The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  He turned in a circle, taking in the low hills to east, north, and west. To the south, he could barely make out the blue of the Dunden Mountains separating them from the human nation of Mallon. Just as he suspected, there was no ocean in sight.

  Whatever its origins, the shell was very pretty. The ratio of each layer of its spiral to those before and after appeared perfect. And the unusualness of it, wouldn't that make a good painting? A seashell lost hundreds of miles from its home? It would be a challenge to represent the fact the shell was being seen in the middle of a prairie so far removed from the ocean that was its home, but that challenge was part of the appeal. And who or what had brought it here? A condor? A traveler who'd picked it up as a souvenir, only to discard it, deciding it wasn't worth carrying all the way home?

  Hefting it in his hand, he turned around and walked back toward his clan, forgetting all about their squabbles.

  ~

  Raxa Dosse stretched in bed. Daylight poked through the cracks in the shutters. That was no good. She rolled over, draped her arm over her eyes, and went back to sleep.

  The next time she woke, it was dark. She would have known that by sound alone: crickets and owls weren't the only things that came out at night. Narashtovik changed, too. During the daytime, when everyone was out and a-bustling, the noise became a generic thing where no individual stood out. Like the splashing of a brook, or the steady murmur in a crowded pub.

  At night, though? Most of the respectable citizens fled the streets. The honest folk still out on business went quiet. Like the mice in the fields, they didn't want to draw any attention. The not-so-honest folk, though? They were the owls. They didn't care who heard them. And with the murmur of daytime gone, each voice, each individual, rang out like the bells of an unholy church carillon.

  She dressed, belting on her short sword and dagger, and hit the streets. She lived in an awful part of town, and despite her blades and her modest reputation, she put the eye to every man and woman she passed. After several blocks of crooked rowhouses and outdoor gambling tents, she crossed Decken Street into the Sharps. So-named because, if you stepped out of line here, "sharp" would be the common trait of the many tools you'd find yourself introduced to.

  A few people nodded her way. Raxa nodded back to two of them, arriving at a six-story structure with stone walls and a roof barnacled with enough shacks and towers to host a town of its own. It looked like, and had indeed once been, the manor/fortress of a wealthy lord.

  Now, it protected those who ran the night.

  Gurles, who could have been mistaken for a norren if not for his bald head, barred the door. Seeing her, he nodded and stepped aside.

  Raxa opened the door, greeted by a swirl of minty-smelling chander smoke. Decent crowd, mostly lowlings looking for any scrap deemed too measly for the regs. She leaned against the bar and ordered a beer and a plate of eggs and bread.

  As she dug in, Blackeyed Gaits saddled the seat beside her. "Raxa. Here for work? Or did that rathole you live in finally burn down?

  "It's called fiscal responsibility." She pointedly eyed his bejeweled fingers. "Something you could stand to learn."

  "Why work hard if you're not going to spend it? And you haven't answered my question. Should I take that as a no?"

  She stirred her eggs, which were somehow both under- and overcooked. "You know I'm not here for the food."

  "Excellent. Got a grab for you. The jewel of Kade Street."

  "Sonnagen House?" Raxa didn't try to restrain her eyebrows from lifting. "I'm in."

  Gaits grinned, enjoying the moment. "There's a catch. You'll be working with Fedder."

  She laughed, spewing crumbs. "Not if you want me on this. You know I work alone."

  He shoved back from the bar. "Then I'll see if Stump wants it."

  "Don't bullshit me. You know I'm the best you've got."

  "At grabs? Maybe. When it comes to fostering the next generation of pups, however, you're the worst in the guild. We've been here for hundreds of years, Raxa. That's because we take an inhumanly long view of things. A mediocrity who makes the next generation stronger is more valuable than the genius who's only here for herself."

  She took a long quaff and smacked the mug back down on the bar. A chip flew from the base, drawing a crooked eye from Jana lurking behind the bar.

  "I'll take Fedder," she said. "But you let him know that when I speak, he hops to it."

