Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2)

by Kathrin Hutson

  “Thank you,” Kherron said with a nod. He pulled the ale toward him but did not drink it. “I’d like to talk—”

  “There’s the miscreant,” Uishen shouted and jumped from the table, waving his hand like a madman at the tavern door. Kherron turned to see a tall man wearing a leather jerkin of fine craftmanship, his blonde hair frizzing in all directions. The man noticed Uishen’s gesture and nodded in acknowledgement. It took him little time to maneuver through the crowd, and then he and Uishen shared a rough embrace. “On me tonight,” Uishen said.

  “Pity for you,” the newcomer replied, and when Uishen bobbed off toward the bar again, the man sat. “Loro,” he said and extended his hand across the table.

  “Kherron.” Kherron shook the man’s hand, trying not to shout at him to leave so he could get more than a few words in with Uishen.

  “Did that bastard rope you into work?” Loro asked, smoothing his hair back along his head with both hands. The unruly mess sprang back up the minute it was released, completely unchanged.

  “Other way around.” Kherron grunted. “At least, that’s what I’m trying to do. I need him to take me across the Sylthurst.” If the prospect of earning money for the trip did not get Uishen’s immediate attention, perhaps his friend—and clearly, Loro was just that—could help sway him into some form of focused action.

  “Well,” the man said with a shrug. “His barge might not look like much, but it makes the straightest line to Eran’s Crossing, and he’s never landed astray. You chose the right man.”

  “And so did I,” Uishen said, rejoining them with two more mugs of ale. He set one before Loro and sat, placing the second drink beside his unfinished first.

  “That’s it?” Loro asked, glancing down at his single mug before eyeing his friend’s double serving.

  “If I’m paying for it, I deserve a head start.” Uishen drained the rest of his first ale, let out a massive belch, and sighed. “This is...” He gestured toward Kherron, who had not yet given him his name.

  “Kherron,” Loro said. “The man who wants to pay you to ferry him to Eran’s Crossing.” Kherron couldn’t have been more grateful; he’d made the right choice in sharing that aspect of his plans with the blonde man. Loro met his gaze and gave a small, acknowledging nod.

  Uishen slapped the table in front of his friend and turned to Kherron. “You’ve got this man to thank for that,” he said. “He made the casings for the joiner and the shafts and...” He frowned, his eyes darting back and forth as if his own words confused him, then he waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. Let’s just say I’m still paying off the debt for his work on Honalei.”

  Kherron had no idea what the man was rambling about, and it must have shown. “Leatherworker by trade,” Loro explained, slapping a hand to his breast. He must have crafted the jerkin himself, and Kherron found himself admiring the intricate detailing now that it had been brought again to his attention. “The man talks a lot of madness,” Loro added, nodding to Uishen, “but his coin’s as good as any. I did think him mad when he brought me the plans, but when I saw what he’d done to Honalei, it seemed more like genius. Even though I still don’t understand a word of it.”

  “Bah,” Uishen grumbled, downing a few gulps from the second mug of ale. “You and Ralc added to her beauty in equal parts.”

  “Speaking of Ralc,” Loro said, peering through the crowd toward the tavern door. “One of his lads should be joining us.”

  “Tom?”

  “No, the other one. There he is.” Loro threw up a long arm and whistled once through his teeth. The raucous garble of conversation in the tavern dimmed only slightly at the sound, then rose again to its heightened volume.

  Kherron couldn’t see a thing from where he sat. Then he caught sight of a man walking purposefully their way, dark rings of sweat staining the collar and underarms of his cotton tunic. When his eyes rose to the man’s face, he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then the newcomer’s brown-eyed gaze met his, and Kherron didn’t even think before grabbing the untouched mug of ale before him and taking a long draught.

  Chapter 7

  “Uishen’s buying, tonight,” Loro said and brought his hand down on the table. “Sit. Join us.” The newcomer blinked, forced a smirk, and took the last open chair among them. Loro gestured toward Kherron. “Eian, this is—”

  “We’ve met,” Eian said, looking at Kherron and raising his brows. “A long time ago.”

