The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  But if they'd taken him, he had no doubt they'd taken Blays, and probably Captain Twill as well. He had no idea how long he'd been out. If Blays knew where he was being held, and Dante fled the Chenney, they'd have little hope of finding each other.

  There was one thing he knew for sure: Blays wouldn't leave him behind.

  Softly, he began to sing out the window, an old drinking tune they'd learned years earlier while hiding from fanatics in the pubs of Whetton. He'd barely made it through the second chorus when he felt a ripple in the darkness.

  A shadow deepened on the eastern wall. Blays resolved from it. He was unarmed and his face sported a number of fresh bruises. "If you're done napping, I'd suggest we flee."

  "What's going on?" Dante said. "What happened to your face?"

  Blays touched his cheek. "Oh, that? I was a bit tortured."

  "A bit? Like a hanged man is a bit short of breath? Why?"

  "It sounded like they were convinced I was up to no good. Thus if I gave them the truth straight away, they'd think I was lying. Meaning whatever I'd have to tell them next would be lies. And if they went on to compare those lies to whatever they were getting out of you and Twill, well, next thing you know, we're all liars waving to each other from the rack."

  "So your plan was to lie, get tortured, and then spill the truth."

  Blays brushed dust from his shoulder. "I'm here, aren't I?"

  "I suppose there's no arguing with results. Where's Twill? What happened?"

  "You passed out. Didn't look good. As soon as we made port, Twill shoved you into a carriage and we took you to the Odeleon. The monks had barely started work on you when another monk came in and started asking questions about the Plagued Islands. Twill tried to bluff him, but he wasn't having any of it. Dragged the both of us off."

  "On what charge?"

  "Going to the islands. Which is apparently illegal without a charter from King Charles himself."

  "This monk, what did he look like?"

  "Tall. Dead. And dressed like he'd crawled out of a pauper's grave. His name was Gladdic."

  "He was just in here," Dante said. "He knew about the shaden. He was trying to find out if I knew about them."

  Blays walked to the window and eyed what lay below them. "He was trying to unravel the same blanket with me. Think that's what this is really about? Seizing the snail trade? Should we ride out to warn everyone whose lettuce is at risk of infestation?"

  "That could well be what they're after. In battle, a single live shell could be worth ten soldiers. But this could be a religious thing. Gladdic thinks the nether's an abomination. He saw me draw it. He might be afraid I was going to the island to secure an arsenal of shaden."

  "No way. They want them for themselves. Bet you anything that Mallon's been arming the Tauren. Using them to gather the shaden without risking their own soldiers on the island."

  Goosebumps ran down Dante's arms. "Lyle's balls, you're right. We have to get out of here. Do you know where they're keeping Twill?"

  Blays' eyebrows raised. "We're going back to get you cured, right? Don't tell me your scorn of the Mallish means you want to get wrapped up in their skullduggery."

  "Hardly. When I see Winden, we'll let her know what's happening here, but I have about as much interest in getting involved in Mallish colonialism as I do in naked fence-hurdling."

  "One problem. When they took us away from the Odeleon, they put us in separate carriages. Twill's took a different direction. I have no idea where she is."

  "Gladdic will know."

  "Right, and assuming you can take him, do you really think we can pound the answer out of him before his tower full of guards and monks descends on us?"

  "What else do you want to do? Go door to door asking if anyone's seen an imprisoned captain wandering around?"

  Blays rolled his eyes. "Are you even listening to yourself? She's captain of a ship. One that goes where it pleases. We'll go to the Sword of the South and see if any of her dozens of crew know where they're holding her. Failing that, we'll check in with the black market. Much easier to buy the information than to track it down ourselves."

  "That's not bad at all." Dante gestured to the blank stone wall. "After you."

  "I'll give you a knock if it's clear." Blays stepped directly toward the wall. The instant before his nose could smash against it, he dissipated into a vague black cloud. The mist streamed into the stone and vanished. Three seconds later, a low knock sounded from the wall.

