Shoreseeker

by Brandon M. Lindsay

  But of course, it wouldn’t be so easy. Nothing, Esta was beginning to realize, was ever that easy.

  After they crossed the arched wooden foot bridge Ander mentioned, the street narrowed into an alley. There weren't nearly as many stone buildings here. Most of them were daub-and-wattle, and some were made entirely of wood, leaning slightly and looking as if the tiniest spark would set them ablaze. The smell on this side of the river turned Esta’s stomach, and it wasn’t hard to see why—refuse littered the uneven paving stones, forcing Esta to watch her step. She even had to walk around two dead cats, drowned by the look of them. Covering her nose and mouth with her hand, she decided it was best not to look so hard at what she was stepping around.

  She couldn’t fathom what kind of person would live in such a place, but clearly people did. Clothes hung from lines strung across the narrow width of the alley, blocking out parts of the twilit sky. She wished she hadn’t needed to leave her spear and knife in the stables outside the city walls, but Ander had convinced her she couldn’t enter armed. He could, because he was part of the Way Patrol, which was sanctioned by the Council.

  Again, she was glad Ander was behind her. The alley was rather narrow, though. If trouble arose ahead, Esta could only hope that she wouldn’t get stuck between it and Ander’s axe.

  To Esta's relief, they didn't have to go far. Ander stopped her when they came to a rickety wooden door, barely tall enough for Esta to step through; Ander would have to duck, even though he had left his helmet out in the stables, too. He knocked.

  Moments later, the door opened inward, expelling a cloud of perfumed air so pungent it stung Esta’s eyes. A short, stocky woman stood half-hidden behind the door, peering out at them suspiciously. Her pale, blocky face was heavily made up, rouge so thick that it flaked. A maroon satin wrap trimmed with tiny brass bells covered her hair. Cheap, gaudy rings adorned her fingers. The woman’s gaze lingered on Esta a little longer than she would’ve liked before turning to Ander. “You.”

  “Me,” Ander replied.

  “That all you’re carrying?” she asked as she glanced at the axe on his belt.

  “It’s all I’ve ever needed.”

  The woman grunted. “Leave it with Mick and we can talk. Come in, come in, girl. Don’t gawk at me like that.” The woman shuffled into the building, impatiently gesturing Esta to follow.

  “In you go.” Ander’s fingers felt stiff against her back as he guided her through the door.

  Esta turned her head and dropped her voice to a whisper. “What is this place?”

  “A brothel,” he answered.

  A towering man with his heavily-scarred chest bare save for a worn leather vest, presumably Mick, took Ander’s axe from him as he continued guiding Esta in. The short woman gestured for them to enter a richly-appointed parlor.

  Or at least that was how it looked at first. Esta noticed that everything only appeared to be of high quality—a bureau topped with painted plaster instead of real marble, furniture studded with colored glass beads instead of gems. Another woman, this one tall and in a shocking state of undress, stood next to the parlor’s sole sofa, hands folded in front of her, eyes lowered. Esta quickly averted her gaze, but the woman just stood there, wearing almost nothing at all. Feeling her cheeks flush in embarrassment for the poor woman, Esta forced herself to calm down; it was a brothel, after all. She supposed such garments, if they could even be called that, were normal here.

  Esta whirled to face the short woman, while Ander leaned against the door jamb, arms folded and eyes fixed on Esta.

  “I’m looking for my brother. He’s here to talk to the Council about the Runeway, but we’re not sure where he’s staying.” The words spilled out of her in a rush. Esta didn’t want to stay in this place a moment longer than she had to.

  “The Council, you say?” Smiling, the woman stepped forward and reached up to touch Esta’s cheek. “Such lovely coloring, girl. My, it even looks natural. Where did you say you were from?”

  “Naruvieth. My brother’s the Warden there; he’s the one I’m looking for. If you help me find him, both of us—my brother and I, that is—we would be very grateful.”

  The woman’s smile faded, and she turned to Ander. “The Warden’s sister.”

