"Because they love Taim?"
"I think it's because of his origin. Before he died and Jorus took over, Daris was the sole ruler of the northern kingdom. Which, given what the people down here think about the north, marks him as untrustworthy at best, if not downright evil. I think the priests are trying to get people used to the idea that they have to fight the north—to fight Narashtovik."
"Mallon can't even beat Collen in a fight. So you think that for their next move, they're going to declare war on Collen and Narashtovik?"
"Maybe they're going to retake Collen, then turn against Narashtovik for helping Collen. That's what Dante's afraid of. That's why it's so important for us to stop them in Collen."
"I know what we're here to do," Raxa said. "But I don't know anything about your holy books. You'll have to run all this past Galand. Anyway, let him know we might be about to break open Mallon's plans. I'll scout the pier where they're dropping off the goods. Meet me back here at midnight in three days."
With her night's work expanding before her, she jogged east toward the river. As she neared the docks, the smell of cool fresh water drifted through the streets, along with chatter from the wharfside pubs. She entered the first she found, ordered a drink, and asked where to find Keller's Pier. She had a story all cooked up about what her business there was, but the drunk next to her didn't care about anything except that she was sitting next to him.
She stayed a few minutes in gratitude for the information, then headed north along the mile-wide river. Most of the piers were silent and dark, but at a handful of them, stevedores wheeled goods into waiting warehouses. Keller's Pier was blocked off by the bars of a tall iron fence. A dozen docks extended into the lapping black waters. Raxa toured around the fence to the other side. Several big warehouses occupied the grounds. Big enough to hold just about anything you could ever want to buy.
As she turned around for another pass, a watchman wandered out from one of the warehouses. Raxa headed on past and didn't come back.
~
Back at the Fabians, she kept her head down. Three days went by like nothing. The evening of the deal, she sat down to supper without much appetite. She didn't know what was going to go down that night. Could be they'd stumble into bad luck, have to run out from Bressel and not look back.
She found her eyes kept drifting to Maura. Raxa knew the score. A mark was a mark. When you were done with them, you tossed them aside like a spent corn husk or a shoe too worn to mend. The night before, she'd kept Maura up late drinking so the lady wouldn't bat an eye when Raxa planned to say she was tired from the previous day's festivities and meant to bed early.
They'd gone through a bottle of good wine apiece. In the middle of making good headway on a third, Maura had leaned back in her chair—or, more accurately, lolled back in it—and the typically arch if currently sloppy look on her face had been replaced by something thoughtful.
"I have a confession to make." Maura pronounced each word carefully, separating them from each other like she was plucking bay leaves from a stem. "When you first came here, I didn't come to your aid because I am a nice person."
Raxa moved to object, but Maura waved her off. In the dim candlelight, she suddenly looked too small for her chair. "No, Yera, I am an effective person, and the core of being effective is understanding your limitations. Mine include the fact that I'm not nice. But since you've been here, I wish that I were, because perhaps it would cause more people like you to be a part of my life."
Now, sitting at the dinner table a night later, Raxa felt an unexpected sadness. Tonight might be the last night she heard Maura's proper modes of speech, her crooked little sense of humor. Raxa had always hated the nobility, but if she'd been born into it like Lady Yera was supposed to have been, she and Maura would have been friends.
She stayed at the table a while longer, stretching out the moments, then stifled a yawn, smiling in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I think I had a little too much fun last night."
She excused herself to her room, undressed, then blew out her candles. Sitting in the darkness, she was terribly tired, but she made herself stay up until it was time to climb down to the street and get her ass to the park.
That night, with a mission on the line, she was the first to arrive. Sorrowen showed up five minutes later, looking mildly spooked.
Raxa assessed him. "You're nervous?"
"No," he said. "Yes."
"Good. We're about to put ourselves in danger. You work with someone who isn't afraid of that, and they'll put you in danger. But the enemy won't know we're there—and if they find us, they'll have no idea what we're capable of."
