The Cycle of Galand Box Set

by Edward W. Robertson

  The Finder of Secrets eased in to an empty pier and tied up. Debarking, Vita showed the etched bone to another pair of green-clad watchmen, who gave the northerners a lingering stare before gesturing them down the pier. Vita strode forward, weaving through the schools of dockworkers with a shark-like momentum.

  She drew a lot of looks. This in itself wasn't remarkable—she was one of few women on the docks, and was certainly the prettiest—but Dante, Blays, and Vita's guards and attendants were drawing nearly as much attention. Their gazes weren't overtly hostile, but they didn't appear particularly friendly, either.

  Vita reached dry land and came to a stop in the shadow of a high warehouse. Dante took another gander at the docked ships, hoping against hope they'd find the Sword of the South, and Naran aboard it, with a sheepish story about how he'd dropped his loon overboard.

  Instead, Dante saw nothing. He was abruptly aware that he was standing in an alien city in search of a man who they hadn't heard from in weeks. A man who had come here with the express purpose of hunting down Gladdic—quite possibly the most dangerous sorcerer Dante had ever encountered—and who owned a ship that could have sailed hundreds of miles away in the interim. The idea that they'd be able to find Naran suddenly felt horrifically naive. He was buffered by the squalling urge to climb back aboard the Finder of Secrets, sail to Cavana, and ride straight back to Narashtovik, never to see the Collen Basin, Alebolgia, or this place again.

  "What's the plan, then?" Blays said. "Wait for Naran to fall out of the sky? Or stand here until someone takes a look at us gawking like idiots and decides that helping us is a good use of their time?"

  Dante grinned, doubts dissolving like sugar in Galladese tea. "Let's get to work. You coming, Vita?"

  She settled her cap over her dark hair. "I wish you luck. But I have business of my own."

  She hiked off into the streets, which were paved with black mud bricks. In the strange city, Dante barely knew which direction was north, let alone where anything was, but he had the names of three people Naran had been in contact with: Oto LoMota, Undan Walan, and Iko DaNasan. Since they were merchants, there would be nothing strange about a well-dressed foreigner asking where to find them.

  Dante was afraid they'd have to hire an interpreter, but as it turned out, most of the locals spoke Mallish, and those younger than thirty bore only the faintest hints of an accent, as if they'd grown up speaking it. According to the people they questioned, LoMota was off in the capital, but Walan and DaNasan were right there on the wharfs.

  Dante tipped both people who'd given him directions to the merchants' offices. Both times, the young men looked down at the silver coin in their palms with an expression of mingled excitement and anxiety, then hurriedly pocketed the money, as if it were contraband the town watch would take away from them.

  Iko DaNasan's warehouse was the closer of the two. Dante and Blays headed down the street, soon coming to an arched brick bridge over a sluggish sprawl of brownish water. The bridge offered a vantage of several other waterways and bridges, revealing that the city was a mass of small islands. The shores were dotted with rafts, many of them sporting a slant-roofed shack.

  At DaNasan's warehouse, stevedores lugged casks and crates through the tall double doors. Watching the men and women sweat with labor, Dante realized he hadn't yet seen a single horse, mule, or ox. No dung in the streets, either. Not of animal origin, anyway.

  Blays found someone who looked cleaner than the rest and inquired about Mr. DaNasan. After a brief delay, they were brought to the back of the warehouse and onto a roofed wooden deck extending over the water. If it had been a warm day, the open walls and water flowing underneath would have kept it pleasantly cool.

  A man rose from a brightly colored rug in the center of the deck. While most of the Tanarians wore a sleeveless sort of tunic that was cinched at the waist, covering their torsos before stopping halfway down the thigh, DaNasan was dressed in a pale orange robe that hung to his shins. A pattern of blue dots was tattooed on his forehead.

  He gave them each a glance. "Mallish?"

  "That's right," Blays said. "My name—"

  "Do you think it's wise for a land to accept foreigners into it?"

  "Foreigners into..? I'm not sure I take your meaning."

  "It's an exceedingly simple question. Is a land made better by accepting outsiders into it? Or worse?"

