry boggled at it. Brine released an exasperated sigh and checked Balthus one more time, found him engrossed with the nearest man in the horseshoe formation, and said, “I was thinking that you and I could slip into that cave.”

  At this, Godfry’s face brightened. “Really?” he said, looking back at his fellow adviser. “Didn’t ole Bal say we wer—”

  “Don’t look at him!” Brine hissed, putting a hand to the back of Godfry’s head and pulling it down. “Head down! Head down!”

  Godfry dropped his head like an Amian during the Time of Peace.

  Brine took a deep breath, waited until he was calmer, and said, “Yes, Balthus still wants to wait out here, but I meant for us to go in, for you and me. Alone.” He waited for this message to sink in then said, “I want to leave the Lathians here,” he nodded at the ground, “and I want you and I to sneak in there,” he nodded at the cave. “Got it?”

  Godfry didn’t say anything right away, but his dubious expression did not fill Brine with confidence. “You want that we…,” he held Brine eyes, “…that just the two of us…,” he spun his eyes to the spur, “…go into that hole?”

  Brine stole a look at Balthus, then nodded as delicately as he could.

  “That hole,” Godfry said, pointing at the opening.

  Swatting down his hand, Brine looked around nervously, then whispered, in heated tones, “Yes! Yes, that one!”

  In the strengthening glow of dawn, the muscles on the old man’s face were twitching and moving and vibrating beneath the skin, clearly operated by the machinery of his mind.

  “You know, Sam’s boy,” Godfry said, looking deeply into Brine eyes and making a meaningful glance at the cave, “I think something’s in there.”

  Brine grimaced, but only a little. The same thought had crossed his mind a time or two, but what could you do? They might think there was something inside, but they knew there was something outside, and that something was trying to kill them.

  He shrugged.

  Godfry lowered his head and scanned the sands around them. He seemed to be counting the dark humps materializing in the light, some conical and untouched, others smashed flat by sandals and boots.

  “Whatever it is,” he said, lifting his gaze to the disciple, “I think we’re sitting in its outhouse.”

  “I think so, too,” Brine said, reaching up and sinking his fingers into the old man’s sleeve, “but that doesn’t change anything. We still need to get out of here. Didn’t you hear what he said?” He craned his head at the Lathian diplomat. “What he said last night?”

  Nodding hesitantly, as though he wasn’t quite sure, Godfry said, “That it wasn’t safe? Yes, I did hea—”

  “No, no, no. Not that—After that.”

  Godfry winced. “That he hoped we didn’t need to—”

  Crawling into the old man’s face, sinking the fingers of his other hand into his sleeve and drawing himself close, Brine said, “He told that mercenary to leave us to him! To Him! You didn’t hear that?”

  “I heard it…yes.” Godfry looked worried now, but not because of Balthus.

  Cocking his eyes at the Lathian diplomat, Brine said, “I think he’s planning something, Godfry—Something bad.”

  Godfry gasped and tried to steal a peek as well.

  Brine gave him a yank and screamed, “Don’t look!”

  Godfry lowered his gaze to the black grit of the clearing. After a moment or two of face-wrinkling thought, he glanced at Brine and said, “Maybe if we ask—”

  “No!”

  “Perhaps he didn’t mea—”

  “No, no, no—Godfry please, you can’t.”

  “But I’ve known Bal for—”

  Brine shook him by the shoulders. “I know,” he said. “I know you know him. But it’s not just what he did last night. There are other things as well, like yesterday. I heard him talking to Sladge before that monster attacked. I heard him plotting about why he’d really come to the Harriun and why their king had sent him.”

  Brine glanced sideways at Balthus. “I didn’t think anything about it then…Well, I mean…I thought their kingdom was still recovering from the war and they needed all the coin we could send them, but now…after last night…,” he looked down, shivered, then looked up. “We need to get out of here, Godfry.”

  Godfry stared at him for a very long time, his eyes soft in the fervor of fresh dawn. He looked like he had back in the days of Brine’s youth, back when Brine was struggling to grasp the concept of relativity or to reduce fractions to their lowest terms. He raised his hand and patted Brine on the forearm.

  There, there, the gesture said. We’ll get through this. We’ll get through.

  Brine grinned, despite himself, and Godfry forced a tired grin as well…then he began shuffling his legs beneath his body and grabbing for his walking stick. He was standing to his feet, and he would have made it, too, had Brine not yanked on his sleeve.

  Glancing feverishly at the Lathians, Brine said, “What are you doing?”

  Godfry made a hurt expression. “Coming with you?”

  “No, no, no—Not yet, not yet.” Brine gave the old man a few more yanks, to ensure he stayed put, then checked the Lathian advisor. “They’re not going to let us leave. They were looking for us last night—He was looking for us last night.” He made a nod towards Balthus. “We have to wait until no one is looking. Okay?”

  Godfry mustered another grin, though weaker than before. “I see, I see,” he said, patting Brine on the hand. “Well, you let me know, Sam’s boy. Let me know and we’ll go down together.” He patted Brine once again, gave his hand a little squeeze, and shoved his face in the Wogol.

  Brine watched his eyes moving along the lines of scrawl and said, “I will. I’ll let you know. But until then, act casual.”

  Godfry lifted his head from the book. “Act what now?”

  “Like—” Brine’s voice stopped short. Inside his head, he heard himself telling Godfry to act like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t had this covert conversation about sneaking away and fleeing down the cave. But as he studied the baffled look in his teacher’s eyes, he decided such advice was unnecessary.

  “Nothing,” he said at last, mustering a hopeful smile. “It’s nothing.”