  Kherron found himself unable to look away; the shock of seeing such a face from his past in a place like this made him feel as though, if he broke their gaze, he’d be admitting he had no right to be here. But he did, and that made him feel even worse. “Eian,” he said, giving a tiny nod and hoping he’d somehow managed to finally mask his emotions.

  “Good,” Uishen said. “Everyone knows everyone. More ale.” He rose again and headed back to the bar, seemingly unaffected by what had become a silent, territorial struggle. Loro, on the other hand, was far more perceptive. He did not speak, watching his companions at the table from above the rim of his mug as he took a long sip.

  “When did you leave?” Eian asked. The question was casual enough, but Kherron caught the suspicion, almost as if his presence here disgusted the man.

  “A little over a fortnight,” Kherron replied. Not once in that time had he thought of this man, who had toiled alongside him in the Iron Pit until two years ago. But for that first year after Eian had left their prison of steel and flame, Kherron had spent countless nights wishing he hadn’t been left alone. The Pitmasters had apprenticed him to Eian when he was old enough to move from stoking the bellows to wielding a hammer of his own, and the man—a boy just a few years older than him, then—had been the closest thing to a mentor Kherron had ever known within that place. Now, for the life of him, he couldn’t find anything meaningful to say. Their past carried too much weight, and this unexpected reunion under such wildly different circumstances carried more strain than the physical separation. “When did you come to Vereling Town?” That was the best he could do.

  “Ralc wanted a new apprentice,” Eian said. “He acquired my bond. Figure I’ve got another three years.” He looked Kherron over, no doubt taking in the state of his hair and clothes—clean in comparison—and the thick cloak of finer craft than an apprentice could afford, despite the rip and the missing clasp. “Who bought yours?”

  Kherron had expected the question, but it still made him blanch. He suddenly remembered Loro at the table, who seemed not to have moved at all, and glanced at him warily before grabbing his mug again. “No one.” It came out as little more than a whisper. He took another long draught, and when he set the ale down again, he met Eian’s wide-eyed stare.

  The man scoffed. “They didn’t let you out.” His eyes flicked across Kherron’s cloak again and down to the half-full pack beside him on the floor. “You had more time there than I did.” Eian laughed, critical and mocking. “Did you run away?”

  “No,” Kherron said and took a deep breath. “My bond was paid in full.” He’d finally shared that dangerous truth, and he couldn’t continue to shy away from it like a misbehaving child; he looked back up at his once-teacher.

  Eian leaned away from him in disbelief, scowling as though Kherron’s words also carried the most disgusting, offensive smell. Then his brows darkened. “Who?”

  “Torrahs.” Kherron refused to back down, to be ashamed of the conditions he could never have controlled. He was a free man, and though this other blacksmith he’d known his entire life was not—not completely, not yet—that did not change the facts. Neither was he responsible for them. “The same day he left himself.”

  Eian narrowed his eyes, searching Kherron’s face, and his upper lip trembled with rage before curling into a sneer. “What’d you have to do for that pretty gift?” he snarled, then slammed his hands on the table and leaned across it. “Let him bugger you for your freedom?” Kherron pushed his chair away from the table and made to stand, but Uishen had ch
osen that moment to return.

  “Come now, gents,” the man said, this time having employed enough forethought to bring a full round for the four of them on a wooden tray. “There’ll be no such talk at this table. Not unless one of you’s a woman.” He grinned, glancing between Kherron and Eian, then plopped the tray in the center of the table with a splash of overflowing ale. He sat, reminding Kherron of the real reason he’d come here in the first place.

  With another deep breath, Kherron swallowed his anger and glanced at Loro again. The leatherworker studied him, as if the conversation he’d overheard had shed new light on the visitor, and gave a small, conceding nod. Either the man understood nothing of what he’d witnessed, or he grasped the full meaning behind the exchange and did not think less of them for it. It was enough for Kherron. He drained the last of his mug, reached over the tray for another, and said to Uishen, “Now would be the time for us to talk.”

