The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  Mr. Naran closed the door to the veranda. Three men rose with a scrape of chairs; Dante recognized them as crew from the ship.

  Naran didn't seat himself. "Where is Captain Twill?"

  "That's what we came here to find out," Dante said.

  "But she was with you when you were taken."

  "It turns out that, as our jailers, they didn't feel compelled to inform us that they were taking her elsewhere. What's going on here? Have the city authorities taken the ship?"

  Naran exhaled and slumped back in a chair. He reached for the cup in front of him, inspecting its rim. "After they imprisoned the three of you, they sent soldiers to the dock. They declared that the Sword of the South failed to obtain a charter from King Charles and was therefore involved in illegal smuggling. Hence it was forfeit to the crown."

  "Smuggling?" Blays said. "How long has visiting the Plagued Islands been illegal?"

  The quartermaster shook his head. "It wasn't until recently. But they appear to have retroactively decided to ban all unauthorized contact with the islands. They didn't just seize the ship—they took the crew, too. As indentured servants. They will sail in the crown's navy until their debt has been repaid."

  "What a band of thieves! How'd you get away?"

  "I was already off the boat. We're attempting to gather all those who avoided capture. Thus why we're watching the pier."

  Dante found an empty cup and filled it with beer from a pitcher on the table. "This is about controlling the shaden. That's why they're clamping down so hard."

  "Yet they let you loose," Naran said. "Perhaps they'll free Captain Twill as well."

  "They didn't exactly let us loose," Blays said. "More like they didn't prevent our departure. Because they didn't know about it."

  "That bodes ill for Captain Twill. If they've enslaved her crew, as their leader, her punishment will only be more severe."

  Dante took a long quaff of the Mallish beer, which was too sweet by half and tasted like old bananas. "No it won't. Because we're going to get her back before they can inflict it."

  Naran arched his well-maintained eyebrow. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

  "I'm still sick. I need her to take me back to the Plagued Islands."

  "She may be an excellent captain, but even she will find that task rather difficult without a ship."

  "We'll figure that out later. If we can't recover the Sword, I'll buy her a new one. In the meantime, we have to find her."

  The quartermaster had been too morose to even sip his beer. Now, though, he leaned forward, cup gripped so firmly it looked about to crack. "And if we do, you will liberate her safely?"

  "I don't have a choice," Dante said. "Without her, I'm dead."

  Naran set down the cup, drew a knife, and pointed it at Dante's eyes. "Swear it."

  "You don't have to threaten—"

  Naran sliced open his palm, flipped the knife around, and held it hilt-first to Dante.

  Dante eyed him levelly. "You are aware that I'm sick. It could have corrupted my blood as well."

  "And you mean to find a cure. In the meantime, let this be proof of how seriously I take your vow."

  Dante took the blade and cut his own palm; he'd done so far too often to wince. They shook, wet, warm blood tracing the creases of their palms.

  Blays frowned at them. "Now that we've completed the ritualistic shedding of blood, do you suppose we should fashion a plan?"

  "We are plying every watchman and tower guard we can find with silver," Naran said. "It's only a matter of time before we find someone who knows where she's being kept."

  Dante rubbed his jaw. "Then Blays and I should stick with you. We're escapees. Besides, I don't know how much good we'll do searching a gigantic city we hardly know our way around."

  "Don't be daft," Blays said. "We should stake out the Chenney."

  "You said she wasn't there."

  "She isn't. But after Gladdic discovers we're missing, what do you think he'll do first?"

  "Go check on our compatriot." Dante grinned. "He'll lead us right to her."

  He finished his beer and headed down to the street. There, he followed his nose to the alley where the pub pitched its trash. A tribe of rats was feasting on the offal. Dante slew three of them with thin bolts of nether, collected the bodies—an intrusion that hardly caused the others to stir from their meal—and revived them as his walking servants. After a quick check of the nethereal bond linking his senses to theirs, he sent them scampering west toward the Chenney.

