Benjamin Ashwood Box Set 2

by A. C. Cobble

  Every time a shaggy-haired head popped into view, Ben’s heart skipped a beat. Time after time, it was a false alarm. There were a surprisingly large number of them until Ben started thinking about how many sailors were just arriving after a month at sea. Those men wouldn’t bother shoring their locks while on the ocean.

  Ben began to notice a number of serious men clutching notebooks bulging with bundles of paper. They were always flanked by pairs of bored guards. The men would be poking into goods as they were unloaded from ships and directly questioning captains and crews.

  As they passed one of the conversations, Ben overheard an officious-sounding man confronting what appeared to be the captain of the ship.

  “You give me permission to inspect these goods, or I’ll do it without your permission!” demanded the official.

  “What is this?” retorted the captain. “I’ve been doing business here for years. Why are you singling me out?”

  “You aren’t being singled out,” claimed the official, “but I must inspect your wares. It is not up for debate sir, and if you refuse, I will have my companions here gather a legion of their peers. We’ll seize this ship and inspect your merchandise at my leisure.”

  The captain crossed his arms, looking put out. He eyed the guards who were suddenly becoming interested in the conversation. “Why all of this scrutiny?”

  “Smugglers,” growled the official. He spat.

  “I’m not a smuggler,” insisted the captain.

  “Then we shouldn’t have a problem, should we?” pressed the official. He set his hands on his hips. It was clear he was done discussing.

  The captain sighed and gestured for the official to examine the tightly sealed crates his crew were hauling down the gangplank.

  “Must be getting pretty bad for this kind of turnout,” remarked Rhys, glancing down the docks where they could see half a dozen other customs officials bustling about cargoes.

  “The emperor doesn’t like losing the tax revenue, I guess,” responded Ben.

  “There are smugglers in every port,” declared Rhys. “You can’t avoid that.”

  Ben grabbed the rogue’s arm and pointed at a shaggy-haired figure unwinding a thick rope from around a bollard.

  “The build is right,” muttered Rhys, stepping behind a stack of crates and peering around to observe the figure. “It could be him.”

  Moments later, the man turned. Ben sighed. It wasn’t Milo.

  “Ben!” exclaimed a startled voice.

  Ben turned and saw a familiar face staring back at him. The man was shirtless and wearing loose, salt-stained pants. A knit cap kept his hair off his face, and he had a black rat tattooed on his chest.

  “Ben,” continued the man. “It’s me, Martin.”

  Ben blinked, then slowly replied, “You worked for me at the brewery in the City.”

  “Aye, I did,” responded the man with a laugh. “I hated hauling those heavy barrels around all day, but every evening made it worthwhile when we sat down and had a mug of your ale. Best ale I’ve ever wet my lips with, honest truth.” The man paused and glanced around nervously. “We all thought you were killed with Lord Reinhold’s men. At least, when the news first hit, we did. Afterward, we started wondering if the commotion at the Sanctuary had something to do with you. That fancy lady you ran around with was claimed to be dead, but a lot of people didn’t believe it. A bunch of crazy lights went off at the Sanctuary, and some ships were burned on the water. The mages didn’t say a word, but everyone in the City knew who was responsible. Some of us hoped you somehow survived the ambush and whatever else happened, but the boss didn’t want us to go looking. He said if you’d made it, you would have come back to see us. Some of us who knew you always held onto a little hope. Things got a bit dark after you left.”

  “I, uh, yeah, I made it,” mumbled Ben. “What do you mean dark? Is everyone okay?”

  “You haven’t been back at all, have you?” guessed Martin.

  Ben shook his head.

  “Come find me at the Fish Head. We’ll be berthed a couple of more days. I’m usually over there around nightfall. I’ll catch you up over a couple of pints. The Fish Head’s lager doesn’t hold a candle to your stuff, but it’s cheap.”

  A man leaned over the gunwale of a nearby ship and yelled, “Martin, you want us to bring the rest of the barrels down now or what? The boys are eager to get into town.”

