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

by Corey Pemberton

  “They're here, all right—hiding and terrified.”

  “I don't blame them,” Nasira said. “A mad king. Seeing weapons for the first time. I wouldn't know whom to trust.”

  “Come on. They're scared enough already. Seeing Brenn hulk through their gardens swinging an ax won't help.”

  The Nalavacian grunted. “This ax is shit anyway.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, they found a dry spot under a massive oak tree. It stood in the middle of open countryside, the only rain shelter for as far as Argus could see.

  The Legion rested under its boughs. Rain fell light but steady; the sound put him right to sleep. The hard part was waking up well before he was ready. He shook the others.

  “Gods, I'm tired,” Siggi said. “I could have slept through the night.”

  “Kos is only a few hours up ahead. We can make it just after nightfall.”

  Grumbling, they followed him into the rain and pulled their hoods tight.

  “I had an awful nightmare,” Nasira said. “About that creature.”

  Argus shook his head. That was the last thing he needed to think about; Kyra wasting away in a dungeon was terrible enough.

  “It's a demigod, isn't it?”

  He didn't answer, because she asked the question in that tone she had whenever she knew she was right.

  “That makes three of them we've seen. The sandshade, the ulegot, and the noth. All of them out of place.” Her eyes narrowed. “What's going on?”

  “Gods only know. If the answer to that exists, it's tucked away in that library on the Cradle. I fear the world is coming apart—ripping at its seams.”

  They kept moving west, right into rain that had gone from a patter to driving sheets. After a few more towns, these larger than the ones to the east, they stepped onto the coast road, where many of the smaller roads converged.

  “There she is,” Argus said. “Kos.”

  “Aye,” said Brenn. “Only a few miles away.”

  They walked until it sneaked up on them. First came the rush of the river Essen, crossing beneath them, carrying down all the snowmelt from the mountains. Kos was unusual for a capital because it was situated inland instead of on the coast, but the Essen was its hub of commerce, the widest river Argus had ever seen.

  It must have taken them an hour to cross it on foot.

  The bridge was eerily empty. Aside from a few merchants wheeling out of town, their carts bare and eying them closely, stray cats and dogs were their only company.

  “This is wrong,” Argus said.

  Even his voice felt wrong. Maybe he'd died beneath the Cradle and returned a ghost. The Essen should have been clogged with boats. Except for a few small fishing boats, it was empty. Hammering sounds echoed down river, though they were too far away to see their source.

  At the end of the bridge they met guards. They glared at the Legion, asking about their business in Kos. When Argus refused to answer they drew their swords.

  “Your hands are trembling,” he said. “You don't even know how to use those.”

  “That's right,” said Brenn. “Have you ever split a man's head with an ax?” He smiled at the memory. “Don't think so.”

  “Put those swords away,” Argus said. “Or I'll have to draw mine. Once she gets free, she doesn't like to go back into her scabbard without some blood. Do you understand?”

  Their swords clattered onto cobblestones, and the Legion pressed by the quivering guards into Kos.

  Once they were out of earshot, Nasira said, “Think they'll report us?”

  “I doubt it,” Siggi said. “They have other things to worry about.” The Rivannan pointed up ahead, to the masses swinging from the mighty elms.

  “Corpses!” said Argus. “Dead men hanging in Kos?” He couldn't decide whether to leave or run closer. Nothing had prepared him for this. Overturning the pacifism decree was one thing; public executions were quite another.

  “I wonder what they did,” Nasira said.

  No one was around to ask. That column of elms, which divided Leith's capital down the middle, stretched all the way to the far walls. They walked alongside it, finding one corpse per tree, and Argus wondered just how many people Silas had killed. Kyra may be swinging up there already…

  The Legion passed a few more guards on patrol, who didn't pay them any mind. The street climbed, fell, and rose again, and they'd yet to find a tree without a corpse. At last they stumbled past a lit doorway. It was dim inside, but there was ale and ale was sorely needed.