  "Well." Blays' cheery air deflated visibly. Hardly a moment had passed before he lifted his chin and brightened his voice. "You'd have to think it's for the better, wouldn't you? After all, foreigners often bring goods and news that aren't available in your own land."

  "That doesn't make their presence necessary. If we wanted those goods and news, we could travel to their land to acquire whatever we lacked. Furthermore, when it comes to goods, if they're not vital, then they're by definition not necessary. And if they are vital, and we allow ourself to depend on outsiders for them, that leaves us vulnerable to the whims of people who care nothing for us. Wouldn't it be much better to learn to create these goods for ourselves?"

  "Difficult to argue with that one, isn't it? But if you're right, I can only hope the king doesn't hear about it until after we two foreigners have done our business here."

  DaNasan tightened his mouth as if disappointed—or even insulted. "What is your business?"

  Blays smiled and bowed his head. "My name is Pendelles, and this is my associate, Orson Smallhorn. Are you acquainted with a sea captain by name of Naran?"

  DaNasan regarded them with sleepy eyes. "Why?"

  "It's a simple question, sir."

  "Mine's simpler."

  "We represent his creditors. Captain Naran, you see, had only recently taken command of his ship following a period of…difficulties. To get his vessel back on its feet, so to speak, an infusion of capital was required. Unfortunately, while he was in the process of discharging his debts here in Aris Osis, we lost contact with him."

  "Lost contact." DaNasan withdrew a pouch from a thong around his neck, withdrew a pinch of a reddish paste, and tucked it between his molars. "Sounds like you blew good money on a shit captain."

  Dante cocked an eyebrow. "If so, that would imply we're idiots, wouldn't it?"

  "Most likely, yes. But maybe you got lucky, and only invested in a bad choice because you were working on bad information. Either way, if he's run into trouble, shouldn't you be happy to hear he's gotten what he deserves?"

  "You seem awfully happy to hear that Captain Naran might be in danger." Dante grabbed the collar of the man's robe and yanked him close. "Here is a piece of imagination you should treat as extremely trustworthy: if you don't tell me what's happened to him, I'll make sure that no one ever knows what I've done to you."

  DaNasan took on a quizzical look, then sputtered with laughter. "Forgive me, good sirs! I forget that you're new to these swamps, and I've spent far too much time here."

  "The air here makes you drunk?" Blays tilted back his head. "We'll make a fortune!"

  "It isn't the air of the swamps, sirs. It's the air of the people. Are you not familiar with dana kide?"

  "Afraid not. Is she your queen?"

  "Dana kide isn't a person. It's a concept. The Tanarians consider it distasteful to educate barbarians about their ways, but I'm also from a foreign land, and will take pity on you. Let's say that we had met in my land, or yours. There, a polite greeting from me might be along the lines of 'Goodness, this rain sure is miserable.' You, being a polite chap, would agree out of hand—'Sure is, my friend!'"

  Blays glanced at a gaggle of Tanarians arguing on a nearby island. "That wouldn't be polite here?"

  DaNaran shook his head, his thick chin threatening to wobble. "Hell, it'd be an insult! Here, a friendly reply to a complaint of rain would be, 'Yes, but it's good for the crops, isn't it?' Or 'Isn't it better to suffer a little rain if it keeps the mosquitos away?' And that is the idea of dana kide."

  "Er." Blays ran his hand through his hair. "Why?"

&nb
sp; "Oh, religious thing. Means something like 'heaven's voice.' The people here believe the truth is valuable because it's so hard to find. We can all see if it's raining, but if I claim that's a bad thing, there's no reason to take my word for it. Someone saying a thing certainly doesn't make it true. Could be they're lying. Or it could be they're a fucking idiot!"

  Dante grunted. "I think that concept extends far beyond Tanar Atain."

  "Difference is, here, they think it's your spiritual duty to argue with anyone who makes a claim of judgment. Doing that is the only way we can reach the truths hidden away by the gods. See then, you might be spitting away at a fellow, but if the two of you are bringing yourselves closer to the truth, what nicer thing could you do for a person?"

