Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a shadow slipping from the dark corner of one building to the next. He froze. Was someone pacing him? He hadn’t noticed anyone following him after he’d left the Prancing Piper which meant his new tail was most likely a member of one of the local gangs. Slowly, he inched his right hand down toward his sword hilt.
The tip of a sword tapped him on his shoulder. “Leave it,” a man’s voice behind him commanded. It was a young and heavily accented voice, perhaps belonging to a foreigner a few years past puberty.
Kylpin abruptly dropped away from the speaker, rolled quickly over his shoulders and regained his feet in a low crouch, his own sword drawn, eyes searching.
“You are fast for your kind,” the voice came from the shadows nearest the building to his right. “Can you fight?”
Kylpin whirled to meet the challenge and found only more darkness. He blinked and wiped the rain from his eyes. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Instead of an answer, he heard a strange whistle. It sounded a bit like a bird, but Kylpin knew no animal made that sound. The call was answered by another shrill whistle. This one came to them from the east, near the bay.
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Kylpin growled. He spun left then right, feeling a bit dizzy from the ale and the rush of adrenaline.
A third whistle sounded overhead. Kylpin glanced skyward. A lithe figure leapt from one rooftop to the next.
“If you answer our questions, we . . . let you live.”
The young voice dripped with contempt. For him or for the sentiment or for both, Kylpin had no way of knowing.
“Show yourself if you are no coward,” Kylpin countered, “and put aside your threat of violence and then perhaps we can talk as civilized men.”
“I am no coward. I am not civilized. I am savage.”
“Even better,” Kylpin pressed on. “In my experience, the savage seeks the truth and has no time for lies or for wordplay or for childish games like Hide in the Shadows.”
Something small and sharp zipped past his face close enough to ruffle his beard. Kylpin stood his ground. If he bolted, he’d be deemed weak and worthy only of death.
“Look, my friend, I have no intention of running . . .” An idea blossomed in his mind. Perhaps it was bravado induced by lack of sleep, or just his desperation in finding Evie leaking out, but Lipscombe had been well known and generally despised by other sailors. “I’m only out here in this rain hunting down a bastard named Lipscombe. Ask me your questions so I can be on my way.”
“We hate this man!” the young voice snarled. “We . . .”
“Kin-Tar!” a deeper voice barked and the young voice quieted. “WE search for Lipscombe of the Bloody Fists! Our question to you is maybe the same as your own. Where is he?”
Lipscombe was a member of the Bloody Fists? This was news to Kylpin. He studied the darkness. He could find neither speaker. “I hate this man too. He has taken a woman I care about.”
“He has taken many women!” a menacing female’s voice sounded overhead. “He is a grunting boar!”
“Agreed!” Kylpin replied. “And I don’t want this grunting boar raping my woman. That is why I must go . . .”
He waited. There was no reply. The drizzle continued. Kylpin slowly turned around, squinting, peering into the darkness. Had the trio of faceless voices left? If he walked away now, would they let him pass unmolested?
He finished his turn and found himself staring up at an Islander.
Kylpin blinked. He had seen Islanders before, but never in Belyne. The reclusive, copper-skinned natives of the Splintered Isles rarely left their idyllic islands and only then for the open seas, never for the gritty confines of a city.
“Lipscombe has taken your woman?” The Islander’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed, studying him. His deep voice revealed him to be the older male.
“Yes. Her name is Evie,” Kylpin answered, boldly maintaining eye-contact with the sinewy man. “I’m afraid she is in . . . trouble . . .”
His words trailed off as two more figures appeared out of the darkness and stood at the edge of his sight. All three were taller than he, and whereas the two males were broad and rangy, the female was willowy and lean. They were barefoot and dressed in a strange amalgamation of dark leathers and leafy vine-like plants.
“He could be one of them,” the younger male snarled. “He could be a slaver . . .”
The older man raised a hand silencing the other. “I have read his face.” He looked Kylpin square in the eye. “He speaks truly. You are no friend to this Lipscombe or his Bloody Fists.”
“His Bloody Fists?” Kylpin shook his head. “Hans Mesbone is the leader of the Fists.”