  “We have to wait on customs,” shouted Martin. “Soon as they’re done, we’ll finish up, and the boys’ll get their fun. Don’t worry. Customs don’t wanna be out here any longer than we do.”

  “Still carrying heavy loads I see,” jested Ben.

  “Nah,” replied Martin with a wink. “I’m the captain of this merry little crew. I just don’t dress like it because the girls charge captains three times what they do crew.”

  “The captain,” said Ben. He whistled in appreciation as he eyed the ship again. “Moving up in the world, Martin. Well, we’d better let you get to it.”

  “Remember, the Fish Head after dark,” said Martin. “A lot happened in the City after you left. I think you’ll want to hear about it.”

  “We’ll be there if we can,” agreed Ben.

  Martin turned and started barking instructions to the crew. He directed where they’d unload the goods and instructed they leave some of the supplies on the ship. The men jumped when he pointed, and all deferred to his commands. Ben was impressed. His former porter really was the captain of the vessel. A big promotion in such a short time.

  “Watch,” suggested Rhys, nodding toward some of the men.

  Ben followed the rogue’s gaze and saw Martin’s men get to work. They were rolling big barrels down the gangplank and stacking them in front of the ship. He assumed the customs officials would inspect the cargo, then locals would cart it off to where it was going. He was amused to see that, even as captain, Martin was still handling ale kegs.

  “What are we watching?” asked Ben.

  “How strong do you think that man is?” asked Rhys, gesturing to a sailor who was backing down the gangplank, using his hands to roll a barrel as big as he was.

  Ben opened his mouth to speak then closed it. The barrel was at least the size of the man and should be filled to the brim with ale. A keg that size would weigh three times as much as the sailor who was moving it. Ben had moved plenty of ale kegs, but never one that large by himself.

  Martin came bustling up and pushed the sailor to one side, helping him move the barrel down. Ben’s former employee glanced around then scolded the sailor as soon as they got off the gangplank. Together, the two of them rolled the barrel to stack it with the others.

  “I don’t understand,” muttered Ben.

  “Those kegs aren’t full of ale,” guessed Rhys. “It’s an old smuggler’s trick. They put a tube in the center of the barrel and fill the rest of it up with ale, or wine, or whatever they can buy cheap. The liquid is distributed evenly, so it rolls and stacks like a normal full keg would. In the hollow tube, they put their real cargo. If customs wants to inspect it, you can tap a few kegs and pour them a nice, frothy ale. If it’s an aggressive agent, you pour ‘em a few more ales. You keep tapping kegs and pouring ales until they leave you alone or pass out drunk. There’s not a customs agent in the world who will try lifting a heavy barrel instead of drinking a free ale.”

  “What do you think they’re smuggling?” wondered Ben.

  Rhys shrugged. “No telling. I wasn’t even sure that is what they were doing until I saw that lone man managing the ale barrel. These guys are organized and good.”

  “He spoke about his boss like it was someone I knew,” mentioned Ben.

  “You know any smugglers in the City?” asked Rhys.

  “No, I…” Ben trailed off. “Maybe I do.”

  They spent the rest of daylight searching the docks in vain. They were counting on random chance, Ben knew, but that was all they had. Shamiil was filled with hundreds of thousands of people, and Milo
could be anywhere amongst them. The soft-spoken apprentice didn’t stand out in a crowd, and Ben had already seen upward of fifty people who could match a rough description of him.

  They guessed Milo would be departing on a ship, but they didn’t know for sure. If he had a specific destination in mind, they might have a few days. If he was willing to hop on the first ship out of port, he was already gone.

  As the sun fell below the horizon, painting the clouds above them brilliant shades of pink, gold, and orange, Ben and Rhys decided to stop for the day. The docks would be poorly lit at night, and there was nothing they could achieve there.

  Back at the inn, the companions clustered around a filthy table and planned.

  “Searching the city is a fool’s errand,” admitted Ben. “It wasn’t going to work in Irrefort, and it won’t work here. We have to be smarter than that.”

  “What do you suggest?” asked Amelie.

