“Vera knows about me,” Bershad said as he secured the vial.
“I figured,” Rowan said. “She’ll carry it, I can tell. A woman like her is good for you.”
“What kind of woman is that, exactly?” Bershad asked, glancing toward the lake. Vera and Felgor were heading back now—two big skins of water slung over Alfonso’s back.
“Fierce,” Rowan said. “Honest.”
“Opposite of that Balarian pretty much, but I can tell you like him.”
Rowan grunted. “He reminds me of my youngest, Po.”
“How’s that?”
In all their years of traveling together, Rowan almost never talked about his family.
“Always seeing the light side of a situation, no matter how rough.” Rowan paused. Smiled. “Dishonest as a jackal, too. When Po was a kid, he convinced his older brother to cover his chores for a week by promising he’d show him a peephole on the girls’ side of the local bathhouse. Wasn’t no peephole, though, so he got his jaw busted when the week was up.”
“Are they all back in Deepdale?” Bershad asked. “Your family.”
“Yeah. They got families of their own now. My sons all work a mulberry orchard together outside the city, making plenty of money off the silkworms that live in the branches. I like that—the idea of them growing things instead of killing ’em like their old man.”
“You miss them?”
“Course. But they understood why I had to do this.”
“Your wife, too? You took a death sentence when you became my forsaken shield.”
Rowan grimaced. “She went down the river ahead of me. Blood fever.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
Rowan waved the sentiment away from him. “I have my debts to pay, same as you.” He looked at Bershad. “Your father is the only reason I survived the Balarian Invasion. That means my sons wouldn’t have gotten their peaceful life without Leon Bershad. Po and the rest can take care of themselves now, but you—” He smiled. “You still need my help.”
“I guess I do.”
Rowan stretched his feet out, watching Vera and Felgor make their way back. “Got to admit, traveling with ’em isn’t so bad. Now that the shithead Grealor is dead, I’d say we make a half-decent crew. Even if we are a bunch of thieves and assassins.”
Bershad didn’t say anything—Vera and Felgor were almost back—but he agreed with Rowan. Bershad had always mistrusted large groups of people. Didn’t make a difference if it was a castle courtyard full of highborns or a tavern packed with farmers and fishermen—they’d all boil down to a dirty mob given to cruel compulsion when things got rough. But Bershad couldn’t summon the same jaded outlook for his two new companions. He liked them. Was on his way to trusting them, even.
“Not dead yet, eh?” Felgor said with a huge grin on his face.
Alfonso trotted over and licked Bershad’s face with a happy kind of urgency, then wandered toward a field of berries to the left of the camp.
“That one was worried about you,” Vera said, motioning to the donkey.
“Sure, sure,” Felgor said. “Go ahead and pretend Alfonso was the only concerned party. I didn’t think our ice-for-blood widow could look so distraught on a simple mission to collect water.”
He beamed at Vera.
“Anyone ever told you that your teeth are the size of a six-year-old girl’s?” Vera asked.
“Couple times, actually.”
Vera sighed and looked at Bershad. “I’m glad you’re all right. What happened?”
“Something in the warren messed with my head, that’s all.”
“And you said they were safe,” Felgor said.
“No, I said there weren’t any dragons inside of them.”
“We were all in there for a while.” Felgor sniffed a few times. “You think it could affect me, too?”
“Doubt it.”
Felgor sniffed one last time, just to be sure. “Okay.” He paused. “What’s for dinner?”
* * *
Everyone insisted that Bershad rest at the camp while they looked for food. Rowan and Felgor went foraging while Vera went down to the lake alone to fish. Bershad got a fire going and stared into the coals, taking stock of his body. The world still sounded normal—he could hear some mice skittering around the camp, but he couldn’t feel their heartbeats like he had before. As a test, he took out the dragontooth dagger and poked it into his arm. Watched the blood pool around the wound and drip down. His skin didn’t close on its own, which gave Bershad an odd sense of relief. His ability to heal had kept him alive for all these years. But it also scared the shit out of him.