The strain on his face eased marginally. "I keep the loon in a hole in the oak tree up the lane from my monastery." He described the exact spot and how to use her blood to active it. "If anything happens to me, you'll need it to speak with Dante."
They headed toward the river. Sorrowen was dressed in the clothes he'd traveled to Bressel in, plain sturdy coat and trousers. They didn't look like predators or prey and drew no attention. At the docks, rats scurried for spilled grain and scraps of fish. She and Sorrowen each killed one, returned them to whatever weird not-life the nether provided them, and pocketed them.
Lanterns were already glowing from the docks of Keller's Pier. Guards patrolled, swords on hips, but rather than the blue of the king, they were wearing plain brown clothes. Raxa hunched beside a warehouse, watching them make their rounds. Nobody seemed to be patrolling outside the iron fence.
They circled around the back of the neighboring warehouse. Raxa helped Sorrowen climb up to the roof. He was terrible at it. Almost dashed his brains out twice. She prayed they wouldn't have to make a daring escape. They crawled across the gently sloped rough wooden shingles, setting up against a stone chimney with a vantage of the docks.
They'd left their rats down on the ground. They sent them meandering through the iron fence, moving from shadow to shadow until they were positioned near the base of the piers. Raxa still couldn't hear much through her rat's ears, but at least she could see everything that it could.
They waited, listening to the wash of the river, the crunch of the guards' boots, and the thunderous peals of laughter from the pub down the way.
An hour later, carriages clattered through the darkness. Three vehicles arrived at the rear gate to Keller's Pier and were allowed inside. The carriages stopped at the front of the warehouses and disgorged a surprising number of men. A tall man got out, broad-shouldered, folding his arms as he watched his soldiers arrange themselves across the grounds and his servants unload heavy boxes from the backs of the carriages.
"That's our man," Raxa whispered. "Walpole."
Sorrowen nodded, so earnest that she had to look away or burst into laughter. As another man scooted out from the carriage, arranging his gray robes around himself, Raxa's grin died on her face.
"Shit. Kill the rat."
"What? Why?"
"Kill it now!"
She slashed the connection to her rat. A flash of darkness filled her eyes, then blanked out. Beside her, Sorrowen jerked. He squinted, then turned to her, young face bent in confusion.
She pointed. "See the priest?"
"You think he would have sensed us?"
Raxa nodded. "And now I'm wondering what they're doing that requires the skills of an ethermancer."
The priest fussed with his robes a moment longer, then moved to stand alone, slowly swiveling his head to watch the grounds. Servants milled about, coagulating into small groups. As minutes crept past, Raxa shifted position against the hard shingles.
A soldier pointed upstream, calling out an order. Servants drifted toward the docks. Raxa followed their gaze up the river. White squares cohered from the gloom. Sails. The hulls were patches of blackness against the starlight shimmering on the river. A small armada came to bear, sidling up to the docks and tying fast. The ships were long and slender, riding low in the water.
A woman debarked and made her wa
y to land, long loose hair flapping down her back. Walpole moved before her. They clasped hands. She talked for a while as Walpole nodded gravely. Sailors came to shore, gathering to the side. In time, the woman gestured to the pier she'd walked down. She and Walpole made their way to one of the ships, climbed aboard, and disappeared belowdecks.
They were gone for several minutes. When Walpole emerged, he gestured to a cluster of soldiers waiting at the foot of the docks. They fanned out, going from boat to boat. Walpole moved on to a second ship, pacing its top deck before descending to the hold.
Once the inspections were done, Walpole and the woman from the ships met on dry land. Teams of servants lifted the heavy boxes and brought them before the two officials. Walpole flipped open a lid. Heaped silver shined in the night.
The woman clapped, calling to her sailors. They loaded the chests into two of the ships. The woman talked with Walpole a while longer, then returned to her crew. The pair of ships they'd taken the cash into cast off and started rowing upstream, leaving the many other boats behind at the docks.
A few of Walpole's people went into the warehouses. Most returned to the carriages, which exited the gates at the rear, hoofbeats fading into the night. Within minutes, the piers were quiet again, patrolled only by a trio of sentries.