  "This sounds like it has the potential to be extremely confusing. What if the two of you just hate each other?"

  DaNaran made a dismissive gesture. "Then agree with every word he says. Will make him look like a total prick. And take care not to insult him, either. Some people take dana kide even further, believing a divine voice may speak through us at any moment, so it is our duty to speak every thought as we have it, and without fear."

  Blays laughed. "They want you to speak whatever insults and cruelties flit between your ears? Did Aris Osis dredge all these canals to make it easier to get rid of all the murdered bodies?"

  The merchant chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "Maybe they're so used to getting gored they no longer feel it. Whatever the cause, they have the skin of elephants. If you're going to do business with them, you'll have to grow the same." At this, he gave Dante an accusatory stare.

  "I'm sorry for putting a hand on you," Dante said. "We're highly concerned about the fate of our business associate. Anything you can tell us about your dealings together could make all the difference." Though they were alone on the platform, he leaned closer, dropping his voice. "It could even save his life."

  "You're sure he wants to be found?"

  "Why wouldn't he?"

  "You said you're his creditors. Say he takes a long look at his ledgers and decides he can't pay off what he's owed. He embarks on a trip to Tanar Atain. Oh, there's great money to be found there, he tells you. And then when he lands in Aris Osis, he just…" DaNasan pinched his fingers together, then spread them wide, blowing on them. "Disappears. Along with his debt."

  "Ah," Blays said, still putting on the lackadaisical airs of a blue-blooded man of leisure. "If you know Mr. Naran, then you know he'd never welch on a debt, no matter how much he owed us. He's so stupid he'd rather keep his honor intact than the fingers and toes his creditors would take from him."

  DaNasan looked ready to argue, then seemed to decide it wasn't the time. "Near two months back, Naran came to port with a cargo that only a drooling idiot wouldn't want to buy: Alebolgian wine, and even better—casks of iron nails."

  "Nails? Like the little jabby bits? The ones you whack into things with the poundy stuff?"

  "There aren't many iron mines out here in the swamps. To bind things together, Tanar Atain makes the finest ropes, twines, and threads you'll ever need. But sometimes, what you really need is a good nail."

  "Were you two able to reach a deal?"

  "Ha! Half the rats on the wharf were sniffing around his cargo hold. I made my offer, and when it wasn't good enough, I made another. I was still waiting on his decision when he went missing."

  "Missing?" Dante said. "Where?"

  "If I knew that, he wouldn't be missing, would he?"

  "Yeah, you dolt," Blays said. He smiled. "Sorry, just trying to do as the locals would."

  Dante muttered something impolite. "Is it possible he accepted a deal with another merchant and left port as soon as it was concluded?"

  "It's not impossible." DaNasan glanced from the deck toward the middle of the waterway, where two rafts had bumped into each other. Their crews were currently engaged in a fevered skirmish of words that was threatening to explode into all-out war. This drew a few glances from people on the shores of other islands, but nobody seemed too concerned. "I wouldn't call us fast friends, but Naran and I have had acquaintance with each other since he was a deckhand. I don't know that he can fill Captain Twill's boots, but you're right that he's a man of honor. If he'd made another deal, he would have told me before striking out."

  "Unless someone else was hot on his heels," Blays said. "Any idea what happened to the Sword of the South? Could it have been seized by the authorities? Or by its own crew, who shamefully mutinied, leaving their captain behind?"

  "Either possibility is a constant risk for any trading vessel. And if either one had happened, there will be a record of it at the Bureau of Interlopers."

  Dante folded his arms. "'Interlopers'? Does the state really keep track of every foreigner in the city?"

  "Indeed it does—and it seems as though you should be grateful for it."

  "'Grateful' has rarely described my encounters with bureaucracy. Will we need an interpreter? Or does everyone here speak Mallish?"

  "Most speak two or three languages," DaNasan said. "But only the most backwards, raft-humping swamp-leeches don't speak Mallish. Children are taught by dint of law."