  His eyes never left Esta as he spoke. “You have my assurance.” Esta’s head swiveled between the two, but she couldn’t make any sense of the exchange.

  The woman sighed and turned back to Esta. “Some tea?” She picked up a small, empty ceramic cup from the end table next to the sofa, handing it to Esta. But before Esta had a grip on it, the woman let go. The cup barely brushed Esta’s fingers before shattering on the hardwood floor.

  Tsk-ing, the short woman put her hands on her hips and shook her head as she surveyed the damage. “An expensive mistake, girl. It’ll cost you. In order to cover the costs, we’ll have to put you to work for a long, long time.” She looked up and met Esta’s gaze. There was a flash of genuine pity in her eyes.

  “What do you mean?” Esta asked in a tiny voice. Though the room hadn’t changed, she felt as if the floor had dropped out from under her. “No, I’m not … I’m looking for my—”

  “Hush, now dear.” The woman turned to Ander. “You’re sure this brother of hers won’t come looking for her?”

  “Wait,” Esta said, but the woman was no longer listening to her. She hadn’t even touched the cup, not really. It wasn’t her fault. She knew that; everyone did. Esta knew then that none of that mattered. The truth didn’t matter to these people. Not even Esta mattered.

  She looked at Ander’s face. His eyes were cold. Unfeeling.

  Everything had been a lie. She was worth less to him than the shattered cup on the floor.

  She bolted for the door. Ander’s fist in her stomach stopped her.

  The room did change then—it spun until Esta was flat on her back. The impact of the hardwood floor jarred her teeth and sent a wave of nauseating pain through her head. Each breath felt like fire. It was a struggle to keep her eyes open. No, she thought. This isn’t real. None of this is real.

  All she could see was the parlor’s ceiling, dark green paint flaking in places to reveal the white plaster underneath. Everything here was so shoddy, so fake. She heard voices, but they seemed disembodied, disconnected to everything she thought she knew. This isn’t real.

  “I said I give you my assurance, and I meant it. He won’t come looking. Officially, she’s already dead. I filed the report at the Waystation. A real tragedy, it was.”

  “Oh? And who was the killer in this sad little story?”

  “Meedith, of course.”

  “Meedith? Won’t she … talk?”

  “You and I have nothing to worry about. Meedith won’t be telling anyone anything.”

  “I see. And who did the deed?”

  “Lannod.”

  “Owly? But Meedith was his own—”

  “Yes. But who better? He’s been wanting to put a knife in her for years. Ever since she burned his tongue out.”

  “Mm. I suppose I shouldn’t be worried about him. But you’re sure no one else can cause us trouble? I’d hate to have to put an end to our arrangements.”

  “Now that you mention it, I might need to put the screws on our stablehand, but I’m sure he’ll come around. Otherwise, we’re clear.”

  “Good.” A pause. “Beth, don’t just stand there. Get her onto the sofa.”

  “Yes, mistress,” said a new, feminine voice.

  Strong but gentle hands pulled Esta up onto the sofa. Once Esta was seated, head resting on the hard armrest smelling faintly of mildew, the voices continued.

  “I suppose you’ll want some sort of finder’s fee, Ander.”

  “Free rein.”

  “Ha! You must be barking mad!”

  “Not for all of your girls. Just this one.”

  “Oh, grown a soft spot for her, have you? Three times a month, no more. No cuts, no bruises. No more bruises, I should say.”

&
nbsp; “Four.”

  A sigh. “You’ll put me in the poorhouse yet, Ander.”

  “Hardly. I should ask for more, for all the coin she’ll bring in.”

  “Well, I know men, and I know you. You’ll want to have your first go right away, yes? She could use a bath first.”

  “No need. I’ll take her as she is.”

  “Fine, it’s up to you. Beth?”

  Those same strong but gentle hands lifted Esta up again, this time leading her up a flight of stairs.

  “Help me,” Esta whispered.

  “Shh. None of that,” came the feminine voice from earlier, speaking softly now from just behind her. “Just don’t think about what’s coming, okay? You’ll get used to it eventually. Everyone does.”