  “Let’s think about where he could be going with the staff,” suggested Ben. “Maybe that will give us a clue of where to start looking. We agree he’s taking it somewhere, right? Or, more specifically, he’s taking it to someone.”

  “Yes, but to where?” questioned Amelie. “We found him in Irrefort with councilman Rettor. Before that, he was in Northport with the Librarian. They’re both dead. He can’t be going to either of them.”

  Ben sipped his ale, thinking it over, and then sat forward. “He said he was in Northport for what, two or three years? Where was he before that?”

  Amelie blinked. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if he ever said.”

  Ben leaned his elbows on the table. “He said he was in the guard in Northport, I think.”

  “That’s what he told us,” confirmed Towaal. “He said he was the last of several sons, and his parents couldn’t afford an apprenticeship, so he joined the guard. He claimed he was picked out of that bunch to assist the Librarian. We have to assume that was a fabrication.”

  “There’s no way he was in the guard,” agreed Rhys. “He was a wonder with that trident and spear, but Northport’s men use swords, axes, bows, and pikes. They didn’t train him to use a short polearm like that. Someone else must have.”

  “Someone trained him how to use his will also,” muttered Amelie. “He was able to manipulate the fire from the vambrace like he was born to it. Gunther said he was close to being long-lived, didn’t he?”

  Rhys scrubbed a hand across his face. “I should have seen it. Obviously, he wasn’t who he said he was. There were so many signs. I can’t believe we missed them.”

  “We had no reason to think he was lying,” responded Ben.

  “It seems clear he wasn’t in the guard, but then, where did he come from?” wondered Amelie.

  “Whoever he is working for knew about the Librarian,” said Ben. “They placed him there with a purpose in mind. There are only so many people who could have known about the Librarian.”

  “Rhymer knew about him,” said Amelie, “but he would have no reason to place a spy inside his own library. Who else?”

  Ben frowned. “Remember, the Librarian wrote a letter. That is how the Coalition Council found out about the Purple in Irrefort. That would have been a little bit before Milo joined him, assuming he wasn’t lying about that timeline. Who else did the Librarian write to?”

  Towaal, her voice low with dread, listed the recipients. “Gunther, the Coalition Council, the Sanctuary, and Lady Avril. Those are the people the Librarian wrote to.”

  “It wasn’t Gunther,” said Amelie, “and Rettor is dead.”

  “Lady Avril is dead too, and has been for several centuries. At least, that’s what we were told in the Sanctuary,” added Towaal. “I don’t know if we can assume that is true any longer either.”

  “Milo could be working for her, I guess,” said Amelie, “if she’s still alive. Though, I don’t understand what her motivation would be.”

  “The correct answer is usually the simplest one,” declared Rhys.

  They sat quietly, no one wanting to state the obvious.

  “That bitch,” Towaal finally hissed. “The Veil has been slow playing this, playing everyone.”

  Rhys slammed a fist down on the table. “She infiltrated the Purple in Northport and almost got someone inside the Purple in Irrefort.”

  “That’s why Eldred didn’t attack our vessel when we fled Hamruhg,” said Ben, a sickening feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. “She saw Milo standing on the deck.”

  “Eldred has no reason to hold back, now,” muttered Amelie. “If she is in league with Milo, then she could be here in Shamiil.”

  “Is this Eldred really that dangerous?” asked O’ecca.

  Towaal nodded grimly.

  “I don’t think she’s here,” said Ben.

  Towaal raised an eyebrow at him. “Why not?”

  “Milo is in league with the Veil and Eldred, right?” he asked rhetorically. “That makes the most sense. If Eldred is able to track us, then it’s likely she could track him as well. Or maybe he can even communicate with her from a distance through a thought meld or however she speaks in our minds. If they are in cahoots, he would go straight to her. If she was on the South Continent, he would find her.”

  Ben paused. “Even if none of that is true, we know she would have sensed the conflagration at the Purple’s fortress. She’d know it was us and come running. Now that Milo has the staff, she’d have no reason to avoid a confrontation. No, I think if she was here, we would have already seen her.”

