Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Janna waved and slipped through the doorway. He heard her voice across the hall, asking Wilford if he wouldn't mind taking her up to the palace.

  “Of course,” the mender said. “Our guest is recovering nicely.”

  “Great. We'll need to go then. Now.”

  They tramped downstairs and out the side door. Morgan busied herself by dusting the armoire. “Let me know when you're hungry,” she said, “and I'll warm up the broth.”

  “Aye. And would you see if Nasira is awake? I'd like to see her.”

  “Certainly.”

  Argus studied the glass door that led to the balcony. Someone had cleaned up all the blood. The sun glared in his eyes, but when he shielded his brow he made out the scrape marks their grappling hooks had made.

  He got up, dizzy, and made sure the balcony door was bolted. He closed the curtains and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Morgan went downstairs. She returned with a pile of clothes. “I brought these back with me from the palace. Hopefully some of them fit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. You don't have to try them on now. You've had a long enough night as it is.”

  “So did you,” said Argus, patting the edge of the bed. “It's all right. Come rest.”

  Morgan wandered over, then sat with one leg crossed over the other. She kept looking around, straightening the bedsheets, busying her hands. “Still worried about the people who came after you?”

  He nodded. “I'd be a fool not to be.”

  “If you don't mind me speaking freely, sir—”

  “Argus.”

  “—Argus. I don't think you have anything to worry about anymore.”

  He slid closer. “What do you mean?”

  “I'm sure you've seen the gallows Lord Syrio is building, in Velia Square.”

  “Aye. I've never seen one so tall. Whoever is set to hang must have done something special.”

  Morgan blushed. “That's just it, Argus. The man who will hang—is you.”

  “What?”

  “That's the latest gossip at the palace. We servants talk, you know. Not even loyalty to those we serve can silence eager tongues. 'A man will hang,' they say. 'The one who killed King Belen.' When I went up there this afternoon the palace was abuzz with the news.”

  Argus steadied himself on a bedpost. He felt like he was threading the Shipbreakers again. One wrong word from Morgan would dash him against the rocks. “I… I don't understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Argus grabbed her shoulders, felt them trembling. “Do you know who I really am? The crime I'm accused of?”

  The chambermaid nodded slowly. “Lady Janna trusts me. I'm the only one she takes with her beyond the palace walls. I'm like a sister to her. She tells me everything.”

  The room spun. Argus stared at the white bedspread to anchor himself, but it was no use. “So you know what I've done. At Syrio's feast for Eamon and all the others.”

  “Don't worry. My lips are sealed.”

  “That doesn't explain the gallows. They don't build those until they have the criminal they're after.”

  “Fortune smiled on you. That's the only way I see it.”

  “What?”

  Morgan cocked her head, thinking deeply. “Lord Syrio only thinks he has you. Either that or he's just trying to appease the new Leith king.”

  “Silas?” Argus's nephew was only seventeen. Hardly old enough to run a kingdom. Or was he?

  “I don't know a lick about diplomacy,” said Morgan, “but Lord Syrio's diplomats can't stop talking about how much of a tyrant he is. He sent messages to Syrio nearly every day, demanding for him to find the man who murdered his father. When that didn't work he started sending ambassadors. Supposedly he even threatened to sail over and scour the streets himself.”

  Argus stood up. Too many thoughts racing in his head, colliding, leading to wild conclusions. “Maybe Syrio is giving him this man's head as a gift. A peace offering so he'll ease up the pressure.”

  “I think you're right. My friend Darren, who works in the scullery, had it from a jailer this morning that they'd just chosen a man to die. A common thief—who just happens to look like the man in your poster.”

  “Gods.”

  Morgan nodded. “It's a grim thing, indeed. He's set to hang in a week. Lord Syrio even sent a message to Leith inviting the new king to come watch.”

  Poor bastard, Argus thought. He couldn't decide which was worse: lingering in those dungeons or having your death turned into a public spectacle.

  “This will turn out well for you, I believe.”

  Argus pursed his lips. “How?”