  Esta heard the words but didn’t understand. They made no sense. Such words couldn’t possibly be meant for her.

  Chapter 49: The Visitor

  Yarid wasn’t eager to return to the Council Hall. The three hours that had passed since his meeting with Jordin had left him on edge. Which interfered with his ability to think of a way out. Which left him more on edge, swirling him deeper into a vortex of panic and doubt. By the time he had sat back down in his alcove a quarter hour before the Council reconvened, he felt as bedraggled as if he had spent the last several nights drinking instead of sleeping. And still with no solution in sight.

  He realized, with sudden stark clarity, just how unfair the whole situation was. Why did he have to be responsible for the construction of the Runeway? It wasn’t merely his vote that sent them on this course—though most of the other votes were things he had engineered. Still, he knew just how unfair the world was—just ask Councilor Nangrove—so it didn’t help to sit around, pining after better days. That would only lead to one of his blacker moods. No, all he could do was try to straighten the kinks as much as the rest of the world allowed.

  The lamps had begun to brighten. Gorun had yet to show, which was fine by Yarid; he didn’t need the old man distracting him with his complaints about aching joints and the youths of today. There were two related problems here that Yarid could see. The first was the Naruvian. Even if he were dealt with and tossed in a ditch somewhere, there’s no telling what the rest of Naruvieth would do. If that man was an accurate sample of the whole, they would become maddened with irrational revenge and become even more of a problem than they are now. As much as Yarid preferred a messy solution, he didn’t like causing problems that he himself would end up dealing with.

  The second problem, of course, was the people threatening him. Though the Naruvian was nearly as pompous as Gorun, Yarid didn’t want him dead. His moralism was a predictability; and in the world of the Council of the Wall, predictability was its own sort of chaos, as evinced by the improbable series of events just that morning. If nothing else, Tharadis kept Yarid sharp.

  Those threatening him, however, were an irritant. Bribed servants, knife-wielding bullies … Yarid was not impressed. He preferred a more subtle game. And as often as he found himself waking in the morning and regretting opening his eyes, Yarid was now genuinely terrified of the serious prospect of death. Especially when dealt by someone as lowly as Jordin.

  How embarrassing that would be.

  Could Tirfaun be of use here? Snooping was his specialty, but then it wasn’t exactly a secret that he consorted with Yarid. It was likely that whoever was threatening Yarid had made what they considered to be adequate protections against Patterners before coming out in the open with their threats.

  The Council Hall begin to fill, but Yarid barely noticed. He smiled. His enemies likely had adequate protections against most Patterners. But Tirfaun was extraordinary. Yes, using him might be the best option. Yarid couldn’t simply let such threats stand unanswered.

  * * *

  “Please welcome Shad Belgrith, Governor and Lesser Councilor of Twelve Towers.”

  After her proxy’s remarkable presentation, many of the Councilors—and most of the men in the Pit—watched the twin doors to the Hall open with keen interest. Yarid paid little attention; his mind was filled with plots. How best to use Tirfaun? The man could sniff out the culprit quicker than a bloodhound … but that wasn’t all he was good for. He could wreak retaliation so subtle that his victims would never be able to gather evidence that Yarid had anything to do with it. Except, of course, his knowing smile when he first witnessed their devastation.

  A number of pleasant and violent fantasies paraded before his mind’s eye, and it wasn’t until the Pit was filled with soldiers wearing burnished bronze armor and holding gleaming pikes—much like it been filled with Sentinels earlier in the day—did he remember the real world around him.

  “What in the unholy Abyss is happening, Gorun?” he said quietly but sharply.

  “Hush, you fool. Belgrith’s men are filling the Hall.” The old man looked troubled. “Or did you not see the procession earlier? I thought even someone as oblivious as you would have seen that coming.”

  “Of course I knew about the procession. The only person who knew about it before me was Shad herself. I just … what are they doing in here?”