  DaNasan provided them directions to the bureau, housed in a tower a half mile inland. Dante and Blays trekked across a series of bridges and islands, forced to backtrack twice when a bridge was lacking in the direction they needed to go. Trees sprouted wherever they could, forming dense green rings around the edges of each island. Towers dropped cold shadows across the city. Some were black brick, but the taller ones were hewn from big blocks of a curiously mottled orange and green stone. When Dante got a closer look, he saw the green spots were patches of mold. This grew on the trunks of trees, too, making everything look as if it had been here for ages.

  After crossing a few islands and stealing plenty of glances at the locals, he leaned close to Blays. "Am I crazy, or do they not allow their women out on the streets?"

  Blays gave him a sidelong glance. "If you can't pull your nose out of your books long enough to experience the real world, at least get a few with better illustrations. There are women everywhere."

  As they passed a group of people clustered around a vegetable stall, Dante heard one of the hagglers speak in a clear feminine voice. Like that, the scales fell from his eyes. It wasn't that there were no women on the streets, it was that they shared the immediate appearance of the men: they were dressed in the same sleeveless garments; the men were beardless; men and women alike wore their hair clipped short, or shaved on the sides and longer on the top. Combined with their unfamiliar faces, his mind hadn't noticed the difference.

  They were a slim people, but now that he knew what to look for, the subtler differences in musculature and hips stood out to him. Their garments and sandals were decorated individually, too—feathers, buttons, intricate stitching with colored thread, the occasional flash of a small piece of metal. Likely, there was meaning in the items on display that he was utterly blind to.

  An orange tower loomed on the next island. Most of the dollops of land sported two to four towers, but this one stood alone, and was squatter and more military in appearance, with a thin watchtower rising from its roof. The bureau was just as DaNasan had described.

  They crossed a final bridge and approached the tower's front steps. Outside, a man stood on a wooden box, its planks held together with artful loops of twine. A crowd surrounded him as he gestured and barked.

  "…the last time we so much as saw Drakebane Yoto?" The man on the box was red-faced with anger—or from the contents of the wineskin in his left hand. "If he cares for us so much, why hide in the capital? Or worse yet, the deep swamps? I say the Drakebane forsakes us! That he must be replaced by a Bane who loves all the land equally! I say—"

  "I say you're as ugly as hot vomit," a woman called to him from the crowd. "You don't smell much better, either."

  The man swung his sharp chin to face her, unbalancing himself. He windmilled his arms to stay on the box. "T
he truth is ugly, isn't it? And the truth is the Drakebane doesn't give a fish's testicles for the people of Aris Osis. He should be replaced by someone who loves every city, float, and raft. Who loves every inch of this land!"

  "How do you have time to stand about criticizing the Drakebane when you're still searching for someone to love both inches of you?"

  The crowd erupted into laughter. The man on the box went so red Dante expected him to start sweating blood, but then he laughed loudest of all, bending at the waist and clutching his stomach.

  "The Drakebane needs to be cast down," a second man said. He was young, but his black hair was already beginning to withdraw from his temples. "But not because it's been too long since he was in Aris Osis. Instead, because of his lies. He tells the bondsmen and the rafters they can own land, but how many have you ever seen free themselves from the lords' fields? He tells us we can serve the body as whatever part we choose, but how can we learn new trades when the masters keep choosing students from the same families year after year?"

  The man turned in a circle, arms raised high. "What freedoms do we really have? The freedom to yammer and blather and turn on each other? All that does is divide us while the Drakebane laughs in his throne! He must be brought to the noose for his crimes—and replaced by one who will finally unravel the ropes of injustice!"

  A few in the crowd raised their fists and made noises of agreement, but others looked silently angry.

  "Other people's politics," Blays said. "Is there anything more boring?"

  Dante pulled himself away from the scene and walked up the steps. A pair of green-clad guards stood watch in front of the doors, watching the argument below with tolerant amusement. Dante didn't know what was funny about hearing citizens calling for the death of their ruler. In Narashtovik, you could be jailed for such a thing. And that was widely considered lenient. In Mallon, you were likely to be tortured until you recanted your words and turned over any friends, family, or acquaintances who might harbor similar beliefs.