  “Once 'Argus' dies you won't be a wanted man. So long as you use a different name in Azmar—better if I call you 'sir,' so I don't get into the habit—you can roam free. I don't think those men in black will bother you anymore. Not after the Leith king gets the news that 'you' have been captured.”

  Her words rang true. If Silas hadn't come to Azmar to seek justice in person, hiring the Whispers was the next best thing. His nephew wouldn't care whether they claimed him alive or dead. What kind of trial was warranted for the man who killed your father in cold blood?

  Does he know me? Does he know who I really am?

  “Sir?”

  He looked at Morgan, who eagerly hovered beside him. “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to say that your secrets are safe with me. Lady Janna is quite smitten with you. I won't say anything to harm that.”

  “Thank you, Morgan.”

  “I'll keep cleaning around here. Go ahead and visit your friend, if you wish.”

  Argus nodded. He stumbled out of the bedroom, buried under the weight of new questions.

  * * *

  Nasira was awake. Her skin was a bit pale, but aside from the large bandage on her stomach she looked halfway back to health.

  Argus nudged her until she stirred. Then he got her some water and told her everything.

  “Your own nephew is trying to have you killed?” she said. “I don't believe it.”

  “Except he probably doesn't know I'm his uncle. I've never even met him. All he knows is that I'm the man who murdered his father—even though that bastard had it coming.”

  She grabbed his hand. “What about the innocent man they'll hang?”

  “What about him?”

  “You can't let him die. You can't let him pay for a crime he didn't commit!”

  Then why did I pay for Belen's? And my mother pay for mine?

  Nasira's amber eyes flashed. “You know I'm right.”

  “I know…”

  The trouble was there were different kinds of right. Breaking imposter Argus out of his dungeon might elicit smiles from the gods. But letting Silas think he was dead would offer an enormous tactical advantage.

  He won't know I'm coming, he thought. I'll catch him by surprise.

  “You're going to let that man hang, aren't you?”

  Argus sighed. “I don't know yet. The way forward is unclear.”

  “Who is this beautiful blonde woman? She looks… familiar. Like I should know her.”

  “Ja—Christine is an old friend.”

  “An old friend whose name you can't remember?” Nasira shook her head. “So be it, Argus of Leith, but I know you well enough now to know when you're hoarding a secret.”

  “I'll tell you later.”

  “Good. After we leave Azmar, then. We can't risk another run-in with the Whispers—no matter how unlikely.”

  “Good thing you're so light. I've carried sacks of potatoes heavier than you.”

  Nasira smiled. “Should I be flattered? I suppose I'll take that as a compliment.”

  Then came a knock, and Morgan entered. She told them she had a warm bath ready. Nasira jumped at the opportunity. Argus went downstairs and warmed himself by the fire.

  “What do I do?” he asked.

  The flames didn't answer.

  He wre
stled with the possibilities. Every time he about settled on one, another would swoop in and change his mind. Go to Leith and beat the snot out of his nephew? After what had happened last night, the thought had its appeal. But his actions had brought this on in the first place. Killing Belen felt incredible—for the moment. Though it did nothing to lift his exile, erase the pain, or bring his mother back from the dead.

  If I go to Leith and get involved, what if I just end up making things worse?

  Argus inhaled deeply, caught a whiff of Janna's perfume still lingering.

  There was another option. Go back to Davos. Bring along the woman who accepted him despite his faults—and still found a way to love him more than anyone should. Start a new life! Politics and Azmar be damned.

  Finally Morgan called him upstairs for a bath. He scrubbed his wounds but he couldn't scrub his mind. When he stepped out he still hadn't the faintest idea of what to do next, and the onion soup didn't help either.

  “I need to find Siggi,” Nasira said, sitting beside him at the modest table. “Hopefully he hasn't left for Nalavac. I'd like to join him. Why don't you come with us?”

