With a palpable awkwardness, Keriya reached out. He clasped her hand firmly in his own, smiling and shaking her whole arm. His smile faded as he peered into her eyes. Keriya dropped her gaze at once, though she feared the damage was done.
“This sounds like a good song,” Roxanne said suddenly. She stood and twirled so her dress fanned around her limber legs. “I feel like dancing!”
The men forgot all about Keriya and headed to an open area where people were pairing off. As Roxanne passed her, Keriya hissed, “Be careful. Cezon said not to talk to anyone, remember?”
“I don’t care what Cezon said,” Roxanne retorted. “We’re finally free to live our own lives. I don’t have to listen to anyone anymore.” She sashayed into the midst of the cavorting crowd, leaving Keriya gaping after her.
“Can you believe her?” Keriya grumbled to Fletcher, sitting next to him and crossing her arms.
He wasn’t listening. He groaned as he finished the contents of his mug, and toppled backward off his bench, unconscious.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“It is most unwise to deal with humans.”
~ Draconic Proverb
Cezon sidled down the back corridor of The Olde Dragyn. Treeskon ran a respectable inn, but he was a businessman and he knew where most business came from. That was why he’d built this handy space.
Cezon peeked into a chamber whose occupants had left their door ajar. Men sat around a circular table, smoking tobacco-leaf and playing a game with dice. Gambling wasn’t illegal, but the stakes they were wagering certainly were.
He reached the room he’d leased at the end of the hall and rapped twice on the heavy oak door, then once again, then three times fast. There was a moment of silence before a voice from within said, “Password?”
“What? There ain’t no bloody password, you lagwit,” growled Cezon.
“There is now.”
“Since when?!”
“Since last night.”
“Well, how am I s’posed to know it if I wasn’t here when you made it up?” he demanded. “Open the door before I gut you like a codfish!”
“Iako, it’s him,” said another voice in a bass rumble.
“But if I open the door, he says he’ll gut me like a—”
“Helkryvt’s blood, how did you get to be so stupid?” Cezon hissed. “Let me in! There’s things we need to discuss.”
The iron deadbolt slid back and the door creaked inward. Iako’s thin, pointed face appeared, replete with scraggly black hair, close-set blue eyes, and a pathetic excuse for a goatee.
“Outta my way,” Cezon grumbled, kicking the door and shoving past his Galantrian associate. “I hope the bogspectre sucks out whatever brains you got and leaves you in a ditch somewhere.”
Iako relocked the door as Cezon directed his attention to the table, where his other business partner sat. Endred was a giant of a man, a hulking Fironian who stood a foot taller than Cezon and who positively towered over Iako. He had dark skin, a bald head, and enough muscles to make the bravest of bar brawlers think twice before tangling with him. His skill with firemagic rounded him out as the brawn of their trio.
“You’re late,” said Endred, his leather jerkin straining over his chest as he crossed his arms.
Cezon sat and pulled a flask of mead toward him. “Got held up.”
“Trouble with the Imperials?”
“Not yet. The hand-off went fine. The wagon’s in its usual spot and Deathly’ll take care of it from there.” Deathly was another one of their associates. They had never learned his real name, and frankly, Cezon didn’t care what it was.
“So, what was the holdup?”
“I found some . . . imports on the Northroad,” Cezon replied in a delicate voice, popping the cork off the flask and taking a large swig.
“How come the imports was all the way inland?” said Iako, pinching his face into a look of deep thought.
Cezon sighed. Iako was a lost cause. Still, you always had to have at least one expendable man in your group. Someone to throw to the wolves if you found yourself in a bind.
“Because these imports are people,” he explained, tipping in his chair and propping his booted feet on the table.
“But then why—”
“It was code, Iako,” said Endred.
Cezon would never understand why Endred bothered to be patient with the Galantrian when he could snap the smaller man in half if he wanted. And Cezon had never fully understood how Endred had landed in this line of work, either. He was too . . . nice.