  Dante lifted his hand to the wall. Stone drew away like rainwater into the dust. He stepped out into the hallway and sealed the gap behind him, leaving no trace of their escape.

  He chuckled. "This is almost too easy."

  "Quit inviting divine retribution until we're outside."

  Blays strode down the hallway, which was lit by a single lantern hanging beside what turned out to be the stairwell. This was a tight spiral that smelled of damp stone. Dante took the lead. The lantern's light faded behind them and he slowed, feeling his way forward step by step. After a quarter turn, the way ahead lightened at a landing.

  Dante paused. Hearing nothing, he moved on, keeping the shadows close at hand. They'd taken his boots, which might be a problem out in the street, but proved to be a temporary advantage, his bare soles eliciting no sound. They passed a second landing, then a third.

  At the sixth landing, the light was much brighter. Someone murmured from beyond the doorway. Dante edged one eye around the corner, spying a large, open room with double doors at the far end.

  Blays shook his head. "One more."

  Frowning, Dante moved on. The light waned behind them. The air grew mustier. After several steps of total darkness, Dante conjured the smallest light he could conjure up. The stairwell stopped, feeding them into a windowless hallway.

  "Is this the basement?" he whispered.

  "Brilliant observation. I knew there was a reason they put you in charge of a city."

  "Is there a reason we're in the basement and not dashing away through the streets?"

  "Because," Blays said, "the basement has my swords in it."

  Without so much as a look around, he headed to the third door on the left. It opened to a room full of shelves of boots, cloaks, knapsacks, bundles of letters, and other personal goods of no great value. Blays headed to the right, pulled down a pack, and passed it to Dante. It was his; at a glance, it was missing nothing besides the shaden. Blays slung on his own pack, belted on his swords, and handed over Dante's.

  "Been down here already?" Dante said.

  "You were out for two days. I had to find some way to entertain myself."

  As they laced up their boots, a shoe scraped from the hall. Dante spun on his heel. A young man bearing a lantern appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in the dark blue uniform of Mallon's common soldiers.

  He stared at them, head cocked. "What are you doing down here?"

  "Gladdic sent us to pick up the new prisoners' belongings." Blays hiked his pack up his shoulders. "Is he still up on the sixth floor?"

  "Think he tells me these things?"

  "Then out of my way so I can find him before he locks me up."

  The young man stepped to the side, then stuck out his lower lip, examining their dingy clothing. "Which split are you with?"

  "Which do you think?" Blays said. "The one that gets sent to rummage around a rat-filled basement in the middle of the night."

  "You stay here." The soldier moved backward into the hall, glancing down it. "Stay right—"

  A spear of shadows struck him in the right eye. He fell to the ground like a toppled fir. The lantern clanked to the ground, spilling oil. Dante swore and stooped to pick it up before it caught fire.

  Blays stood over the body. "You should have let me do that."

  "I thought you were trying to avoid killing."

  "That's exactly why I needed to do this. I'm the one who brought us down here for my blades. Because of that, he's dead."

  "He works
for people who took us prisoner." Dante stepped over the corpse. "And the way things were going, they would have kept us here for a long time. Or hanged us from a tall tree."

  He headed back up the stairwell. Blays fell in behind. At the ground floor, he took another peek at the room beyond. It was fifty feet across. To the right, four soldiers sat around a table dicing for coppers. To the left, two monks were engaged in a vigorous debate.

  Dante withdrew around the corner. "Six men. And they're not going anywhere."

  "Waiting in the building's only stairway isn't a great way to avoid getting caught. We need to move."

  "Don't suppose you can turn me invisible, too?"

  "Just myself. And I'm starting to wear out."

  "Walk outside," Dante said. "Turn left. Find somewhere to hide. And wait."

  "While you do what? Coat the walls with people-jelly?"

  "No one has to die. If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, get out of here. Run back to Minn. And forget all about this."

  "I found you once. I can find you again."