“I know not this Hans Mesbone. Lipscombe is the leader we know.” The older man gestured toward the younger male. “Forgive my son. He was not always this . . . bad-tempered.” The slender female stepped up beside the older male. “Lipscombe stole our only daughter. This has darkened our moods.”
“Why would he take your daughter?” Kylpin asked. Realizing he still wielded his sword, he carefully sheathed it. The young Islander hesitated, but gradually lowered his own blade.
“Lipscombe took many Islander males and females,” the woman said. Her voice contained a hard, strained edge. “For many moons, he has come. He and his Bloody Fists. They sail to our Islands and kidnap our kin. His last raid,” she paused, her jaw tightening, “he took our Rai-Lin.”
“If this one is not Bloody Fist, he cannot be made to reveal their lair,” the young Islander grumbled. “We waste our time talking to this one. We should look for Rai-Lin.”
“Kin-Tar be still!” the older man barked. He turned back to Kylpin. “We don’t know this city. In my mind I see, we share this enemy. Guide us to Lipscombe, so we can rescue our Rai-Lin. Rescue our people. Rescue your Evie. Guide us to this grunting boar so we can kill him.”
Kylpin studied the three for a moment. They obviously knew how to handle themselves and facing off against Lipscombe alone was not a wise choice. He extended his hand, “The name’s Captain Kylpin Caleachey, formerly of the ship Serenity.”
“Xo-Taro,” the older Islander said. He stared at Kylpin’s outstretched hand and after a moment, he took it. His grip was firm, almost crushing. “My mate, Mai-Jun.” Kylpin offered her his hand, but she simply stared at him. “Our son, Kin-Tar.”
Kin-Tar stepped closer. He was nearly a full head taller than Kylpin and he moved with a panther-like grace. Unlike his green-eyed parents, he had dazzling pale-blue eyes that shone silver in the dim light. “Take us to Lipscombe.” His expression hardened. “Now!”
Kylpin wiped the rain from his face with the back of his sleeve. “I don’t take orders. I give them.”
Kin-Tar stared down at him. Kylpin didn’t budge.
“Kin-Tar!” Xo-Taro put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “In my mind I see, we work together. We listen to our new . . . friend.”
Kin-Tar threw his hands in the air and rounded on his father. He spoke quickly in his native tongue and though Kylpin spoke some Islandish, he didn’t understand much of the strange dialect. He caught the meaning well enough though. The son was unhappy with his father’s decision.
Xo-Taro made a sharp coughing noise and Kin-Tar fell silent.
“Much thanks for your offered help,” Mai-Jun said. “Where do we go?”
“I don’t know exactly where . . .”
Kin-Tar muttered something. Xo-Taro shot the young man a withering stare.
“As I was saying, I don’t know exactly where he is, but I do know where he usually stays when he’s in the city. I also know where the Bloody Fists generally gather.” Kylpin shot Kin-Tar a cold stare and decided to chalk up the youth’s rudeness as a product of his apprehension. He understood that. “Follow me.”
A steady drizzle continued to water the city. A few bright stars poked through the thinning clouds. Soon the silvery moon would cast its light down across Belyne. Kylpin picked up
his pace. He’d rather find the old sailor before that happened. If Lipscombe had any weaknesses at all, it was darkness. Something to do with his twitchy eye.
Of course, they might find him indoors, in bed, with Evie and . . .
Kylpin cringed and mentally pulled away from that line of thinking. To occupy his mind, he pondered the new information he’d learned from the Islanders, comparing it to what he already knew and what Ian had told him earlier. For as long as anyone could remember, Hans Mesbone had been the leader of the Bloody Fists, not Lipscombe. Ian had hired Mesbone to protect Serenity and the warehouse on Easton Street, but the mercenary leader had not shown, and both the ship and the building had burned. Kylpin shook his head. Mesbone never missed a job. He may perform poorly if he wasn’t told everything up front or if someone tried to renegotiate the deal, but he never missed a job.
Ever.