  Back upstairs, the others continued to watch the pier. Longshoremen were now dragging crates and casks onto the Sword of the South. Worrisome. They were planning to sail soon.

  Dante settled into a chair. The rats were a good three miles from Chenney Hall, but he moved into the sight of their leader on the off chance they'd see something along the way. Twenty minutes later, having encountered nothing more treacherous than boulder-sized horse droppings, the rats gazed up at the Chenney.

  While it was a high-profile jail, from the outside, it looked like a barbarian king's first effort building with stone: a blank limestone cube a hundred feet to a side, interrupted by narrow barred windows. It had no wings or turrets, just a small building grafted onto its roof that might serve as the offices of its steward. Dante wasn't well-versed in Mallish architecture, but if it ran similar to what he knew of Gask, the simple building was at least five hundred years old.

  He set one rat directly across the street from the broad front doors. He sent a second around the building, stopping it outside a smaller door which, judging from the unkempt grass directly outside it, was no longer used. The third rat scampered up the steps and waited. Twenty minutes later, when a guard wandered outside to light a pipe, the waiting rat trotted inside, hiding beneath a stuffed chair to the right of the doors.

  Inside, the tower guards continued to gamble around their table. The two monks who'd been arguing during Dante and Blays' escape were nowhere to be seen. Over the course of the next few hours, only three people entered or exited the stairwell. None were Gladdic.

  Dante nodded off in his chair. Jerking awake, he stood, occasionally pacing around the veranda. With his sight embedded in the rats and only a dim awareness of his own surroundings, he was careful not to get too close to the railings. Some time later, a round of cheers stirred him from his reverie; the crew had located another member of their men.

  The next thing he knew, bells were ringing. Glassy, piercing. The Odeleon declared it was four in the morning.

  "We should relocate," he said. "It won't be safe here after daybreak."

  After a brief discussion, Naran departed with him, Blays, and three of the men, leaving two others to watch the dock. They made their way to an inn a few blocks west of the river. There, aided by strong tea that tasted as if it might have been imported from Gallador, he remained awake until dawn. When an unornamented carriage rolled up before the steps of the Chenney and disgorged Gladdic.

  "He's here," Dante murmured.

  As before, the man was dressed in nondescript robes. Gladdic ascended the steps, entered the foyer, paused as if sniffing, and moved to the stairwell. Wary of dogging the priest too closely, Dante left his rat on the ground floor.

  Gladdic descended five minutes later. His face was taut. A second monk accompanied him. An hourglass-shaped brooch declared him a follower of Taim; two blue stripes on his collar announced he was a spalder, a rank that would terrify a parish priest. Before Gladdic, however, he was fluttering like a light-mad moth.

  "This room has been watched all night," he explained. "One of the guards wandered off an hour early, but he's a known drunk. Otherwise, there have been no disturbances whatsoever. There is no possible way for the prisoners to have escaped—"

  "Quiet." Gladdic stopped in the middle of the room, glaring at the wall across from him. Ether glowed from his fingertips, then dwindled away. Absently, he plucked at a loose thread in his robes, pulling it tight, letting it drop, and repeati
ng. "The captain of the Sword of the South. Does she remain in custody?"

  The spalder rolled his lips together. "I couldn't say."

  "We will go to check on her at once. In the meantime, order the monks to lock the doors. Let no one in or out."

  "Do you think they may still be here?"

  "If they emerged from their cells without a trace, do you really think they had difficulty walking outside?" Gladdic pulled the thread tight. "I mean to investigate and find out if anyone helped them. And if so, to hang the offenders from the roof."

  He moved toward the door. The spalder ran to get there first, holding it open while he shrieked orders at the group of monks who'd silently assembled during the discussion. Gladdic walked outside. With no intention of drawing more attention—besides, it could still be useful there—Dante left the undead rat where it was beneath the chair.

  He recalled the one that was stationed at the side door, bringing it around front to join the one that had watched Gladdic arrive. Gladdic climbed into the left side of the carriage, with the spalder circling around to the right and getting inside. The driver bawled at his horses and the carriage rattled forward. Dante sent both rats trotting behind it, concealing themselves by running under debris and alongside the bases of buildings.

