Shadows Rising Trilogy, Book 2
First Edition: December 2020
Copyright 2020 A. E. Pennymaker
Published by A. E. Pennymaker
www.aepennymaker.com
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Cover design: A. E. Pennymaker
Table of Contents
Dedication
Maps
Chapter 1: Three Days Aboard the Coralynne
Chapter 2: The Lion's Perch
Chapter 3: Run, Hide, Seek, Find
Chapter 4: It Wasn't for Nothing
Chapter 5: Hunting Puckmucks
Chapter 6: Stalwart Vault Services
Chapter 7: Into the Fire
Chapter 8: To the Rooftops
Chapter 9: Through the Damsels' Den
Chapter 10: Escape by Broom Closet
Chapter 11: The Wastrels' Inn
Chapter 12: A Well-read Barbarian
Chapter 13: Keep Walking
Chapter 14: Keep Talking
Chapter 15: Another Way to Die
Chapter 16: Survivor's Guilt
Chapter 17: Voices from the Grave
Chapter 18: Betrayal
Chapter 19: New Developments
Chapter 20: Surprises Come in All Sizes
Chapter 21: Breathe Moth
Chapter 22: Target Practice
Chapter 23: Work to Do
Chapter 24: Get Up and Try Again
Chapter 25: Bullets and Hairpins
Chapter 26: A Dangerous Sort of Dance
Chapter 27: Making Faces
Chapter 28: Fienn Emai
Chapter 29: Smile, My Dear
Chapter 30: Welcome to Fame
Chapter 31: War and Theater
Chapter 32: The Human Commodity
Chapter 33: Escape Plans
Chapter 34: A Sort of Victory
Chapter 35: Unwelcome Discoveries
Chapter 36: Traitor on the Roof
Chapter 37: Into the Deep End
Chapter 38: Missed Opportunity
Chapter 39: The Nightmare Begins
Chapter 40: Phase One
Chapter 41: Burn it Down
Chapter 42: Fire and Lies
Chapter 43: Fallout
Chapter 44: Dead or Alive
Chapter 45: Have-ee Seen this Man?
Chapter 46: The Keeper of the Hedgerose Inn
Chapter 47 To War
Meet the Author
Connect with A. E. Pennymaker
Sneak Peek at Shadow War, Book 3
Dedication
In memory of my mother: inspiration, friend, and fierce cancer fighter
October 1939 ~ January 2020
Maps
1. Three Days Aboard the Coralynne
22nd of Nima
With a sigh, Raggan sat down at the tea table outside my cabin, then lowered a grain sack from his shoulder to the floor. He gave me his famous gap-toothed grin as he fished around in his breast pocket for his clay pipe and tobacco pouch. "How goes your first morn at sea, Miss Westerby?" he asked, tamping a pinch of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He lit it with a pocket flint, then sat back and took a long, easy draw on it, watching me expectantly.
I couldn't formulate a reply, so I just lifted my mug of hot Praidani. That was all the breakfast I could handle. The piece of toast had made a prompt reappearance; I might as well have thrown it overboard without eating it first.
"Ah," Raggan grunted. "Landlegs gettin' to ya."
I gave him a tight little grin and turned to stare out at the passing scenery again.
Another island, dark rocks, vibrant greenery. They were getting smaller, now. This one was too steep and too 'new' to support large trees, and there were only small signs of wildlife here and there.
Parading through the islands from largest to smallest wasn't the only difference between this trip and the last. This time we were aboard the Coralynne, which was smaller and sleeker than the Stryka. It was also built strictly with creature comfort in mind. Where the Stryka had cannons and grappling hooks, the Coralynne had a full formal ballroom and canteen. Where the Angpixen had a large forward hold and a handful of cabins for the officers, the Coralynne had thirty-five individual cabins, four of which were staterooms, and all of which opened onto a generous promenade deck overlooking the sea. We even had individual lounging nooks and tea tables.
Another change on this ship was that NaVarre wasn't NaVarre. The crew referred to him as Lord Braeton, and they treated all the rest of us like we were guests on a luxury vessel. This was done on purpose. We had to look like what our papers said we were: legitimate civilians sailing about as Lord Braeton's retinue of servants, bodyguards, and hangers-on. There wasn't a single Navy-issue anything on board, and everyone – even Raggan – was wearing civilian clothing.
I felt distinctly like I had stepped through a hole in reality and landed on a holiday trip.
I wasn't alone. Raggan snorted lightly as he looked around, taking in the high-gloss polish on the woodwork, the gleaming brass accents, and the cushions in each lounging nook. There was even insect netting gathered in tiers at the edge of the overhanging roof above our heads.
"Sure makes sailin' work look dull, don't it?" he asked, shaking his head. He pulled a small knife from his pocket, then dug in the bag at his feet and came out with a small chunk of driftwood. The fragrant scent of pipe smoke drifted in the air around us as he loosened his new neckerchief, propped his legs out straight, crossed them at the ankle, unfolded his knife and began whittling.