  Without giving Dante the chance to argue, Blays moved toward the stairwell entrance and vanished into thin air. Dante gave him a few seconds, then returned to the basement. He jogged to the body they'd left in the hall, sealed the wound in the soldier's head, and used the blanket from his pack to sop up the blood. There was nothing he could do to restore the man's eye, so he cleaned it up the best he could, then loosened a length of the man's long hair from its tie and draped it over the side of the man's face.

  With a surge of shadows, he brought the man to his feet. The body stood dumbly, awaiting orders, just like the tree frog Dante had used to scout the jungle. Dante instructed the soldier to walk forward. He did so, feet shuffling. His arms hung like wet ropes, but he was moving and in uniform. Dante urged the body to walk up the stairs.

  They came to the ground floor landing. Dante walked out first, the corpse a step behind him, as if escorting him out. A soldier glanced up from the dice game, tracking them. On the other side of the room, the two monks continued to argue. The soldier stared at Dante until his gaming partner elbowed him in the ribs. He swore, rubbing his side, snatching at the dice.

  Dante reached the door first. He opened it and stepped out into the night. It was much cooler than the islands, yet much warmer than the frigid gales blowing in from the north sea of Narashtovik would be. He stood on the front steps. He hadn't been awake for an hour. His most recent memories before that were of descending into fever, pain, and death. In comparison, the cool wind, bearing the smell of the river, felt like life itself.

  A man clacked down the street on a crutch, knocking him out of his reverie. He descended the steps slowly, allowing the dead man to keep pace in case anyone was watching from above. They entered the street and turned left. Sculpted hedges lined the Chenney's grounds. Dante sent the soldier stumbling into the topiary and picked up his pace. As he neared the corner, a man exited the shadow of the shrubs and fell in next to him.

  "How did you get out?" Blays said.

  Dante didn't look back. "You don't want to know."

  "It was something awful, wasn't it? I'm not even going to guess." He glanced at Dante's side and gave him a dirty look. "Don't let your sword flap around like a flag. This is Bressel."

  He'd forgotten—the armsman's guilds held heavy influence here, meaning you couldn't wear a sword in public without papers. Blays appeared to have tossed the straps of his blades over his left shoulder and covered the hilts with a thin blanket. This wouldn't have passed in daylight, but it was a few hours after nightfall and the city watch was more willing to look the other way—so long as you made an effort. Particularly if, as Dante and Blays were, you were dressed richly. Once they crossed the street, Dante moved alongside a building, transferred his scabbard to his shoulder, and draped the grip with the only spare shirt in his pack.

  They struck east toward the river. Away from the corner, the only light was from the stars and the lanterns spilling from the windows of public houses. It hadn't rained in a few days, at least, meaning the street was dry, hazarded only by the occasional pile of grassy manure.

  Dante swerved around the legs of a drunk flopped outside an ironmonger's door. "I don't suppose you know where the ship is?"

  "Just a guess, but I'm thinking it's on the docks."

  "Of the biggest port town west of the Woduns."

  Blays gave him a look. "Maybe you've spent so much time in your little castle that you've forgotten how this works. We're looking for information. Information is often picked up for free. Hence, people are happy to exchange it for hard coin. Particularly the type of people who make their living hanging around wharfs after dark."

  "Forget the wharfs, we should head to the university and get you a chair."

  With their packs marking them as travelers, they drew more than their share of predatory eyes. As they neared a public house and inn, three men detached from a covered porch. Their leader twirled a cane.

  "Don't kill them," Blays murmured. "Escaped fugitives and all."

  "Hoy!" the man with the cane called jauntily. "New to the city? May I render my services as guide?"

  "Shoo," Blays said. "Before you get the both of us carted off to Darter Lane."

  The man paused his cane mid-twirl. "What would you know about the Darters?"

  "Last time they locked me up, the only thing that smelled worse than the privy was the food."

  The man chuckled and tipped his shapeless hat. "My mistake. You have a good evening, sir."

  His trio retreated to their porch. Blays moved on without a glance back.

  "Darter Lane?" Dante said.