"Need to find out what's in the boats." Raxa propped herself on her elbows. "Ready to knife some watchmen?"
"You want to kill them?"
"That's typically what knives do." She let him twist a moment, then grinned. "No knives. Not unless something goes very wrong. I'll sneak onto the boats while you keep watch."
They climbed down the back of the warehouse and walked two piers north of Keller's. Raxa ran Sorrowen through the plan, which was as simple as they got: she'd shadowalk onto the docks and check out the ships while he made sure nothing came up on her while she was belowdecks. They edged south along the river bank, stopping one pier away.
Sorrowen hunkered down in the shadow of the dock. Raxa stepped into the shadows. The river and its reflected stars were already silver and black; in the netherworld, they glowed with the intensity of a black sun. She ran forward, stepping lightly over the mud at the edge of the shore. The iron fence ran all the way to the water. She crossed the shallows, the water feeling as thick as sand beneath her feet, then jumped up the side of the closest dock, grabbing the edge of its decking and swinging herself lightly up top.
The three sentries remained in the yard, mostly watching the fence while casting occasional glances at the dark piers. Raxa hurried past the nearest pair of boats berthed at either side of the dock, putting a little more distance between herself and the guards, then jumped aboard the next ship she came to.
The deck was clean and bare. She found the ladder belowdecks, dropping to the bottom and landing in a crouch. After a glance to all sides, she fell out from the shadows. She stood in a square of starlight. The rest of the hold was as dark as death. It smelled bilgey, but also strongly of pinewood and pitch.
She let her eyes adjust. The hold was mostly empty, a few barrels and crates secured against the walls. Raxa moved from the ladder, got out her flint, and lit a candle. She pried open the lid of a barrel, releasing the odor of potent beer. The one next to it held salted fish. Several others were empty. She checked from stem to stern, even knocking on the bulkheads near the front and back to search for hidden compartments.
Finding nothing of interest, she ascended to the deck. A breeze tousled her hair. The grounds between the docks and the warehouses remained quiet. Dropping into the shadows just to cover her advance to the next ship felt like a waste. She crossed to the dock, crawling on her belly to the boat across from her. Its hold was every bit as uninteresting as the first one had been.
A sense of unease dripped into her stomach like sour liquor. She moved on to the next pair of ships at the end of the long dock. Their cargo was yet more salted fish and bitter-smelling beer whose odor was surprisingly similar to the planks of the hull. Bare essentials of sustaining a crew during a voyage. Nothing to justify the expense in Walpole's order.
Had they already carted the goods inside? Raxa ran the scene back through her mind: Walpole and a few of his people had gone onto the boats; Walpole had paid the woman; she'd left with her people; Walpole and all but a few soldiers had left. No stevedores had entered the ships. Either the goods had been small enough for Walpole and his soldiers to remove themselves, and they'd brought down a whole fleet to protect those goods from pirates, or the cargo was still onboard.
She climbed back up to the deck. Not wanting to take any chances, she hopped into the shadows, ran down the pier as fast as she could, hit land, and moved on to the next dock. She jumped aboard the closest ship and down the hatch to the hold. As soon as her feet hit the boards, she bounced back to the real world.
She lit her candle, grabbed the iron crow from its pegs on the wall, and slid its flat end under the lid of a crate. The nails held fast. Raxa bore down on the bar, grunting with effort. With a wrenching squeak, the lid flew open. She stumbled back, the iron crow flying from her grasp. Before it could clang to the floor, she threw herself forward, catching it and landing with a thump.
Heart beating harder, she leaned over the top of the crate. It was filled with dried apples. She swore, the words echoing closely in the damp, piney hold. She sniffed the air, then frowned down at the foodstuffs. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. What if she wasn't finding anything because there wasn't anything to find? What if the order—
Shouts sounded from outside. One was a man with a deep voice. The other was Sorrowen.