  Argus pulled the others into the tavern. Their entrance drew suspicious glances from the patrons, who numbered six. Everyone huddled at the bar, shoulder to shoulder, eying their weapons. They should have smiled and greeted the newcomers, but this new Leith reminded Argus more of Davos. It was safer to assume everyone had ambitions that ran afoul of your own. That everyone was dangerous.

  “They're about as hospitable as the Nalavacians,” Siggi said.

  Brenn glared at him.

  “Apologies, friend. Anyhow, let's thaw them out with some ale. That always does it.”

  They sidled up the bar and greeted the frosty barman. The other patrons stopped talking completely, pausing from their gawking to swill their drinks like they were bitter tonics.

  Argus asked for two pitchers of ale, remembered the corpses hanging outside, and changed his order. The barman returned with glasses and bottles of their strongest barley wine. The Legion filled them up and drank them down, and not a glass was clinked.

  When the Leithish men finished their ale, Siggi seized the opportunity. “This round's on us,” he said, tossing some of Nasira's counterfeit dragons onto the bar.

  The man sitting closest to the newcomers, a rat-like fellow with enormous front teeth and ears that stuck straight out, wanted to know why.

  Siggi smiled. “Everyone could use a little kindness in times like these.”

  Rat man was suspicious, but the red-faced elder beside him convinced him to accept the ale. “Some things you just don't turn down.” The men nodded to the Legion, said their thanks but made no toast. They drank this round like they'd drunk the last one.

  Drinking to forget.

  Argus knew it well. The Leithish returned the favor and bought them some more barley wine. This time they clinked glasses. The tavern had been quiet before, but now the men weren't so careful about lowering their voices.

  Siggi dragged the Legion through a conversation of their own. One of his old stories. No one listened, and for once he looked like he didn't expect them to. He kept losing track of his story while he and the others eavesdropped on the Leithish men's conversation.

  Argus caught agonizing snippets. Something about Calladon, and building a fleet fit for the roughest seas. He tried to use hearing magic to help, but after the alcohol and the ordeal in the Riven Mountains, he was already half past drunk. The barley wine was heady.

  He was just about to start asking questions when the red-faced man switched seats with the rat. Save for bushy white eyebrows, he had no hair to speak of. He leaned toward Argus and said, “You bunch aren't from around here.”

  “No,” he lied. Not exactly a lie. Only a lie about himself.

  “You're generous with your coins, I'll give you that. But you must be fools to come to Kos in times like these.”

  “Aye,” said the rat man. “Here, or anywhere in Leith.”

  Argus told them they were merchants from Azmar, just passing through on their way to Calladon.

  The rat man had turned back to his friends. Red face raised one of his enormous eyebrows and said, “Merchants don't carry weapons like those.”

  “We do,” Nasira said. “Especially in places as… unstable as Leith.”

  “Smart,” he said, tapping his temple where the veins peeked through it. “Name's Ernest. Me and my friends work down river, on the docks.”

  The Legion of the Wind introduced themselves; everyone but Argus used their true names. “Get this man another ale,” Sigg
i said, and the barman kept them coming.

  “What's going on here?” Argus said. “We haven't been to Leith in a few years, but isn't it supposed to be a pacifist kingdom?”

  The rat man, who'd been peeking over Ernest's shoulder to listen, looked away. The old man leaned closer and said, “'Twas a pacifist kingdom, though you'll be hard-pressed to find a man willing to talk about it. Everything changed when King Belen died, gods rest his soul. Silas… well, I have to watch my tongue, but after his coronation was when the swords showed up.”

  Brenn said, “What about the people hanging outside?”

  “They were King Belen's advisers, mostly. Them and a few common folk who dared to speak out against the swords.” Ernest shook his head slowly. “Kos woke up three days ago and found a line of them waiting their turn on the gallows.” He downed the rest of his ale. “Most of the young 'uns didn't even know what a gallows was.”

  “And to hang their bodies there,” Nasira said.

  “Aye. Them elms are as old as Kos herself. Silas wanted to send a message. To anyone else thinking of going against what he's doing over in Valcrest. Or with the fleet.”

  “What fleet?”