  Rhys finished his ale and added, “That makes sense. Shamiil is the obvious location to find us, and we walked right in the front gate. She would have had watchers there if nowhere else.”

  “What do we do?” asked Amelie.

  “We have time,” stated Ben. “If she isn’t here in Shamiil, then she is in Alcott. Maybe she’s waiting for Milo. Maybe she’s waiting for us. We’ll have to deal with her sooner or later, but not today. We have time to plan. One thing we know, if Eldred and the Veil have the wyvern fire staff, they aren’t likely to use it for benevolent purposes. We need to stop the demons and stop them. To do that, we need more resources.”

  “What resources are you thinking about?” wondered Towaal.

  “We’re in Shamiil,” responded Ben. “Let’s start here. Let’s go talk to the emperor.”

  “I spoke to my father’s representative,” O’ecca told them the next morning. “He can get us in without raising suspicion. The Red Lord is there, but he is also waiting for an audience with the emperor. Apparently, The Red Lord is to be censured for his attack on Indo and other atrocities. He pushed it far enough that the emperor has been forced to act.”

  “That is good for us, isn’t it?” asked Ben.

  O’ecca nodded.

  “If the emperor is already turned against the Red Lord,” suggested Amelie, “we can use that. The Red Lord is weakening Ooswam by instigating internal strife. Strength will be needed for the battle to come. We just have to convince the emperor of that.”

  “He prefers to stay out of the squabbles between Ooswam’s lords,” said O’ecca, “but the traditional role of the emperor is to protect the realm from outside threats. It doesn’t get more outside or threatening than the demons. I believe he will agree to face them.”

  “He has to,” said Ben. “If he doesn’t, they’ll come to him. Those things aren’t going to stay in the desert for long.”

  “I am certain we can convince him of the danger,” agreed O’ecca. “It’s all falling together. In three bells, my father’s man will come get us and bring us to the emperor. I must prepare myself, and I suggest you do as well.”

  “Prepare how?” asked Rhys.

  O’ecca looked him up and down. “Put on some clean clothes for starters.”

  Lord Iyrron’s man arrived promptly on time. He was a thin man, draped in finely stitched robes that were cinched tight with a broad belt. His robes were dyed bright green, matching the colors of House of Iyrron. His belt was black
with a silver medallion affixed to the front. It designated his rank, Ben assumed.

  The man bowed deeply to O’ecca and largely ignored the rest of the party. By their dress, he must have thought they were peasants, which, Ben admitted ruefully, wasn’t far from the truth. He had few coins, no home, and no occupation.

  “Lady Iyrron, I’m afraid I have just received horrible news,” stated the man in a quivering voice.

  She looked at him, waiting patiently.

  The man drew a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Your father and brothers faced the Red Lord just six days past.”

  The color drained from O’ecca’s face.

  The man shifted uncomfortably. “They did not survive, my lady. You are the head of the House now. You are Lady Iyrron.”

  Ben pulled out a chair and O’ecca sat heavily on it, her face a mask of sorrow.

  Amelie knelt next to the diminutive lady and wrapped her arms around her. Amelie knew what this feeling was like.

  “Tell me the details,” instructed O’ecca, her voice taut with pain.

  The functionary grimaced. “The Red Lord was spotted moving around the outskirts of Seawatch, our last operable port. Your father and brothers chased after him and were ambushed. I am no military man, but from what I heard, I believe it was a trap. Nearly all of the men with them were lost. The might of the house is seriously weakened, my lady.”

  “Will the emperor act?” asked Amelie.

  The man shrugged hopelessly. “I’m told The Red Lord is to be censured, but he is gaining power, and the emperor has always been hesitant to interfere between lords. Will he merely chide the Red Lord, or will he severely punish him? I do not know. The emperor is not the strong leader his grandfather was.”

  “We have to make him strong,” asserted Amelie, gripping O’ecca’s hand.

  The slim girl didn’t respond. She sat, shocked, visibly unable to process what happened.