She clambered up the ladder and peered over the gunwale. The gray-robed priest stood on the dock halfway toward the boat, back turned to her. Sorrowen moved toward the foot of the dock. A spark of ether shimmered in the priest's hand.
"Get out!" Sorrowen's command quaked with nerves. He gestured as if to ward the man off, but his eyes were pointing down the dock. Toward Raxa.
He wanted her to run. To get out so that someone could tell Galand what they'd found. Sorrowen was clearly scared—as the ether grew in the priest's hand, the boy's widening eyes mirrored its size and brightness—but he was still walking forward, commanding the priest's attention. He was young enough that he probably thought his death would make any difference.
Light seared from the priest's hand, trailing an incandescent stream. Sorrowen's arm squiggled forward spasmodically, shadows spraying everywhere in an undisciplined spurt. Raxa glanced at the dark waters. A quick dive into the shadows and the river, and she could be out of Keller's Pier without anyone having known she'd been there.
Yet something held her back. Maybe it was that Sorrowen was young, no longer a child but not yet an adult, and she'd never been able to let the young get ground up in the gears of the world.
Or maybe it was the latent urge to push her new powers. And learn what she could really do.
Couldn't shadowalk up on the priest. He'd feel her coming, boot her out. Probably when she was so close that he'd rip her apart before she had time to defend herself. She bit open her lip and ran forward, the dock's boards bouncing under her feet. She spread her hands wide to scoop up every shadow she could find. Nether streamed to the warm blood sliding down her chin.
She bent it into a big black scythe and hurled it at the priest. He continued to hammer at Sorrowen, straight rays of light blasting into the younger man's whorl of shadows. Her blade sped toward the priest's back in perfect silence. She held her breath, waiting for it to pass through him and for his body to slide in half.
He whipped his head around, pushing his right palm forward. A tight line of whiteness glared from his hand. It struck the scythe in the center, shattering the shadows. A few quick pokes of ether took care of the few shards of nether still coming his way.
Raxa had sent a whale of a strike at him, and he'd deflected and destroyed it with a few precise counter-thrusts. Because he was more skilled? Or because that was simply the way the nether and ether work
ed? Galand had talked about this stuff, but she couldn't remember what he'd said.
She lobbed a needle of shadows at the priest. Harried on both sides, he barely had time to shape his counter. A finger-sized rod of light lanced toward her needle, obliterating them both. So it was a game of quickness and subtlety. Rather than broadswords, they were dueling with thin, twitchy blades.
She smiled. Sorrowen locked eyes with her, grinning back. A blast of ether illuminated his face, yanking his attention back to the priest. Raxa jabbed at the enemy from her side, obliging him to turn to her before he could set up a killing sequence against Sorrowen.
Face reddened with wrath, the priest came at her with a flurry of attacks. It was too fast for her mind to follow, but somehow, her hands spun out one answer after another, taking on a rhythm like fencing—or no, more like music, like listening to it or like inventing a song as you played, the notes and nether bending in ways you could never have predicted, but which always sounded right in hindsight.
She became lost in it. Like the nether was wielding her. Everything in front of her grew sharper and brighter while everything around her dimmed out. Time slowed. And then it was something deeper than music. Deeper than thought. Like she imagined the animals felt, the wolf out on the hunt or the owl in flight.
She'd never felt much for religion, no more than a light stirring or the occasional yearning toward something more. Yet as she wielded the shadows, she knew what it was to believe: and better, to speak with powers greater than herself.
They'd only been dueling for a matter of seconds, but already, the nether was getting sticky, slower to arrive at her hands. Across from her, Sorrowen's face was taut with effort. The priest looked tasked, too, but there was no telling how much juice he had left in the squeeze.
She couldn't seem to get past his defenses. But she could still disrupt them. She flicked a needle at his head and followed this with a denser wedge of shadows. As he gestured to parry the first strike, she sent the wedge driving downward, hammering into the planks a few feet from him. The boards splintered apart and upended beneath his feet, dropping him half a foot. He yelled in surprise.
The Wound of the World Page 43