Grim, I took a sip of tea, wondering if Ydara and the girls were done making breakfast, and what Jinny would think when I didn't show up. I had only been there nine days, hardly long enough to do more than leave several tasks unfinished. A pile of personal records was still sitting on my desk waiting to be translated. I wasn't there to help the Doctor, either, but Jinny could do both. Would anyone even notice I was gone?
"Don't you worry, lass," Raggan said quietly. "You'll find yer way back."
I swallowed, then shot a glance at his blunt profile. How much had Arramy told him? I knew the captain trusted Raggan more than many, which was why he was among the dozen or so men Arramy had hand-picked to come on this mission, but did Raggan know why I was there? Did he know how dangerous this might actually be, or what would happen after?
Questions flew around like moths in my head. My stomach knotted up again and I closed my eyes, only to snap them open a second later when the captain's singular tread sounded on the nearby stairwell, descending from the observation deck.
"Well, there's me cue," Raggan said, folding away his knife. He gave me a little smile as he tapped out his pipe and swept wood shavings off my tea table. Then he bent and tucked his bag of driftwood beneath his chair. "Cap'n got us doin' heavy drills an' such, puttin' the pirates through their paces. Save me spot?"
I nodded carefully, then watched him hurry off after Arramy.
23rd of Nima
There was another strategy meeting this evening. Braeton said that we should arrive at his plantation landing in two days. From there it would be a day's ride to Nimkoruguithu by horseless, whereupon I would have to walk into the Lion's Perch Pub. Alone. Or nearly. There was still some debate as to how many should go in with me. NaVarre said it should be just me s
o we didn't spook the pub owner. Arramy wanted a complement of at least five.
Weary of listening to their vicious back and forth, I left before they had reached any sort of agreement.
Penweather was on the promenade, leaning on the rail, smoking a cheroot and staring out at the mist lying low and pale between the islands in the light of a dying sunset. He heard me coming down the stairs from the command deck and turned to glance at me.
"Miss Westerby," he murmured, dipping his head.
"Mr. Penweather." I offered him a smile on my way past – polite, but distant, just like every other time since that night on the beach.
"Miss Warring, might I ask..."
Apprehension settled cold in my middle. I paused, giving him a sidelong glance.
He took the cheroot from his mouth, gesturing with it as he said, casually, "Pardon me. It's not really any of my business whose company you keep, but I can't fathom why NaVarre would want to bring you along. It doesn't make any sense."
"I think maybe you need to ask the captain," I said stiffly.
That got his attention. He took another drag on his cigar, making the ember glow bright in the gloom, illuminating eyes narrowed in thought beneath lowered brows.
I firmed my chin and kept walking, heading straight for the door to my cabin.
My fingers were shaking so hard it took three tries to slide the bolt into the lock.
24th of Nima
We left the last of the Rimrocks behind, today, and started up one of the main tributaries that wind like snakes through the Ulba River Basin.
The plan: to arrive at the plantation landing late tonight, then set out at dawn for Nimkoruiguithu, with Braeton, Arramy and I hidden in the back of a draft wagon carrying a shipment of sugar cane.
2. The Lion's Perch
25th of Nima
Nimkoruguithu basked in the late morning sunlight, a sprawl of metal and concrete buildings put up side by side in a hurry and added onto even faster. The streets were wide, much wider than they were in Edon. Everything in Nim K was like that: big, rambling, with lots of open spaces. Lots of ways to be shot at, lots of angles of observation, lots of places someone could be watching from. I had to keep telling myself to breathe as I strolled along the boardwalk, scanning all the overhead signs that jutted from the second story.
There it was, halfway down the block, just as it had been described: dingy yellow shingle, faded red lion perching like a bird in the branches of a grey tree, the words 'Lion's Perch Pub' in plain red letters along the bottom.
Just go in and sit down. This will all be over soon. Just go in and sit down... I reached the front doors. This will all be over... soon... placed my hand on the handle of the accordion door, took a breath, and pulled it open, my heartbeat thundering in my ears even though Captain Arramy was supposed to be right behind me.
I stopped just inside, and right on cue he came swaggering in on my heels, brushing past me and heading for the bar as if I were just an obstacle in his way.
I shot a glare after him but didn't say anything. The great argument over who and how many should come in with me had resolved into Arramy grudgingly assigning himself the job of undercover bodyguard because NaVarre had a famous face. For all his grumbling about it, I had to admit I really didn't mind. The people of Nim K had a bad reputation for shooting first without bothering to ask questions later. If things went sideways, I could probably do much worse than the man who had outsmarted the Bloody Red Fox.
Glancing around, I tried to get my bearings. The interior was dim, with no decorating scheme to speak of – unless mismatched and off-kilter could be called a style. Scores of antlered animal skulls were mounted on the wall above a huge fireplace, the floor was covered in nut shells and a layer of sawdust, and there were barrels and crates in place of chairs. None of which really mattered. I needed to find a table. There was no receptionist or usher, NaVarre had said. I simply had to find a spot and sit, and one of the kitchen workers would come over to take my order.
It sounded like barbarism, but thankfully it wasn't complicated.