The others returned about an hour later. Rowan and Felgor had found a few dozen brown mushrooms, each one the size of a baby’s head. Rowan threw them into the pot and turned to Vera. “What’d you find down by the lake? Fish?”
“Not exactly,” Vera said. She dropped a leather sack next to the pot. The sack writhed and squirmed on the ground. “Crayfish,” she explained. “They were all over the shore.”
Felgor opened the bag with a finger and peeked inside. “I’d have preferred lake trout.”
“I’d prefer a lamb shank dripping with brown gravy,” Rowan said, grabbing the sack. “This is what we have.” He looked at Vera. “Good work.”
He dumped the crayfish into the mushroom-filled water and stirred.
“Fucking shells’ll cut my gums,” Felgor complained.
“Happy to eat your share for you,” Bershad said.
“No, no,” Felgor said quickly. “I want them.”
After they finished eating the stew, which tasted a little like each of the crayfish had shit itself before dying, Felgor casually produced a full waterskin that Bershad hadn’t seen before. He leaned back and poured a long stream of whiskey into his mouth. Swished it around happily for a moment, then swallowed.
“Ah,” he said, smacking his lips. “That’s the good shit.”
Everyone stared at him.
“Felgor, where the fuck did you get that?” Bershad said.
“Found it.”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where did you find a full skin of whiskey?”
“Down by the river when Vera and I were getting water,” Felgor said. “Someone set up a dead-drop in the reeds, looked like.”
“I didn’t notice a dead-drop,” Vera said.
“That’s because your eyes aren’t as sharp as mine, little spider.”
Vera frowned. “I do not like that name. And how did you get into it without me noticing? I was with you the whole time.”
Felgor smiled and took another drink. “I’m a thief, remember?”
Bershad studied the skin. It looked Balarian made. The soldiers who patrolled the pass must have hidden the whiskey there at some point, which meant there might be other supplies nearby, too.
“Tomorrow morning, you’re going to show me this dead-drop,” Bershad said. “For now, give me some of that, will you?”
Bershad took a long swallow of the whiskey. Felt it burn the back of his throat and warm his belly. He generally didn’t feel the need to drink when he was in the wilds, but he’d nearly died in that dragon warren. Plus, they were relatively safe from harm for the first time in weeks. If there was a night to get drunk, this was it. He offered the skin to Vera when he was done. She took a long sip as well. Apparently, she’d come to the same conclusion as Bershad.
There was plenty to go around between the four of them. Felgor started slurring his words first, and spent an hour interrogating Rowan about his favorite types of women and, when that topic was exhausted, moved seamlessly into his favorite types of sausage and beer.
“I’ve never had this rain ale that you’re glorifying to high hell,” Felgor said to Rowan, pausing to burp. “But nothing beats juniper liquor with a bit of lime. Nothing. When we get to Burz-al-dun I’ll show you—I know all the best taverns.”
“Waste of time,” Rowan said, a little louder than necessary. He was dr
unk, too. “Rain ale is the best. Tastes like, um. Tastes like…”
“Like a foggy morning,” Bershad said. “Just after dawn.”
“Exactly,” Rowan said. “That’s exactly right.”
“Huh,” Felgor said. “What does a foggy morning taste like?”
“Like rain ale,” Vera said. She was on her back, staring at the stars. “Obviously.”
“You’re drunk, little spider,” Felgor said.
“We’re all drunk, thief.”
“That is a fact,” Felgor said, smacking his lips. “Quite a fix we’ve wound up in. Drunk next to some remote lake. We just ate a bunch of crunchy lake bugs for dinner. Vera’s down a finger. And I don’t know about all of you, but I haven’t had a proper shit in days.”
“Could be worse,” Bershad said.
“How?”
“Yonmar could still be alive.”