  "Petty lockup. Practically spent half my childhood there, crime school for orphans. Maybe you've forgotten, but I know this city like the back of my hand."

  The street began a modest ascent. At the hill's peak, they crossed an intersection into a neighborhood of whitewashed shops and rowhouses sporting glass-paned windows. Neat cobblestones paved the street. A pair of carriages idled in front of a hotel. They hadn't made it halfway down the block before footsteps picked up behind them. Their pursuer wore a blue hat and sash and a sword at his hip.

  "You said you knew this city," Dante said. "So you knowingly led us into a wealthy neighborhood?"

  "It's hardly my fault if somebody decided to grow a crop of rich people on this street during my absence."

  "Well, how about you lead us back to a place that's too poor for the town watch to care about?"

  Blays muttered something obscene. At the next intersection, he hooked to the south. After another block, the houses grew older; the cobbles ceased in favor of rutted dirt. The watchman quit tailing them and entered a tavern. Before Dante could suggest they up their pace, the man reentered the street, accompanied by a second man in hat and sash.

  Blays dodged to avoid a pile of corn husks and cobs. "Why did they have to choose tonight to be good at their jobs?"

  "Need to lose them before the docks. Nobody's going to talk to us when we're being shadowed by the watch."

  "Or re-arrested. We're almost at the river. Any ideas?"

  "Kill them," Dante said. "Then run."

  "Any ideas that don't involve committing capital offenses?"

  "But those are much harder." The dirt beneath his next step gave more than he was expecting, stumbling him. "Next intersection, break left. As soon as they cry out, start running and don't stop till we're at the docks."

  "And when they follow?"

  "They won't."

  As they neared the intersection, Dante bit his lip. Shadows rolled toward him. He sent them into the hard-packed dirt of the street. Leaving the surface intact, he loosened what lay beneath, flooding it with water. Blays turned left, back toward the river to the east.

  Boots crunched behind them. As the steps neared the intersection, both men cried out, followed by a pair of splashes. Blays laughed and broke into a sprint. They headed north up the first alley they saw, putting a row of buildings betwe
en themselves and the guards, then continued east. By the time masts and warehouses showed ahead, there was still no sign of pursuit.

  It was roughly ten at night, yet the docks were abuzz, with crews spilling out of newly-arrived vessels while longshoremen flowed toward them. Vendors called from their stalls and blankets, selling meat pies, tea, and beer to the workers. Blays struck up a conversation with the longshoremen at one stall. After handing over a small stack of coins, Blays was informed that the Sword of the South was berthed not a half mile to the south.

  On their way to it, they got the precise address from another longshoreman who'd been working there the day before. They arrived to find three armed men in blue uniforms standing at the entrance to the pier. Beyond, other soldiers stalked across the deck of the ship, bellowing orders.

  The Sword of the South had been commandeered.

  12

  They stood in the muck and gawked at the ship. Dante didn't recognize a single soul on its deck.

  Blays gestured to the sentries at the base of the pier. "Shall we ask them what the hell is going on?"

  "Did you forget the fugitives thing? We'll hire some street rat. Now let's get out of here before they come over for a closer look."

  Dante continued past the pier, ignoring the lingering gazes of the soldiers. The night smelled like fish chowder from the vendors doing a brisk business a hundred yards down the shore. Dante headed toward them, eyeballing the numerous urchins hanging about the crewmen drinking and gambling over cards and dice. He wanted one of the quiet ones. Someone who would parrot the questions he was told to ask without betraying them to the guards or angling for more money.

  As they neared the boisterous plaza, a shadowy figure emerged from the corner of a warehouse. "Stop right there."

  By instinct, Dante grasped at the nether, but he recognized the voice. "Mr. Naran?"

  The man shushed them and beckoned them to him. "This way."

  Naran turned stiffly and walked away from the piers. The thuds of cargo being unloaded faded behind them. Dante held his tongue as the quartermaster led them up a flight of stairs, through a rowdy common room, and out to a quiet veranda. Which happened to have a perfect view of the Sword of the South.