“Found some migrants,” said Cezon. “No tronkin’ idea how they slipped past port security, ‘cause they haven’t two brains to rub together between the three of them. But the real kicker is they’re royal.”
“How do you know?” Endred inquired.
“They got weird accents and use weird, outdated words. One of ’em called me Elder, all formal and respectful-like, so they’re some sort of nobility for sure. They didn’t want people to know where they’re from—they had some crackpot story about Aeria, of all places.” Iako snickered, and this even coaxed a smile from Endred. “Yeah, they tried telling me about how they crossed Shivnath’s Mountains. I says, ‘How did you do that?’ and they go, ‘Oh, we don’t remember!’”
“Probably heard enough legends about Aeria to think it actually exists,” said Endred.
“Two of ’em gave me names that might be real. Didn’t sound Smarlindian, and the surnames were all foreign. But the third one—this albino-looking bird—she comes up with some real nonsense. ‘Keriya Soulstar,’ she says, like she’s all important.”
“Stupid wench,” said Iako, grinning to reveal yellow teeth he’d sharpened to fine points.
“I ain’t told you the best part yet,” Cezon said smugly. “She’s got purple eyes.”
“Blood and bones,” whispered Endred. “You think she’s from Moorfain?”
“Where else would she be from? Aeria?” Cezon snorted in contempt. “They was tryin’ to get to the Fironem. Probably wanted to get to the Cinder Isle ports. Tryin’ to get back home.”
“You sure about this, Cezon?”
“Course I’m sure! I been sitting with her the past two days, having to put up with her questions. Can’t keep her mouth shut to save her life.”
“So you’ve got three Moorfainians,” said Endred. “What’re you gonna do about it?
“Sell ’em?” Iako suggested.
He’d said it because he was a moron. Slavery had been illegal in Allentria for ages. But even if they couldn’t sell the children . . .
“You know,” said Cezon, “you might be onto something.”
“Cezon,” Endred began in a warning tone. Much to Cezon’s annoyance, Endred insisted on having morals and a conscience.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that! But we’re the only ones who know these twits are from Moorfain. That puts us in a good position. I bet the empress would want to get her hands on them.”
“I bet she would,” Endred agreed. “Allentria’s in a dark place. Maybe this’ll change things. Think about the political ramifications of reestablishin’ a foreign connection like that.”
“What the blood is a ramification?” said Cezon. “You know what? I don’t care. Point is, Aldelphia will pay to get ahold of ‘em, and she will pay a lot. More than we’ve ever made before. More than we’d know what to do with!”
“Yeah!” Iako rubbed his hands together greedily.
“It’d be good if it worked,” said Endred. “But the government ain’t gonna accept them with open arms. We need an excuse why they’re here in the first place—a legal one. Or as legal as we can make it.”
Cezon tapped his chin in thought. “Send a falcon to Miff. Have him forge papers and a charter for a Syrionese commerce ship they bought their way onto. It ain’t that illegal in the grand scheme of things.�
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“Fine,” said Endred, “but how are you gonna get the Moorfainians to the empress?”
“I’ll say I’m bringing ’em to Noryk for citizen registration so they don’t get deported. We go to the palace, barter a hefty price, and hand ’em over. Done.”
“You’ll need to forge papers for yourself—and us—so we can get paid.”
“What, so the government can tax whatever they give us?” Cezon scoffed. “No thanks.”
“Cezon, if you march into the Imperial Palace without any paperwork or planning, you won’t be able to introduce the Moorfainians before you get arrested.”
Cezon growled and tipped farther back in his chair, overbalancing. He waved his arms to set himself straight and the chair fell to all fours with a clatter.
Endred was right as usual, drat and blast him.
“Okay,” he said at length. “Endred, send word and get Miff to work on our papers, along with papers for the Moorfainians. Iako, I want you to go to Noryk ahead of us.”
“Why I gotta do that for?”