Everyone laughed. Vera passed the skin back to Felgor, and they kept passing it around until it was empty. Felgor passed out first, with Rowan not far behind. Both of them snored loudly. Bershad and Vera stayed up longer, sitting with the fire between them and not talking.
Just looking at each other and listening to the night.
25
BERSHAD
Unclaimed Lands, Razorback Mountains
The whiskey made everyone sleep past sunrise and then some. It was midmorning when Bershad woke up. His hangover was already gone, but the others were in rough shape.
“Up!” Bershad called. “Need to get moving.”
“Not so loud,” Vera muttered, then licked her dry lips. “Fuck, I’m thirsty.”
“Pretty sure I’m dying,” Felgor said, squinting at the sun.
“Well, before you die, think you can show me that dead-drop where you found the whiskey?”
Felgor burped, looked like he was going to vomit, then spat. “Yeah, yeah. It’s this way.”
* * *
They broke camp and walked down to the shore. Rowan and Vera drank greedily from the lake while Felgor retraced his footsteps and found the dead-drop.
“Here it is,” he announced. “Nothing else in here, though.”
Bershad unsheathed his sword and began to poke around the tall reeds that ruled the area. His sword made a soft sucking noise with each poke. He moved farther into the reeds and poked around for about five minutes until he reached a big hump in the mud. When he pressed his sword down, he got the hollow thud of metal on wood. Bershad bent down and pressed his fingers into the mud, tracking along the hump until he found the edge.
“Help me with this, will you?” he called to Felgor.
“What is it?”
“Just find the edge on that side and help me.”
Felgor followed the same process as Bershad on the far side of the hump, then gave a little nod when he was ready. Together, they yanked a mud-caked boat free from its hiding place in the reeds. It was a Balarian dory—about ten strides long and large enough to fit four people, but the sides were warped and worn from years of muddy neglect. Beneath the boat there were four snail-covered oars.
“We’ll use this to cross the lake,” Bershad said. “The river on the other side will take us down the mountain to a larger river that leads into Taggarstan.”
Felgor scratched his head. “That doesn’t look very safe. Will it even float?”
“The other options are walking or swimming,” Bershad said.
Felgor shrugged. “Boat it is.”
They couldn’t fit everyone, a donkey, and their gear on the boat. So, they pulled the saddlebags off Alfonso and, after the better part of an hour, managed to coax the donkey aboard with a handful of wild carrots Vera dug up. Alfonso clopped around the hull uncertainly, then wedged himself against the bow and fell asleep. The rest of them clambered into the boat, tried and failed to get comfortable, and then started rowing.
“I believe this is the very worst activity to do with a hangover,” Felgor said after they’d been paddling for about twenty minutes.
“Fighting a battle is worse,” Rowan said.
“You did that hungover?”
“Sure, if there isn’t enough time to get drunk again first. Most of soldiering is waiting around for something to happen. The other bit is drinking and pushing people around in the mud. Stabbing them when you can.”
“Sounds awful.”
“No argument there.”
On the far side of the lake, a narrow river flowed down the northern face of the Razorback Mountains. The current grew stronger as they descended, and the river was soon full of white rapids and swells that rocked them back and forth in the water like a sadistic child trying to drown a cat. It wasn’t long before Felgor had stopped rowing so he could start vomiting and Alfonso was whining steadily, trying to stand but not being able to keep his balance and falling over again.
“I changed my mind,” Rowan said when they reached a few moments of calm. “This is the worst thing to do with a hangover. Gods.”
“Stay focused,” Vera said. “And keep rowing. The key is to keep rowing.”
The water cut through the mountains in jagged twists and switchbacks. The current dragged them from one side of the river to the other. They spent most of the time facing backward, rowing in different and desperate directions. Screaming at each other to try and avoid this rock or that massive swell of a current. By dusk, they’d been pinned against countless rocks and lost all except two oars. There was muddy water up to their ankles and Alfonso looked like he’d gone into shock.