  Uishen gulped his ale then coughed, wiping the spray from his chin. “Talk about what?” Then he laughed. “Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose it is. Time for business.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve stealing into a woman’s bed,” Kherron added dryly. Loro chuckled.

  “That ship has sailed,” Uishen replied. “Mine is still docked.”

  “She’s not a ship,” Loro said, failing to suppress another chuckle.

  “No,” Uishen said with a grunt. “She’s better.” He pushed himself to standing with his hands upon the table, grabbed a mug from the tray in each hand, and nodded at Kherron. “We can talk in the back.”

  “Hey,” Loro called, gesturing to the one remaining drink when there had previously been enough for all of them.

  “I don’t see you with a lack of work, man,” the ferryman replied, looking everywhere but at his friend, as if he searched for better company. “You can buy drinks for yourself and Ralc’s boy.” Eian closed his eyes with a twitch of his head at the moniker, but Uishen seemed, as always, beyond oblivious. Instead, he headed toward the back of the tavern, lifting his two mugs at odd angles to avoid the other patrons.

  Kherron grabbed his own ale and took that moment to sling his pack over his shoulder and stand. Following the man who would, hopefully, lead him east across the river, he felt Eian’s burning gaze on his back as he moved through the crowd.

  Uishen led him behind the bar and into a hallway, which seemed to double as both overflow storeroom and back entrance for the tavern’s help. Kherron kept expecting someone to chase them down and tell them they had to leave, but insofar as it concerned stopping Uishen doing whatever he wanted, the woman named Polly remained the only person to employ such tactics. Those people moving back and forth down the hallway to cook, serve meals, clean, and refill tankards paid neither of them any heed, even when Uishen drained one of the mugs and dropped it on a pile of folded linens. That barely changed when the man reached out to pinch a passing maid’s backside; the woman jumped and turned to flash him a dangerously reproving scowl, which he returned in mock disappointment. They must have known each other, for the maid rolled her eyes and continued on her way.

  The ferryman turned toward the crates and casks of ale lining the hall, propped a booted foot upon one of the crates, and leaned over his leg. “Now’s the time,” he said, then drank from his remaining mug.

  Kherron felt as though he were about to make some unfavorable arrangement, but he seemed to finally have the man’s attention. “I need passage across the river. Tomorrow.” He was finished with asking and trying to be courteous. Those devices apparently did not work with a man as scattered as this one.

  “Time-sensitive matter, is it?” Uishen asked, squinting with one eye. For the amount of ale he’d thrown back in such a short span of time, he seemed remarkably lucid now. “What’s the hurry?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Kherron said with a frown. His reasons, pressing though they were to him, did not concern the man in the least. He suspected this was nothing more than guileless curiosity on Uishen’s part, but explaining himself would cause more harm than good, and he didn’t have the time.

  Uishen studied him, then sniffed. “Not if you can pay.”

  “I can.” He hoped that having previously mentioned Mattheus would indeed keep him from being overcharged, as the old man had assured him. “How much?”

  “Let’s see it,” Uishen said, lifting his head. When Kherron frowned, he added, “Your coin, man. Show me.” He waved his fingers, as if he had some other pressing matter to attend to after their transaction.

  With a snort, Kherron set his mug on a nearby cask and dropped the pack from his shoulder to fish out his coin purse, which no longer overflowed to bursting but remained plenty full. He held it in his palm; he would not deign to count it out in front of the ferryman just to make a point.

  Uishen eyed the purse, running his tongue over his teeth, then took another drink. “Half.”

  “Half?” Heat rose at the back of Kherron’s neck. “You don’t even know how much that is.”

  “It’s enough.” The man smacked his lips and drank again. “I’ll take you to Eran’s Crossing for half of what you carry. Or you can take your chances with any man here who calls himself a sailor and couldn’t navigate a straight line to save his life.”

  Kherron glared at him, feeling fully cheated. “Mattheus said you’d give me a fair price.” It was the only thing he had with which to barter, but he had to use it one more time. Most likely, the ferryman had forgotten he’d mentioned the old man in the first place.