“Because you already got legal papers, you half-brained clonch, and we need an inside man! You’ll re-enlist with the Imperial Guard so you can push our files through, pull strings, make sure we see the proper people when the time comes.”
“But what if they actually make me work? You know, fight and stuff?” said Iako.
“Have you seen yourself? They’d never put you on active duty. They’ll probably have you do paperwork and whatnot.”
“But I’m bad at paperwork. I en’t even learned to read proper.”
“Well, figure it out quick. Because we’re headed for the greatest payday of our lives,” Cezon declared triumphantly, taking another swig of mead. This was the break he’d been waiting for. It was the big haul, the mythical ‘Last Job.’ It was what men like him dreamed of.
What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER NINE
“Adventures are what you make of them.”
~ Gavin Swiftwind, Ninth Age
“Up! Get up!”
A no-nonsense voice startled Roxanne awake. Cezon banged open the door and strode to the windows, ripping aside the curtains. Light poured onto the four-poster bed.
“You two’ve wasted half the day,” he growled, storming out of the room without looking at Roxanne or Keriya, who stirred on the far side of the mattress. “Go downstairs to settle your tab with Treeskon. I don’t care if you have to wash dishes for the rest of the age, I ain’t payin’ for your party last night.”
“Clodhopper,” Roxanne muttered as the door slammed behind him. She loved being able to say things like that. The Allentrian swear words she’d picked up from Cezon were so colorful.
“It’s almost sun-high,” said Keriya, peering through the transparent stone, which Allentrians called ‘glass,’ that covered the windows of The Olde Dragyn.
“So? We’ve got nowhere to be.” Freedom agreed with Roxanne. In fact, she was planning to strike out alone to forge a new life. She wasn’t sure where she’d go, but a lady with her fine upbringing, good looks, and magical skill couldn’t do poorly, no matter what happened.
“Maybe you don’t,” Keriya said loftily as she crossed to the door and left the room.
Roxanne rolled her eyes. She was looking forward to putting some distance between herself and Keriya Nameless-Soulstar-whatever. The girl was well-meaning, but a lunatic through and through.
She went to the washstand to tidy up. Through the thin walls, she heard Keriya knock on Fletcher’s door.
“Fletch? You awake? You can’t be that tired.”
“Mmf. Yes I can.”
Fletcher had no excuse for being lazy. He’d regained consciousness by the time they’d hauled him to his room last night, but had promptly fallen asleep.
Roxanne listened to their banter as Keriya coaxed him to the common room. Then she slipped into the hall and headed for the back stairwell to avoid passing them—she didn’t want any lengthy, insincere goodbyes. Unfortunately, she ran into Cezon.
“Where’re you going?” he demanded, planting his fists on his hips.
“None of your business.”
“You can’t leave.” Roxanne tried to shoulder past him but he blocked her. “Don’t make me wield,” he threatened.
“I don’t know what that means,” she retorted, “and I don’t care.”
Cezon’s expression slid from anger to glee disturbingly quickly. “That’s right. You lot ain’t natural wielders, are you?” He raised a hand and a small mass of water formed above his outstretched palm.
Roxanne’s jaw fell open. “How are you doing that?”
“I’m a water wielder. All I did was manipulate the water-threads in the air around us and concentrate ’em here.”
“The what?” she breathed, transfixed by the graceful dance of the floating liquid.
“Threads, magicthreads. The molecules you manipulate to cast spells,” he explained haughtily.
She couldn’t believe it. There were other sorts of magic. Cezon could control water just as she could control earth.
“So you should really consider doing what I tell you,” he concluded.
Roxanne was shaken, but not intimidated. She reached inside herself, embracing the familiar warmth of her power. Her source flared eagerly at her mental touch, stronger and brighter than ever it had been in Aeria.
“I’m done doing what people tell me,” she said, wielding to gather the ample dirt in the hall. She formed it into a clump and launched the compact sphere through Cezon’s floating water, causing the liquid to splatter in his face. He flipped up his eyepatch to gape at her as she breezed past him, dusting off her hands.