  “I don't know.” Nalavac was just a stone's throw from Leith. If Argus sailed with them, he could cross the Wailing Bay and reach Valcrest. Then it was just a short trek west, over the Riven Mountains, back to his homeland. He'd have to tread carefully. It had been nearly eighteen years since he left, but in Leith, exile meant forever. He'd have to avoid the main roads, or anywhere remotely familiar…

  “Or go home,” Nasira said. “Go back to Davos. And take that lovely woman with you.”

  After they ate Nasira went upstairs, changed, and packed her things. Morgan buzzed about, imploring her to stay a little longer. “Don't go yet, lady. Please. If you leave now you're apt to split your wound right open.”

  Nasira smiled at her. “I'll be fine. Thanks to your hard work, I'm feeling much better.” She pulled the chambermaid into a cautious embrace. “Give my thanks to Christine.” She went over to Argus and said, “Coming? If I manage to find Siggi, my ship will sail at dawn.”

  “Will you stay at the Hydra and the Fox?”

  Nasira nodded. “If I can't find a spare room there, I'll share the bed with Siggi if I have to. I've had it with midnight wandering.”

  “Didn't work out so well last time.”

  “No.” She laughed. “No, it didn't.”

  “There's… something I need to do first,” he whispered.

  Nasira hugged him and wished him well, like she was seeing him for the last time. She told him she'd be happier if she didn't see him, because hopefully that meant he was in Davos.

  “Goodbye, Nasira,” he said, holding open the side door. “Keep your dagger close.”

  “Goodbye, Argus of Leith. Morgan.”

  With that she left them waiting by the fire, passing the evening quietly until Janna returned.

  * * *

  Creaking wheels woke him.

  Argus had nodded off in front of the fire. He sat up and listened to those wheels stop, a donkey braying and low voices. Morgan hopped up and waited at the side door, where a knock soon followed.

  “It's me, Morgan.”

  The chambermaid opened it, making room for Janna to enter. She saw Argus seated by the fire, smiled, and turned to wave goodbye to Wilford. While the donkey clopped away, she raced over and threw her arms around him.

  “Gods! That was awful. Those Pellmereans are ancient but they drink like a bunch of children hardly tall enough to see over the bar. And they don't dance much better. Good news, Morgan: Tonight I only had to reject three of father's attempts to find me a proper suitor.” She turned to Argus. “Besides, there's only one man I want anyhow.”

  Argus got up and laid his hands on her shoulders “Janna…”

  “What? I know that look. I know that voice.” Her face darkened. “You're leaving, aren't you?”

  Argus asked Morgan for some privacy. He waited until she went upstairs, and guided Janna toward the fire. He couldn't bring himself to look into her eyes; they stabbed sharper than any dagger. So he spoke to the flames instead, holding her hand, listening to the sobs.

  Janna begged, cried and cajoled, but in the end his decision was final.

  “You must not love me, then,” she said, ripping away her hand. “Not how I love you.”

  “That isn't true—”

  “Yes it is!”

  “No it isn't.” He pulled her close and covered her with kisses. When he drew away, his lips were wet from her tears. “I don't want anything more in the world than to run away with you. To bring you back to Davos and show you all its secret places. To swim in those lagoons under the moonlight…”

  “Stop it.”

  Argus told her he wouldn't—not until they were in Davos together. He unbuttoned the top of his tunic and fished out the silver chain hanging there. He took it off, balled it up, and put it into Janna's palm. “My mother gave me this necklace. I want you to wear it until I come back for you. Keep it safe, Janna. It's the last thing of hers I have.”

  She leaned closer and held her hair so he could put it on her. With the latch secured, she looked up at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks collecting streaks of runaway makeup. She managed a half smile. “It's beautiful, Argus. But I would prefer a wedding band.”

  Argus laughed. “Soon enough.” He slipped his hands into hers. “You'll have to temper your expectations, though. There aren't enough dragons on all of Davos for a ring fit for Lord Syrio's daughter.”

  “I don't care about that! That was my old life. You're all I need.”

  “Keep the necklace safe.”

  She nodded, grabbed his face and kissed him once more. “I will. I promise.”