But after they exited a narrow pass where they’d very nearly been bashed to splinters, the river widened around them and the journey turned into a relaxing float. For a while, nobody said anything, not wanting to celebrate before they were actually finished with the horrific descent. But just as the sun was setting Bershad looked back and saw the Razors in the distance behind them. Nothing but flat plain ahead.
“We made it,” he said.
“That was the worst experience of my life,” Felgor said.
“You didn’t even get hurt,” Vera said. “Although you still screamed plenty.”
“Not everyone has ice water in their veins like you, little spider,” Felgor said. “Or madness in their hearts like our famous dragonslayer over here. But a fair point. I guess it wasn’t quite the number-one worst experience of my life. I once paid ten silvers for a whore who wound up having a cock.”
Nobody said anything.
“A big one, too. Thick.”
More silence.
“Well, doesn’t anyone want to hear how that happened?” Felgor asked.
“If you tell that story,” Vera said, “I will slit your throat and dump you into this river.”
“Come now, little spider,” Felgor said. “We all know that’s not true. You’re starting to give in to my charms just like Rowan.” He splashed river water onto his face to wash some mud away. “So anyway, I pay this whore ten silvers because she’s got the smoothest skin I’ve ever seen. Like fresh cream. And then we head upstairs to my room in the tavern…”
Bershad did his best to tune out the rest of Felgor’s story, but more of the details slipped through than he would have liked.
They passed the Balarian checkpoint an hour after midnight. The sight of the thing finally got Felgor to shut up again. The entire north bank of the river was a stone wall, fifty feet high and black as a shark’s eye. The wall stretched on for almost half a league, with nothing but a single steel portcullis in the middle to pass through. Two braziers burned on either side of the gate and there was a small line of boats waiting to pass through. The metal helmets of sentries on top of the wall winked in the moonlight as they made rounds.
“Don’t even think about trying to get through there,” Felgor said as they rowed past the gate. “That tunnel lasts for four leagues and there are murder holes the entire way. No seal of passage, no heartbeat when you exit on the far side. They inspect every ship for freeloaders hiding amid the cargo, too. Anyone they find gets turned int
o a Balarian Porcupine.”
“A what?” Vera asked, not understanding the figure of speech.
“They shoot you with arrows,” Bershad explained. “A lot of arrows.”
Bershad rowed them past the long line of boats waiting to enter. Most looked like trading galleys meant for rowing up and down the flat rivers of the eastern lands.
“Who keeps all of this in place?” Bershad asked Felgor. “If Almira tried something like this, it’d go to shit after a moon’s turn.”
“Well, first of all, Almirans are fucking animals.” Felgor smiled. “Second, Balaria is ruled by the Domitians. And they are a different breed of despot. Control over the masses comes natural to them. Emperor Elias Domitian built the border walls after his invasion of Almira failed. Kept the colonials and foreigners out. That seemed like a good place to stop to everyone except his son, Mercer. He’s the one who cut Burz-al-dun up into districts, each one sealed by checkpoints that can only be passed with Balarian-made seals. Once the capital was tightened up, he spread the system to every city and highway in Balaria. Whole thing’s under his thumb, now. There’s a story that he’s got some massive room in the palace where he controls it all, but I call dragonshit.” Felgor spat into the water. “I’d have found it.”
“Hmm,” Bershad mumbled, thinking of what Ashlyn had told him in Castle Malgrave. Balaria’s checkpoint system might not collapse overnight if Emperor Mercer was killed, but his death would create enough chaos to prevent the dragon cull this summer.
The rest of the boats around the checkpoint had the look of military ships or pleasure cruisers. The military boats were outfitted with steel plates and carried archers’ nests at the hull and prow. The pleasure cruisers were flat and large, adorned with silk cabanas and even from fifty yards away Bershad could smell the incense wafting across the water and the soft din of a harp being played.
Blood of an Exile Page 28