  “The one we're helpin' him build.” Ernest shrugged. “It's messy. Me and these boys worked for Belen once. Patrolling the streets, making sure every weapon we found was taken and melted down. Those jobs are gone now. Silas gave us new ones. Now we build his ships.”

  This time it was Argus who called for another round. “A fleet for what?”

  Ernest stared into the bar. “No one really knows, friend. There are whispers that Silas has been talking with the Hartbane tribe.”

  Argus groaned. The war that had engulfed Calladon after Eamon died was still raging, but the Hartbanes were the closest ones to ending it.

  “There's something rotten in this one,” Ernest said. He grabbed Argus's shoulder, dug into it. “Something… Silas isn't… what his father was. There's something missing inside the boy. That he's trying to—I don't know, fill. First it's Valcrest and Calladon. Then what?” His eyes bulged. “When does it end?”

  The rat man pulled his friend away and said, “That's enough, Ernest. Forgive him. He's deep in his cups.”

  “Because I 'ave to be! To live someplace where corpses hang from the—”

  “Ernie,” said the rat. “I said that's enough.” He looked at the other shipwrights, who drained their ales and settled their tabs. “Time for us to go. Thank for the ales.” After that they stormed out, dragging wobbly red-faced Ernest with them.

  The Legion talked. Argus didn't hear a word. He was too busy fighting off the queasy sloshing in his bowels. It wasn't from the barley wine, either. It was the way Ernest had talked about Silas before the rat pulled him away.

  Something missing inside.

  When does it end?

  Argus tried to shake it off, couldn't. Ernest might as well have been describing himself.

  “What do you want to do now?” Brenn said.

  Argus looked at the barman. He was washing some glasses with his back turned, but his shoulders were tense. He'd been listening to their conversation intently.

  “Do you have any rooms available?”

  He turned and faced them, and his eyes were cold. “Do you have any more dragons?”

  Nasira slid them across the counter and booked two rooms. They didn't even haggle with the outrageous price. Upstairs they went, and crowded into the room at the end of the hall. Everyone sat on the bed and thought about how to get into the palace.

  Argus looked out the window once, and found a corpse swaying under one of the elms. He hopped up and closed the shutters and leaned against them, too ill to move.

  “I have an idea,” Siggi said. “But we'll need to make ourselves look halfway presentable. Everyone listen close.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Morning brought them up the steps of the royal palace.

  Argus had never climbed them before. Yet today he hustled up the varnished oak. Everyone had to hustle to keep up with Siggi.

  Except he wasn't Siggi anymore. This morning he demanded they call him Dario, a diplomat from Azmar. He dressed the part with a peach silk robe and hodgepodge of gold and silver bangles. He acted the part too, striding up there like he owned the place, dripping in just the right amount of condescension toward the guards.

  One of them laid a hand on his chest. “For the third time, state your business or we'll toss you down these steps.”

  Siggi recoiled like a girl from a cockroach, then wiped his robe where the man's hand had been. His face soured. “My business? Well! My business is my own. It's the metropolis of Azmar's business that brings me here. I really must see King Silas. It's urgent.”

  “Is that so?” the other guard said. “And why does a paper-pusher need to tote along so many armed thugs?”

  “You mean my bodyguards?” Siggi huffed. “One can't be too careful on the open seas. Besides, isn't everyone in Leith wandering around with a sword these days?”

  The first guard sneered. More came over from their posts to watch the scene unfold. Siggi excelled at creating them. Argus watched all the shifty eyes, counted the swords, seven, eight, nine…

  Gods.

  The guards whispered to one another in their standoff with the impertinent diplomat. When their conversation ended, the one with the golden tassel in his helmet sighed and said, “The king is holding court right at the moment. I'll allow you to pass, but you'll wait in line with the other petitioners.”

  Siggi responded with an overly dramatic bow. “It's good to see that civility hasn't disappeared from Kos completely. Good day.” Before they changed their minds he rushed past, and once they were inside they were directed to the great hall.