And he wouldn’t stoop to kidnapping Islanders either. Kylpin glanced over his shoulder but the three were nowhere in sight. Had they changed their minds about him and left without saying a word?
“Be not worried. We are near,” Xo-Taro’s voice sounded in his left ear. Kylpin jumped. When he turned to confront the elder male, the street was empty.
Kylpin took a deep breath and continued toward the Toothless Whore. One of the two warehouses the Bloody Fists owned was not far from the brothel. They could check both locations and then if need be, travel north to the second warehouse. If Lipscombe was not at any of those three locations . . .
Kylpin didn’t want to think about the consequences of failing to find him. Or Evie. For all he knew, she could be dead and . . .
He stopped himself again. Thinking like that did not help anyone.
Kylpin stepped out onto the docks and quickly headed south. The wooden walkway creaked and groaned as the waves, stirred by the storm, pounded the coastline. He glanced at the anchored ships as they rose and fell, riding each wave, and a spear of regret and sorrow pierced his heart. As captain of Serenity, he should have been the one to die aboard, not his entire crew. Not Arne Salmini. After all that man had suffered through in his life, he did not deserve to die at the hands of some rogue fire mage bent on destruction.
The anger simmered anew within him and he prayed he would find Lipscombe soon. Once Evie was safely away from that vile creature, he would turn his attention to finding the fire mage and dealing with him too. Though the city was large, one of the largest he’d ever visited, there weren’t that many fire mages and they all were required by royal decree to register with the Mage Guild. He would just have to find a way to persuade the guild-master to reveal the names on the list. He’d find the rogue and . . .
Kylpin hesitated. He was doing it again. He was jumping too far ahead. He needed to concentrate on finding Lipscombe and Evie first. His hand rested on his sword hilt. This time, he promised himself, he would do more than carve up Lipscombe’s face.
“I see movement ahead,” Kin-Tar’s youthful voice whispered nearby.
Kylpin squinted and shielded his eyes from the splattering raindrops. He couldn’t see anything in the dark. The young Islander must have eyes sharper than some owls.
“I’ll scout,” Mai-Jun whispered from somewhere overhead.
Kylpin glanced up and briefly saw her lithe form dart away, leaping from one slick warehouse rooftop to the next. “Don’t you worry about her falling?” he asked.
Xo-Taro appeared beside him without making a sound. “Building tops are easy. You should see what she does in trees.”
Kylpin swallowed hard. There were various Islander tribes which inhabited the hundreds of tiny islands comprising the Splintered Isles. Some of these tribes lived along the coasts in wooden huts; others lived in the labyrinth-like caves which wound deep into the mountains . . .
And then there were the most reclusive of the reclusive Islanders.
“You’re . . . Shi’kwaran?”
Xo-Taro glanced down at Kylpin. A look of surprise spread across his broad, flat face. “You know of my people?”
Kylpin swallowed again. The legendary Shi’kwarans . . . they made the other Islanders seem social by comparison. They lived among the mighty Kwara Trees deep in the heart of Dondagla, one of the more remote islands. Kylpin nodded. “I’ve heard . . . the ancient legends.”
Xo-Taro smiled. “Many Yordi ships come to our island. Tree cutters with axe and saw come to take our Kwara Trees. Tree cutters are never seen again.” Xo-Taro crossed his arms. “Is that the legend you know?”
Kylpin nodded. “That is the very short version of it, yes.”
Xo-Taro’s face darkened. “They should not have come. Not with axes and saws. They were not welcome.”
“A legion of the Yordician army stormed Dondagla in search of the lumberjacks and they were never seen again either,” Kylpin added.
Xo-Taro remained silent.
“Thirty-five hundred men disappeared on your island.”
“None have disappeared since,” Xo-Taro said. “A lesson was learned.”
“That said I don’t understand how the Bloody Fists managed to kidnap your daughter off Dondagla?”
“She was not on our island. She was on Lymar. We trade with the Lymarians sometimes. When Rai-Lin did not return, we left with a Kwara Tree to find her.” He glanced down at Kylpin. “The Bloody Fists have raided Lymar three times. Rai-Lin was taken during the last raid.” His almond-shaped eyes hardened. “We come to take her back.”