There weren't many other customers. Three men were playing a game of cards on a barrel by the only window facing the street. Two women who looked every bit as battle-hardened as Arramy were sitting at the far end of the bar. Neither the women nor the men paid Arramy any mind. He fit right in, with a few days' worth of stubble darkening his jaw, and that metal-studded leather vest buckled over a scruffy grey shirt, and the set of pistols slung low at his hips. No. It was me they all looked at.
In my refugee clothes, I must have seemed drab and unremarkable, though, because their interest faded after a cursory glance, and to my relief no one stopped me as I began walking toward the row of booths along the far wall.
I chose the one in the left-hand corner and tried to keep from looking as nervous as I felt as I scooted into the bench facing the room.
It wasn't a long wait. A young woman about my age came out of the kitchen, and when she saw me, she made a beeline for my table. She gave me a warm, welcoming smile – which seemed out of place in such a cave of an establishment – and asked in heavily accented Low Altyran, "Wakinagitcha?"
I smiled back. "Butter cones, please."
"Roit," she said brightly. "Beritba." Be right back. The 'with that' apparently had to be understood. Interesting.
She told someone in the kitchen that there was another order of butter cones, and then one of the biggest men I had ever seen – overlarge pirates and a certain Navy Captain included – came lumbering out, wiping his huge hands on his apron as he walked down the inside of the bar. He bent over by the money box, reaching for something under the counter. When he stood again, he had a clay bottle in one beefy palm, and he was reading the label as he turned to go back into the kitchen. Just before the door closed behind him, he looked in my direction, his gaze flicking quickly over my features. Then he continued on through the serving doors with no other indication that he had seen me.
That was it. That was the moment NaVarre had been so terrified about. One split-second glance.
I bit my lip and tried not to fidget.
A few minutes later, the girl came back with a plate piled high with butter cones. She also brought a pot of cane syrup and a thick wedge of creamy white sweet cheese.
There wasn't anything else to do, so I waded in, and I had to admit the big man knew his way around a butter cone. They were perfectly crisp on the outside, light and airy on the inside, the top forming a crunchy little peak, the hollow inside filled with fluffy cream. In different circumstances, I might have actually enjoyed them.
Then the girl came back with an urn of Praidani and poured some into a mug without being asked. I glanced up at her, mildly confused. She gave me a pointed, meaningful look, and put the mug down in front of me. Carefully. So I could see the note stuck to it, but anyone watching couldn't.
"Taya," I whispered. Thanks.
"Yawellca, Miss. I'll giyit wenyadun."
I nodded. She wasn't talking about coming back for the dishes. I was going to have to memorize what was on that note.
I picked up the mug as she left, glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then took a closer peek at the scrap of wet paper.
2200 tonight. Park bench on Lagrossa. He'll find you.
I took a sip to give myself a reason for holding the mug near my face, then grimaced and put it down. That part wasn't pretend. It had the consistency of tar.
Like magic, the girl came bustling back out, exclaiming, "Y'askin fer'randge n'alosye. Gongoroitoumemind!" ("You asked for orange and I forgot. Going right out of my mind!")
She whisked away the mug and replaced it with a chipped little porcelain cup of orange provincial. Then she went back into the kitchen, taking the note with her. With that, the entire transaction was over.
I took a few more bites of butter cone and sipped my tea, then put my fork on my plate.
That was Arramy's signal. Immediately, he finished off whatever he had orde
red, tossed a coin on the bar, and went striding out of the Lion's Perch like he had somewhere to be. He did. He was supposed to make sure nothing happened to me while I walked down to the 'extraction point,' as the two of them kept calling it, where I would meet NaVarre.
I paid the bill when the girl came back to collect my plate, then got up and made my way out into the early morning sunlight. I turned right and began wandering down the boardwalk.
Wherever Arramy had gone, I couldn't see him. Which, to my annoyance, made me feel very, very alone. I gave myself a mental shaking, but still that creeping-insect sensation snuck up my spine.
'Act like a tourist,' NaVarre had said. Tourists took their time. Tourists window-shopped. They didn't rush along with their head down, looking like they were running from someone. I tried not to, but I walked faster the farther from the pub I got. I couldn't help it. My neck was prickling, the sensation of being stalked clinging to me the entire way down the street to the corner where NaVarre was waiting in a hired horse-drawn cab. I was out of breath by the time I climbed inside and collapsed in a heap on the threadbare cushion across from him.
NaVarre tapped the handle of his cane on the roof and the cab started forward.
I sat up straight and brushed my hair out of my face. "You're used to this sort of thing, all the skulking about in corners, passing messages on tea mugs... does it get easier with practice?"
"Did you find anything?" NaVarre asked, calmly. To the point.
"2200 tonight, bench on Lagrossa, he'll find you," I provided. "When will it stop feeling like someone is secretly aiming a pistol at my head?"
NaVarre shrugged. "I've found that to be a healthy concern in my line of work."
"Well you can keep your line of work. I can't wait to go back to living my adventures vicariously through literature."
NaVarre gave me a small, humorless smile and glanced out the window.
Shadow Dance Page 1