  “Threatening us, no doubt. It seems the only way people think they can get our attention is through intimidation.” Gorun shook his head, which made Yarid sick to watch. He was surprised it remained attached to Gorun’s skinny little neck. It seemed like memory and willpower were all the kept the man from falling apart. “Things used to be different. When I was on the Lesser Council, we garnered respect, from everyone. No one ever—”

  “Drown it, old man. Your reminiscences annoy me.”

  The door to their personal alcove opened. Both Yarid and Gorun spun around in their chairs in surprise. Two of Shad’s soldiers stepped into the alcove, shoving aside the servants, and shut the door behind themselves. They stood at attention on either side of the door, eyes forward and focused on nothing in particular in the manner disciplined guards had. Like the others, these two had pikes in hand—leaning at an angle to fit under the alcove’s curved ceiling—and swords at their hips. Yarid could smell the oil of their polished plate breastplates and chain skirts.

  He shared a glance with Gorun and noticed that all the other alcoves were equally occupied.

  At least there is no confusion about where Shad stands with the Council, Yarid thought wryly. He tried to remember what it was like to be bored again and wondered why he ever complained.

  A woman walked into the Pit, and even Yarid gawked. Shad Belgrith made Erianna Vondallor look a prudish old woman. Little more than strips of gauzy green fabric covered her feminine bits. Her choice of “clothing” would be scandalous in the bedroom. And here she was, in the Hall of the Council of the Wall. It didn’t help that she had a figure that most women would sell their souls to have and most men would sell their wives to … do things to.

  Yarid realized right away, though, that her choice of clothing was more a matter of practicality than of fashion.

  Nearly every inch of exposed flesh had been pierced.

  Fear seized Yarid, and he struggled to tamp it down. No, he reminded himself. That is just a superstition. Piercings cause sheggam transformation as much as dancing causes the rain to fall. Still, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he watched her make her way to the center of the Hall.

  Body piercings had never been banned outright anywhere in the Accord, but the effect had been the same. Everyone had been told as a child: make sure to wash the wound if you scrape your knee! Never take off a poultice until the healer tells you to! Expose your blood to the air too long and evil will find its way inside you!

  Growing up, Yarid had always thought it was nonsense, but later, he had read the histories from Andrin’s time and before. And everyone knew the tale of the Battle of Skullslide, where the sheggam had only wounded the soldiers of Green regiment. The shegasti power set into their wounds, and the wounded turned. The regiment tore itself apart within a few days. It was a more gruesome defeat than if the sheggam had slaughtered the
m outright.

  Of course, that was a long time ago. The histories had been oral for decades after Andrin’s Wall had been built was civilization was allowed to resume. Most of the accounts of what happened before then were second-hand.

  There were some who doubted the stories. Some even doubted the existence of the sheggam. They were fools, of course; sheggam had been seen south of the Wall twice since the creation of the Accord. Both times were when Knights of the Eye had taken their powers too far. Those idiots claimed to protect the lands of man from the sheggam threat, when they themselves were the only source of such a threat. Yarid hated few people, but he had a special torture chamber in his heart for the blatant stupidity of the Knights of the Eye.

  If there was any proof to the claim that shegasti could worm its way into wounds, it was found in the Knights. That was how they gained their peculiar advantages: a piercing, which was somehow infected with shegasti. The Knights were always the first on the scene whenever the corpse of one of their brothers washed up somewhere, but a few had been examined by outsiders.

  Without fail, there had always been a piercing in their flesh. Sometimes metal, but more than a few bone piercings had been found as well. Yarid shuddered to consider where those bones had come from.

  It was true that the Knights could be prey to the same superstitions as everyone else, and that the piercings were merely the manifestation of that. But both cases of turning had been Knights, and no one else since the beginning of modern written history had turned.

  Likely it had something to do with the fact that they were the only ones to pierce their skin.

  That is, until Shad Belgrith came along.

  Whatever appeal she’d had before Yarid noticed the piercings shriveled up into a ball of nausea and tucked itself into his stomach. Not even the sight of Erianna, standing with her head bowed deferentially behind her mistress, intrigued him. She was guilty by association. Even Shad’s skin seemed to have a sickly, gray pallor to it. No, Yarid thought adamantly. Just a trick of the light.