  "Why don't you tell him yourself?" Gaits gestured to the wall. A young man detached from it, smirking like he'd just grabbed the serving girl's ass. He looked the portrait of arrogance and entitlement.

  Over the next few days of preparation, Fedder was proven worse than his first impression. But the job was one of the largest Raxa'd ever been in on. The Sonnagens had supposedly just cashed out two seasons of shipping receipts from the Denbank. In silver, mostly, which was too heavy to steal in bulk—but also the Torc of Dalder. The sapphires alone would be worth thousands.

  The night of the grab was pleasantly cool, with a kelpy smell drifting in from the bay. She met Fedder at Torton Square.

  "Ready?" she said.

  He smirked. That seemed to be pretty much his sole form of expression. "Let's show them what their locks are worth, shall we?"

  Initial entry was a snap; Gaits had paid off a servant to lob a line over the south wall, away from the street. They snapped on their cleats and climbed right up into a fourth-floor bedroom. The room was dark, but below them, the scrape of chairs and the laughter of guests was enough to remind even an idiot like Fedder that it was time to get serious.

  The torc was in the grandiosely named Moonroost, a two-story tower atop the main house. Raxa checked the hall. Finding nothing but a lone lantern, she exited the bedroom and made her way to the stairwell. At the fifth floor landing, she peeked out. Down the carpeted hall, two lanterns illuminated the way up to the Moonroost. Guarded, of course. Two big men with bigger halberds.

  She moved back into the stairwell. "Keep watch down here. I'll grab the torc."

  Fedder folded his arms. "How do you intend to squeeze past the two statues?"

  "Trade secret. Afterwards, I don't want to bump into any unexpected guests on the way out. So keep your eyes on the fourth floor. Got me?"

  She expected resistance, but he nodded and went back downstairs. Raxa gave him half a minute, then walked forward.

  Into the darkness.

  The stairwell became a realm of bright shadows and ethereal, glowing outlines. Like Raxa had walked into the land of fairies and gnomes. Invisible to human eyes—though who knew about the fairies—she strolled into the well-lit hall. Neither guard looked her way. The wall was stone. She walked into the shadows within the rock, emerging in a spiral staircase that led up to a small round room.

  The torc sat on a stand of black velvet. In the netherworld, its sapphires glowed like the Ghost Lights of the northern winter sky. She sacked it up, along with a double handful of less impressive but still expensive jewelry, then walked downstairs. She exited the wall into the hallway and continued to the main stairwell.

  There, she smiled and returned to the mundane realm.

  Fedder gasped. He was pressed tight into the corner; she'd totally missed him. "How'd you—?"

  She clapped her hand to his mouth and gestured downstairs. Descending to the fourth floor, they rushed to the darkened bedroom.

  "One second, you weren't there," Fedder whispered. "The next, you were. Like you'd walked out of another world."

  "I don't know what you think you saw," Raxa said. "But your eyes are as bad as your ears."

  "I saw you." He moved closer. "Tell me how you did it."

  Every nerve in her body burned. No one knew what she could do—not Gaits, not anyone. And she'd been so sloppy she'd been outed by the punkiest of punk kids.

  "There was a secret entrance," she said. "That's how I got in. And that's why it looked like I walked out of nowhere."

  At last, his smirk returned. "I know what I saw. T
ell me how to do it. Or I'll tell everyone what really makes you the best sneak in the house."

  "You want to know how I do what I do?" She beckoned him nearer. "Listen close."

  She grabbed his hair with one hand and cut his throat with the other. Twisting her fingers into his scalp, she pulled back; his breath burbled out the wound along with his blood. Once he was done, she dropped the body and climbed down into the dark yard behind the house.

  Gaits was expecting them before dawn. Enough time to clean herself up. But not to extract Fedder's carcass. In public, the Sonnagens would probably claim credit for the thief's death—but they would make private inquiries after their goods. What would the black market tell them? The story there might be closer to the truth: that the thieves had taken the torc, and, for reasons unknown, left a body behind. Her story would have to match it.