  “Mattheus is a smart man. And half is more than fair.” Uishen’s raised heel bounced up and down upon the wooden crate. “If you were anyone else, I’d take the whole thing. I was under the impression this crossing was important to you.”

  Swallowing his anger, Kherron gritted his teeth, gauging the ridiculousness of the deal and knowing he had to make it. With a snort, he glanced around and asked with no small measure of sarcasm, “Should I count it out right here for you?”

  The ferryman held out his palm, fingers wiggling in anticipation, and his head wobbled. “Just... just empty half the coin in my hand.” Kherron obliged, shaking the purse carefully so as not to spill his payment all over the floor. When the mountain of coins rose precariously in Uishen’s palm, the man rolled his eyes, set his mug beside his foot, and held out his other hand. “That’ll do,” he said quickly with a nod, stepping off the crate. Kherron righted his purse and noticed it remained a little over half-full, but he wasn’t about to correct his new business associate.

  Uishen cast about in the crowded hallway, his palms brimming with a quivering pile of copper, silver, and a few glints of gold. Kherron thought it must have been quite difficult for the man to manage any of his own funds, as he’d neither cared to count his earnings nor prepared himself to carry them. But the ferryman was obviously and compulsively resourceful; he kicked the discarded mug off the pile of linens to send it clattering across the floor. Then he dropped the coin there instead, wrapped the top cloth around the pile, and lifted the impromptu bundle with a jangling shake. When he turned to Kherron again, he smiled and extended a hand. Reluctantly, Kherron shook it.

  “Good,” Uishen said with a nod. “We leave in the morning. I expect you to greet Honalei at dawn.” He turned, grabbed the mug from atop the crate, and drained it.

  “Dawn,” Kherron confirmed. The other man headed down the hall toward the tavern’s main room. “Where can I find a room for the night?” Kherron called after him.

  “No idea,” Uishen replied, raising the bundle of coin without turning around.

  Kherron took a deep breath, fighting the urge to tackle the man, regain his coin, and find another way.

  He stopped at the bar after navigating through the raucous patrons, the numbers of which had swollen drastically in the time he’d spent alone with Uishen. Shouldering his way between drunken men, he waited an eternity for the barman to ask him what he wanted.

  “A room,” Kherron said, straining to be heard over
the racket.

  “What’s that?” the barman asked before setting a sloshing tankard upon the bar in front of one of Kherron’s very close neighbors.

  “I’m looking for a room,” Kherron shouted and had to brace himself against the bar’s edge when someone bumped him roughly from behind.

  “We’re full.” The man grunted and jumped back when someone knocked over their drink, sending its contents spilling onto the floor at his feet.

  “Can you at least tell me—”

  “No, I’m not giving you another one,” the barman growled, ignoring Kherron completely and moving away to deal with some rising mischief.

  Someone bumped into Kherron again, leaning heavily against him, and he shoved the man off with a rounded shoulder before turning away from the bar. Then he realized his hand had moved on its own to the hilt of the Sky Metal dagger beneath his belt. He willed himself to calm down, assured by the fact that leaving the tavern for fresh air would do him some good. But he did not know his way around Vereling Town, and he did not wish to wander blindly about the town in the dark. He needed a place to stay for the night.

  Fortunately for him—mostly—Loro and Eian had not given up their table and seemed to be waiting for Uishen to rejoin them. While Kherron doubted Eian wanted anything to do with him, Loro had been far more helpful than the man Kherron had just paid for his services; perhaps the leatherworker’s aid would extend to directing him toward an available inn.

  It took no little amount of jostling and glaring before he made it to the table again, where Eian blinked up at him in surprise. Kherron nodded briefly, no longer concerned about what the man thought now that the formerly bonded blacksmith turned apprentice had openly shared his vehemence. Instead, he sat, turned to Loro, and said, “They have no rooms here.” The man nodded. “I need to find a place to stay.”

  “For how long?” Loro asked.