  In the hotel room, Dante lowered himself to a cot. "Gladdic's on the move. He's heading right to Twill."

  Blays paced across the room. "Awfully inconsiderate of him to do this when it's light out. On the other hand, rescuing her in broad daylight will only add to our legend."

  "Do you know his intent?" Naran said.

  "He's determining whether she's escaped as well," Dante said. "It sounds like he intends to return to the Chenney after that. We'll go for her as soon as he leaves her location."

  He shifted his sight back to the rats. The dawn had brought hundreds of people into the streets and the vermin were busy dodging untold feet and hooves. He directed them over to the face of the buildings, where all they had to contend with was the occasional person entering or leaving a shop.

  Half a mile later, the carriage turned left. After a few blocks, it stopped in front of a temple of Taim set off from the street by a wrought iron fence. The spalder got out of the carriage, tugging up his blue-striped collar as he walked toward the gate. As the carriage rolled away, the rats trotted after it, sticking close to Gladdic.

  The vehicle rambled east toward the river, then turned north on a boulevard snarled with stalls, carriages, and hundreds of pedestrians perusing what appeared to be one of the spring's first vegetable markets. The driver swore, yelling curses at the people clogging his path. It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself from the market and continue north. A few minutes after that, the horses came to a stop. The driver dismounted and leaned through the carriage window. Dante edged the rat closer. The men appeared to be arguing about directions. The driver was blustery and insulted, but Gladdic stayed infuriatingly calm, his voice nothing more than a murmur against the noise of the street. After a lengthy dispute, the driver sighed, threw his hands above his head, and returned to his seat, urging the horses forward. The route took any number of turns.

  Someone was nudging his shoulder. In the room of the inn, it was notably brighter, with sunlight spilling through the hearth smoke and over the scarred wooden floor.

  "It's been nearly an hour," Blays said. "Where are they headed, East Weslee?"

  Dante shook his head. "It's like he's going in circles."

  "Could that be because he is?"

  Dante's blood ran cold. He ordered one of the rats to race up to the side of the carriage and leap onto its running board. It scrabbled up to the window and pressed its snout to the corner of the screen. Less than a foot away, a man in a plain gray robe sat on the left side of a bench. He had his hood raised, but when he glanced out the window, the rat had a clear view of his face.

  It wasn't Gladdic. It was the spalder.

  Dante planted his palm on the cot, steadying himself. "He knew he was being watched. He pulled a switch on me. Sent his underling out in a carriage while he snuck off."

  Naran lurched out of the window he'd installed himself in. "Where is he now?"

  "That's what I'm trying to find out."

  Leaving one rat with the carriage, he sent the other dashing back toward the temple of Taim where the disguised Gladdic had given him the slip. The priest must have felt the rats' presence at the Chenney and suspected it was connected to Dante and Blays' escape. Dante had little hope the man was still at the temple, but it was his only lead.

  Five minutes later, with the rat en route, and the carriage bearing the spalder still traveling in circles, a fist pounded on the hotel door. Dante came forward from the rats, nether in hand. Blays drew his swords. The crewmen pulled long knives. Naran opened the door.

  A man stood outside, sweaty and wild-eyed. He wore the slippers favored by sailors and a beard that couldn't decide between black and red. His name was Jona, and he was one of the two men Naran had left on the veranda.

  "They have the captain," he said. "She's down at the dock."

  The men sheathed their knives and headed into the hall. Naran jogged at their fore. "Who is 'they'?"

  Jona shrugged. "Some creepy-looking spalder. Looked like the walking dead. Accompanied by about half an army and a whole monastery."

  "We should be extremely careful," Dante said. "This is probably a trap."

  Naran showed his teeth. "They have Captain Twill. There is no more time for careful."

  Dante gave Blays a look. The kind that said Be ready to run. Blays nodded fractionally. The group poured through the common room and into the street. The morning air was cool and humid, carrying the clang of ships' bells and the squawks of gulls.