  She walked away from the house. Seven blocks later, she swerved down an alley. She drained half her flask, then got out her knife. She slashed the skin on her collarbone and stomach, then added several more wounds to her arms, especially the hands. As if she'd been warding someone off.

  On the way back to their building, her bloody body drew so many looks she was afraid she'd overdone it. Finally, she staggered into Gurles standing watch on the front doors. He gaped, then swept her off her feet and rushed her to a room.

  Gaits dashed in a minute later. "Where's the torc?"

  "Glad to see your priorities are in order." She flung the bag at his feet. It landed with a heavy metallic clunk.

  "The hell happened to you? Where's Fedder?"

  "One answer to both questions. After I grabbed the torc, he came at me. Looking to snatch it and run off. I put him down."

  Gaits' jaw dropped. "He's dead?"

  "It was him or me. Guess which I was inclined to choose?"

  "Do you have any idea who he was?"

  "A fool too greedy to do his job?"

  "He's a Dallagor! Fedder Dallagor!"

  Raxa cocked her head; pain shot up her neck as her wounded shoulder shifted. "He's a scion of the tea family? Why in hell was he slumming with us?"

  "The same reason all scions do: they're mad at their parents."

  "Well, he should have stuck with the family business."

  Gait laced his fingers into his dark hair. "They'll come for us. I should throw you to the wolves. Offer you up on a platter."

  Raxa straightened, wincing at the pain. "But you're not going to. Why not?"

  The Arbiter of Tasks sighed through his teeth and sat in a chair against the wall. "Oh, how it pains me to admit this. I'm sparing you because I…need you."

  She wanted badly to toy with him, but didn't think it was quite the right moment. "For what?"

  "We have a little sparrow in the Sealed Citadel. They've kept an extremely tight lid on recent events. But it seems like Dante Galand himself has been gone for weeks. The Council priests have no idea when he'll be back—or if he ever will."

  "If he's gone, he may have left some very interesting trinkets behind."

  "Which, during this time of uncertainty, might go missing without being noticed. But that's small-time thinking. Not so long ago, we had the run of this city. That ended when Cally and Dante swept out the old order. But now that they're gone? I smell…" He leaned forward, sniffing like a dog. "Opportunity."

  Raxa laughed lowly. "You know what they say: when the cat's away, the rats will take advantage of the ensuing anarchy to grab everything they can get their clever little paws on."

  He grinned at her. "Indeed, my dear. So while I clean up the dreadful mess you've left me, are you ready for your next job?"

  ~

  Gladdic placed the letter back upon his desk. The messenger stood across from him, very careful not to meet his gaze. Should he execute the wretch? He wanted to very badly.

  But this was the false lure of emotion. Real justice—the justice handed down by Taim from the order of the heavens—wouldn't allow for punishing the one who'd carried the message. Killing him would only dilute focus from he who truly deserved it.

  The subject of the letter.

  Even so, wouldn't executing the man serve as a statement to the cosmos? That such news would not—could not—be tolerated by those who followed the holy path? He tapped his fingers on the desk. Tempting. As tempting as the shadows. However, Gladdic had just stepped in a great pile of shit. Killing the man might be mistaken for anger at his own mistakes. For evidence of his guilt.

  With effort, Gladdic nodded at the messenger. "You may go."

  The man turned, producing a squeaking noise—Gladdic wasn't sure if it was the sole of his boot or a fear-induced fart—and all but ran from the room. Gladdic closed his eyes. How could this have slipped past him? Children should be marked at birth with their names. Branded or scarred, perhaps. If they lived innocent lives, bearing their name on their skin would only honor them. And if they were guilty…then there would be no hiding from their crimes.

  He was drifting away from the matter at hand. Whatever path he chose, he needed to do so quickly. A good liar might keep this to himself. To hide his incompetence until he'd had the chance to undo his errors.

  But Gladdic wasn't a good liar. He was a great one. When you wanted to keep your darkest truth hidden, you had to be open with all others. Especially those truths that could hurt you. If you exposed mistakes so great they might cost you your station, who could ever suspect you of deceit?