  “Told you it would work,” he whispered. His grin widened the more they shook their heads. “They didn't even ask for papers.” Nasira had forged one the night before while Siggi got into character in front of a tiny mirror. Lord Syrio's wax seal was missing, but aside from that it was a pretty good one.

  Hopefully we won't have to use it, Argus thought.

  They stepped a few feet into the great hall and froze.

  Argus groaned. A line—a bloody long one at that. It stretched nearly all the way from the doors to the dais, where his nephew sat. At least he assumed the sandy-haired teen was Silas, though he'd never laid eyes on him.

  “Bugger this,” said Brenn. “Let's just go up there, show him we—”

  “No,” Nasira said. “We only get one chance, Brenn.”

  They kept arguing. Argus didn't get involved. He found himself leaning forward, trying to get a closer look at his nephew. The great hall was dim and windowless. Silas sat with his legs crossed and one arm draped over the throne. His posture was casual but somehow forced. Unnatural. His crown rested askew on his head. He didn't seem to mind—didn't seem to care about this affair at all.

  He interrupted the petitioners often, cutting them off, denying their requests. Sometimes a fidgety adviser would whisper in his ear and scurry away like he was afraid the king might bite it off. Silas would grant a few requests until his mood soured again. Then it was back to the denials.

  One woman complained that some of Leith's new soldiers had slaughtered her cattle on their way east to Valcrest. When she asked for recompense, King Silas nodded. She fell to her knees and thanked him, pocketing the dragons the cofferer handed her, and said he was a good man—just misunderstood.

  “What do you mean misunderstood?”

  The woman paled, and a torrent of sweat washed away her tears. “N-nothing, your grace. It's just that—I wanted to thank you, is all. You've been very kind.”

  He didn't say a word. Paused. Waved her away. “Next!”

  Argus sighed, certain she'd just dodged a noose and an elm. He nudged Azmar's most insolent diplomat and whispered, “See that? Watch your words up there. He won't be so kind to us.”

  “Nothing to it, friend,” Siggi said. “I've been charming and conn
ing since I knew how to talk. Probably even before that.”

  Nasira asked where all the men were. Argus surveyed the crowd and noticed it for the first time; aside from Silas and his guards and advisers, the hall was filled with women. It was the opposite experience on Kos's streets. Out there, they hadn't seen a single one.

  “Their men are probably away in Valcrest,” he said. “Or too foolish to keep their women away from that madman on the throne.”

  Nasira snorted. “I'd forgotten that Leith is such a backwards kingdom.”

  “The people here don't see it that way. It's just how things are. A mirror of women's might in Valcrest.”

  “It's just strange to me. Back on the Comet Tail Isles—”

  “You aren't there, Nasira. Keep your mind here. Gods know we'll need your help to get through this.”

  She winked an amber eye at him. “I've come so far. From a runaway bounty to a trusted ally for your schemes.”

  “I'd keep you away if I could. You and Siggi and Brenn.”

  Nasira squeezed his hand. “But you can't. Besides, there's nowhere else I'd rather be.”

  Argus smiled. “Not even the burnished throne?”

  “Okay, maybe there's one place.”

  She squeezed his hand once more, and let go. His mind swirled like the Riven Mountain gales. He tried to put himself back there now, where everything was clear and life was distilled into a single step.

  “Next,” said King Silas.

  They were at the front of the line.

  * * *

  Glares.

  A pack of them. Silas looked them up and down, turned to his advisers for an explanation, and after receiving none asked, “What's the meaning of this?”

  Siggi—Dario, now—bowed. “Your grace.” He glanced at his bodyguards, who'd formed a square around him. “Bow, you fools! You stand before the King of Leith.”

  They touched their knees to the floor. Argus heard Brenn grumbling behind him.

  “All you've done is state the obvious,” Silas said. “You didn't answer my question.”

  “I will, your grace, with your blessing. My name is Dario Silao.” Another dramatic bow, his peach robe swishing across the floor. “I come as the voice of Lord Lucius Syrio of Azmar. There must have been a misunderstanding at the front gate. We requested an official audience, though the guards there only allowed me to join the petitioners.”