  While they were still several blocks from the piers, Gladdic's voice pierced the air. "…be laid out before you. The first: trading with the Plagued Islands without writ of permission. The second: transporting the sick from the islands into the city, knowingly putting our citizens at risk of pandemic. The third, and most grievous of all: consorting with blasphemers. Nethermancers. Those who would undermine all for which we stand. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

  The words that followed were strongly voiced, but too faint to make out—Gladdic had been using some trick to project his words. But there was no mistaking Twill's voice. As they neared, she grew loud enough to hear over the clap of their boots.

  "…a joke, and not a very good one. You lock me in a hole, beat me for answers, and then charge me without proof on some dirty dock? What happened to Mallish justice, sir? The fairness that was once the envy of every place I traveled? If your goal was to learn the secret of transmuting admiration to mockery, then congratulations, sir. The alchemists will be thrilled."

  Naran skidded to a stop at the corner of a closed pub, peered around it, then walked from cover at a too-casual pace. Dante pressed himself to the corner and beheld the plaza he and Blays had crossed through the night before. This morning, its center was vacant, but scores of grubby sailors and locals gathered around the base of the dock berthing the Sword of the South.

  A row of blue-clad soldiers were lined up between the mob and the dock. There, Gladdic stood apart from Twill. Her wrists were chained. A coterie of monks flanked him.

  "Take down the priests," Naran said. "We will handle the guards."

  Dante stuttered with laughter. "Should I conquer the entire city while I'm at it? Strike the laws and exonerate her?"

  "I thought you were two steps below the gods."

  "Those are steep steps. And Gladdic may be standing on them, too."

  "I'll do it," Blays said. "I'll shadowalk up to them. Grab her before—"

  A hundred yards away, Gladdic strode closer to Twill. "You mean your words as criticism. I hear only praise. We have brought ourselves closer to Taim's will. By defying that will, you are damned. And all others who travel to the Plagued Islands will suffer the same punishment."

  Calmly, he exte
nded his hand palm up, as if releasing a butterfly. Pure white light flashed between them. A fan of red gushed from Twill's neck. She crumpled to the dock.

  Naran ran forward with a warbling scream. One of his men followed on his heels, but the others jogged, slowed by disbelief. At the foot of the dock, soldiers raised their chins, eyes locking on Naran.

  "I'm on it," Blays said. "Do something to help us flee?"

  He sprinted after Naran. Dante swore, sticking beside the pub and summoning the shadows from their resting spots behind the building's shutters. Before the dock, the row of soldiers formed a wedge: those in the back planted spears while those at the front drew short swords. Behind and above them, Gladdic watched calmly. Naran's long legs were carrying him toward the soldiers faster than Blays could close. As the quartermaster planted his right foot, Dante shot his focus into the nether inside the cobblestone in front of the man's toe, jerking the stone three inches higher. Naran sprawled on his face.

  "Pardon my friend!" Blays slid alongside him and waved off two approaching guards. "He just loves a good execution."

  He yanked Naran to his feet. As Naran struggled in his grasp, Blays wrestled his arm back and boxed his ear, grinning cheerfully at the soldiers. Jona flanked Naran on the other side, speaking into the quartermaster's ear. Tears spilled down Naran's cheeks.

  The soldiers paused, glancing at Gladdic, who raised his index finger. Dante tensed. Blays, Naran, and Jona slowed, as if slogging through thigh-high water, then stopped fast, goggling at their feet. Gladdic had adhered their soles to the ground. Unhurried, he moved down the dock, ordering his soldiers ahead of him.

  Dante had already healed the blood oath wound on his palm. As he drew a knife to cut a fresh one, his hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped the blade. The trick Gladdic had used was one of the first Dante had learned, but the problem was that the man wasn't using the nether, but rather the ether. While some were able to command both—though rarely with any notable skill—Dante couldn't lift the ether any more than he could hoist a fallen tree.