  He sent a letter ahead to the Eldor, then called for his carriage. It rattled through the sun-warmed streets, rocking to a stop at the Eldor's palace, which was too grand by half. Gladdic entered the cool marble building and allowed himself to be escorted upstairs by Albert Sorsen, Eldor's too-prying majordomo.

  Outside the Eldor's door, Gladdic didn't favor the man with a glance. "That will be all."

  Sorsen hesitated, then strode away. Gladdic knocked. The Eldor opened the door, as bald and wizened as ever.

  "You're sweating like a dairymaid, Gladdic. Come inside."

  Gladdic did so, closing the door behind him. "Your Righteousness." He fell to his knees. "Forgive me. I've failed you."

  "Oh, streaming Celeset." The Eldor waved his gnarled hand. "Get up, would you? Whatever's happened, surely it doesn't require prostration."

  Gladdic kept his head bowed a moment longer, hiding his contempt at the man's lack of seriousness. He stood. "I have received a letter from our spies. Do you remember the defiler we recently had in custody? The nethermancer?"

  The old man tapped the side of his head. "I'm not so ancient to forget a thing like that."

  "Righteousness, this man was no ordinary defiler. It was Dante Galand."

  For once in his life, the Eldor was speechless, doddering about the room as if he'd lost the answers in one of the corners. "Galand? You're sure of this?"

  "There is no doubt. Just as there can be no doubt that his presence here was no coincidence."

  "He was wrapped up in the to-do with the smugglers, wasn't he? From the Plagued Islands? Maybe he's after the shaden for himself."

  "Or maybe he's after us."

  The Eldor seated himself in his striking red-lacquered throne. "Do we have any hard evidence of this? Or merely the circumstantial sort?"

  "Given our position, I fear we must plan for the worst. We know he sailed south and we must assume he'll return in time—possibly at this very port. I ask full authority to search for him."

  "Granted. If you find him, though, I will be present for the questioning."

  "Naturally." Gladdic lowered his eyes. "Whatever his initial reasons for coming here, we must also assume he's learned which way the breeze blows in Mallon."

  "Surely he doesn't know everything. There are times I think that I don't!"

  "You know all there is to know, Righteousness. With Galand, however, any knowledge is too much. It threatens everything. We must move forward now."

  "If we do this, we risk war with Narashtovik."

  "And if we don't do this, we'
ll damn our people to live out their lives under the specter of Arawn's thrall."

  The Eldor stroked the white bristles on his chin. He nodded. For the first time that day, Gladdic allowed himself to smile.

  

  1

  The ship bore the assassins across the sea.

  A storm mustered to the north, black clouds that promised reckless winds. Captain Naran stood on the prow. Swaying with the roll of the ship, he faced the coming darkness.

  Dante clutched the rail. "Is that as bad as it looks?"

  The corner of Naran's mouth twitched. "Are you worried we won't make it? Or that we will?"

  "Gladdic doesn't worry me."

  "You're that sure you'll be able to kill him?"

  "He's extremely dangerous," Dante said. "But everyone has to sleep sometime."

  The waves were larger by the minute, heaving the carrack up and down like children bouncing a ball on a taut sheet. Behind Dante, sailors called to each other from the rigging, trimming the sails to the shifting and strengthening winds. The air smelled of sea spray and rain.

  "How long do you think it will take?" Naran said.

  "A few days to locate him, then a few more to remove him. But there's more to this than Gladdic. Killing him sets things square for the murder of Captain Twill, but we still don't know why Mallon is so interested in the shaden. They've gathered hundreds if not thousands of shells. I don't like to think what they intend to do with them."

  "What do you suspect them of?"

  "Too often," Dante said, "when they've had that kind of power, they've used it to kill people like me."

  The captain nodded. He hadn't wanted his position—it had been thrust upon him when Gladdic executed Twill—but Naran had always borne a sober authority, and he wore his new office well.

  "My crew and I may be able to help you find the shaden," Naran said.

  "Think so?"

  "Over our years in Bressel, we've developed a number of resourceful contacts." He smiled thinly. "After all, we're nefarious pirates."