Roxanne exited the inn and headed toward a line of vendors hawking their wares. She paused to inspect a display of colored fabrics and picked up a scarf, Cezon and his watermagic already forgotten.
“A fine piece you’ve chosen, miss,” said the man behind the stand. He reminded Roxanne of a beetle with his bug eyes and wide mouth. “Would you like it?” He yanked it out of her grasp with thin, twitchy fingers and held it up to her shoulder. “It will go marvelously with your hair. You have such lovely hair. You must take it.”
Roxanne couldn’t see the harm in doing so, especially since he was so insistent. “Okay,” she said, accepting it and turning away.
“What are you doing, you thieving urchin?” he shrieked, snatching the scarf. “That’s Erastatian silk!”
“You told me to take it,” she replied, bewildered.
“Not without paying for it.”
Ah, this was one of those things Cezon had spoken of. If she wanted the scarf, she’d have to trade money for it.
“Sorry, I don’t have any derlei,” she said, and continued on her way.
Roxanne wandered for most of the afternoon, looking for someone in need of a Hunter. In the first establishment she visited, the proprietor asked where she’d been apprenticed. Roxanne didn’t know what that meant, so she lied and told him she’d been named and fully trained in Aeria.
The man laughed in her face and kicked her out.
After some more misadventures, she came to a crossroads in the center of town. Five streets branched from the lively cobblestone square, where a sculpted gold dragon fountain bubbled with what Roxanne assumed was some manner of watermagic. Liquid streamed around the centerpiece in elegant arcs, glittering in the sun.
Beyond the fountain, gray-clad people bustled in and out of a stately stone building. This seemed like the sort of place Roxanne might find answers, so she hastened toward it.
A large desk was at the forefront of the colonnaded entrance hall, and a brown-skinned guard sat behind it. A wolfish animal lay beside him, its sharp eyes roving the crowd.
“Hello,” said Roxanne, hailing him. “I’m Roxanne Fleuridae. Are you one of the Elders
of Senteir?”
“Fleuridae. What a unique name.” The scowl lines on his forehead deepened as he examined her. “I’m Major-General Lerofern of the Fourth Battalion of the Imperial Guard. I am stationed in Senteir temporarily until my reassignment.”
“Okay,” said Roxanne, the terminology and titles lost on her. “I’m new to Allentria, and I’m looking for—”
“I’m sorry,” Lerofern interrupted. “What do you mean when you say you’re new to Allentria?”
“I mean I just got here.” The nape of her neck began to prickle with unease.
“Where did you come from?”
“Aeria,” she said, making a small gesture in the direction of Shivnath’s Mountains.
Lerofern’s face puckered in aggravation. “Is this your idea of a joke? Get out!” He flicked his hand at her and leaned over the desk to scribble something in a notebook.
Roxanne had never been spoken to in such a way—her father had often screamed verbal abuse at her, but this man had dismissed her like she was nothing. It was upsetting enough to cause a dull ache to surface behind her eyes.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I don’t know anyone here, and—”
Lerofern slapped his writing tool down and stood. “That kind of talk is awfully dangerous, and you picked the wrong day to pull a prank. I’ve been dealing with reports of ghosts and demons and all manner of nonsense across the Smarlands, and I’ve had enough of people making up stories and wasting my time. So I’m going to count to five, and if you aren’t out of my sight by then, I’m going to arrest you.”
Time to go.
Roxanne didn’t understand what had made him so angry, but she backed down. There were swarms of guards surrounding Lerofern, and hanging at each man’s waist was a sharp, shiny weapon. Cezon had explained that these were called ‘swords’ and were mostly used for ‘gutting bloody thieves who try to take your derlei.’
Go. Two-legger dangerous. Go!
The ache in her head intensified and Roxanne frowned. That thought, those words—they hadn’t . . . belonged to her. They’d come from somewhere else.
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