  “The sooner I leave the sooner I can come back. It's time to clean up this mess I made.” They kissed for a long time after that, burning in each other's arms until the fire dwindled. “Goodbye, Janna,” he said, and slipped through the side door.

  “Goodbye, love.”

  He couldn't bring himself to look back.

  The alleyways twisted before him. He'd known those streets before. But now they'd been whipped together like egg yolks, so all the memories ran together.

  At last he spotted Lord Syrio's palace, overlooking all of Azmar from its hill perch. He walked toward it. Couldn't ignore the eyes that settled on him. Argus turned back, looked up and waved at the woman standing on the terrace. She leaned on the railing in her yellow dress.

  She looked as empty as he felt.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The air was colder in Nalavac.

  They watched the desolate coastline pass. Aside from rocky shores that curled into the water like fingers, there were blankets of snow, low hills, and little else.

  “A terrible place,” said Siggi, tightening his wool cloak. They hardly took those off anymore since leaving Azmar. “Now I can see why Brenn is so damned gloomy.”

  “You've never been to Nalavac?” said Nasira.

  Siggi shook his head. Argus only had made it just past the eastern border himself—the one they shared with Tokat. That had been years earlier. The Legion of the Wind was chasing a pack of bandits who'd had the brilliant idea to retreat into the densest forest of all the kingdoms. Not to mention in the dead of winter.

  “We left after we counted the corpses,” he said. “Left without a drop of blood on our swords. It was the cold that killed them. That and the wind.”

  Nasira shivered. “And this is what they call spring?”

  “Nalavac is a place that defies seasons,” Siggi said. “It's cold, colder, and coldest.” Nasira asked how much longer until they reached the territory that Brenn's tribe called home. Siggi told her it was impossible to say. Nalavacian tribes had an aversion to settling in place. Boundaries shifted by the day, what with all the wars and endless roaming.

  “So we don't even know where we're going. Wonderful.”

  “That's not true,” Siggi said. “Brenn told me his tribe l
ikes to roam just west of the Wanderwood. Once we see the forest's edge, we can find a place to dock and go find them.”

  “How will we know when we reach the Wanderwood?”

  “Oh, you'll know,” Argus said. He'd only seen glimpses of that forest that dwarfed all others, and turned back shortly after the Legion of the Wind marched within its shadows. But those trees were large enough to hide entire kingdoms. One night Brenn had told him about the origin of its name. One could be born under those boughs, grow up under them, spend all of one's life wandering, and return to the earth without ever escaping them. That's how the story went.

  The rest of the day they hugged the coastline, watching closely for Nalavacian ships. Except for gulls and schools of icepickers, pinkish fish whose bodies were shaped like ale kegs, the sea was quiet. Argus watched them leap out of the water and devour the bugs hovering just above the surface.

  How in the blazes do they swim with bodies like that?

  And then he was hungry. He dropped a line in and trawled it alongside Nasira's boat. Not even a nibble. That was for the best; with his current luck an icepicker would probably pull him into the frigid water instead of the other way around.

  Night fell. Siggi kept him awake with stories of Nalavacian raiders while Nasira slept. Argus had seen enough of those tribesmen to know his friend wasn't exaggerating. If anything, he was softening the fates that awaited outsiders who strayed too close to Nalavac's shores. The tribes fought all the time. But everyone agreed on one thing: outsiders were to be slaughtered on sight.

  Then it was Argus's turn to sleep. He huddled beneath all the blankets he could find and thought of Janna. Reaver was cold to the touch. He pulled her under the blankets with him. After what felt like five minutes, he awoke to Siggi shaking him.

  “Sorry, friend. I can't keep my eyes open anymore.”

  Argus welcomed a gloomy morning with hard cheese and bread. He didn't say a word. Nalavac's coastline had a way of drawing the eyes. Staring at its rocky shores, shrouded in fog, one could almost see the tribes coming. Appearing from the mist like spirits with their axes, shrieking, laughing. Men and women and children all.

  “I don't like this place,” Nasira said. “It's even more unsettling than the Cradle.”