Kin-Tar stepped out of the darkness and stood beside his father. His young face was a mask of anger. “I warn you now. If you waste our time . . .”
“Kin-Tar!”
“I told you, I am looking for someone important, too,” Kylpin said trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.
Kin-Tar snorted and stepped closer, his lips pursed with suppressed fury. “What do you know about important? Rai-Lin is important. Rai-Lin is the future of our tribe. The Kwara Trees have spoken . . .”
“Kin-Tar!” Xo-Taro stepped in front of his son and smiled down at Kylpin. “You must forgive him. He is strong. His is immature. He speaks when he should be quiet.” His hard face softened. “I know you will not waste our time.”
Mai-Jun dropped out of the sky and landed lightly beside them. “Many men taking boxes out of a wagon. No Lipscombe. No Rai-Lin.”
“Are they Bloody Fists?” Kylpin asked.
Mai-Jun nodded. “I know their . . .” She pointed to her shoulder. “. . . painted red mark.”
Without a word, Kin-Tar sprinted away disappearing into the darkness.
“Kin-Tar!” Xo-Taro called after him, but the young Islander was gone.
“How many men?” Kylpin asked.
Mai-Jun drew her sword. “It does not matter. Either they die, or we die.” She shot Xo-Taro a grim smile and raced after Kin-Tar.
“Wait, my friend . . .” Kylpin reached out and grabbed Xo-Taro’s arm. “You must stop them. I can question the men . . .”
“No,” Xo-Taro said. “Rai-Lin must be rescued. Her life is more important than ours.” He drew his sword. “Do as you will.”
In a blur of movement, he was gone.
Kylpin chased after him, but the Islander seemed swallowed up by the darkness. Undeterred, he pressed on. Three Shi’kwarans against an unknown number of Lipscombe’s men . . . it just didn’t seem fair and for the briefest of moments, he felt a bit sorry for the Bloody Fists.
They had no idea their deaths were only moments away. He only hoped he got there before they all died.
A dead man answered no questions.
chapter 20
Princess Cecily woke from a nightmare and found the lamps in the bedroom burning, keeping the dark shadows of the night at bay. She reached out to pull Devin close, and found his side of the bed empty. The sheets were cold. This seemed eerily like her nightmare. She rolled onto her side and glanced at the balcony door. It was closed. A light rain pattered softly against the glass. The beginnings of a frown creased her lips and wrinkled he
r forehead. In the nightmare, Devin had said . . . Devin had said . . .
The king is dead. Ian killed him.
She sat upright and hugged the blankets. That had been part of the nightmare too, hadn’t it? Hadn’t it . . .?
She covered her face with her hands. It was a nightmare. The very worst kind. The real kind with real consequences. The blankets twisted between her fists.
The king is dead. Ian killed him.
Seven little words and her world had changed. How could she have been so blind as to not have seen this coming? What world had she been living in that she hadn’t noticed the monster lurking behind Ian’s gentle facade? Oh, he had played the bumbling innocent role so well . . . so very, very well!
And now this! His true murderous nature revealed! What could have possibly driven him to kill the king?! If he had killed her father, she might have been less surprised, the two had never been friendly, but she had always believed Ian and her grandfather had been close.
She stopped herself, suddenly amazed at the depths of Ian’s deception. Had his friendship been an act as well? To what purpose? What could Ian possibly gain from befriending the king and . . .?
Lady of Light, it was Tyran! Cecily clasped a hand over her mouth. Ian’s son was the heir to the Yordician throne! Her mind ran wild with possible scenarios, the first of which included Ian’s grandfather, Lord Alan Weatherall. Had that amazingly intelligent and crafty Gyunwarian orchestrated all this somehow? Could he have somehow foreseen a future event where his offspring, his great-grandson, would sit upon the Yordician throne? She had constantly found Ian tucked away in his study, reading Alan’s journal, studying it daily . . . Had Alan written it all down; a master plan for Ian to follow once he was gone?
Of course, it was all pure speculation, but what other possible explanation could there be for Ian suddenly killing the king?
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