Dak grunted. “I have noticed that the Turgonian papers are covering it in more depth.”
Yanko didn’t know what to think about that. Would the empire—the republic—use the information of Nuria’s troubles to its advantage? As if the threat of widespread hunger and civil war wasn’t enough to spur Yanko forward on his mission, the notion that his homeland could be invaded by a conquering nation was even more distressing. What if Dak was here for far more than rescuing a few prisoners?
“Yanko?” Arayevo touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The rocks and dust had ceased falling onto the chest-high pile of rubble in the center of their chamber.
“Yes. Just resting.” Or being distracted. One of the two.
He refocused on the hole and went back to drilling out rock. A boom sounded, and he flinched, afraid he had done something wrong, that all the stone would crash down and bury them. But it had come from closer to the front of the prison. He hoped it wasn’t the ledge he had tinkered with earlier, giving out under a barrage of escaping prisoners.
He redoubled his efforts on the hole. They had to get out of here and make sure... make sure of what? He didn’t even know what he might do at this point.
“Getting close?” Arayevo whispered.
“Five feet to go,” Yanko replied, his jaw tense. His whole body was tense. And tired. He pushed through the last few feet without any finesse, knowing only that he had to finish this task and free them before he collapsed. Or blacked out again. Powerful mages weren’t supposed to wilt like dandelions under the sun.
A rush of rocks came barreling down the hole, and he grimaced, afraid he had been too reckless. Dust flooded the chamber and gravel and bigger shards of rock struck the walls. Yanko raised an arm to protect his face at the same time as Dak yanked him farther back into their passage. His muscles were so shaky and enervated that he couldn’t have gotten out of the way if he had wanted to.
A rock rolled at them, knocking over the lantern. Darkness and dust smothered their tunnel. For a long, worrisome moment, Yanko thought he had made a grievous mistake and that Dak had been wrong about their chamber having plenty of room, but the deluge dissipated to a trickle, and finally rocks stopped falling altogether.
Someone pushed past him—Dak, judging by the size of the leg that thumped him on the way by. Yanko wanted nothing more than to lie back, find Arayevo’s lap with his head again, and take a long nap. But the prison guards might have heard that noise. If they had dealt with the escaped crew members, they could even now be charging up top to take a look at the hole—or they could be sending Senshoth back to attack Yanko through the rock wall. That thought alone was enough to spur him to find his feet. Shaking muscles or not, he groped his way to the main chamber. A draft whispered against his cheek, one that smelled of grass and the sea.
“You did it,” Dak spoke from under the hole. “Huh.”
“Save the celebration until later,” Yanko said, though Dak sounded about as celebratory as a constipated cow. “Arayevo? Do you want to climb up first?”
“Because I’m the girl, and you think I’ll fall and you’ll need to catch me?” she asked.
“Uh, because I don’t have the strength for it yet. If you make it, I’ll go next, and then if I fall, Dak can catch me.”
“Is that a requirement of the job?” Dak asked.
“Yes. There’s a bodyguard handbook apparently. I’ll have my brother find you a copy.” Yanko kept from adding, whenever I see him again...
“I may need a boost up.” Arayevo scrambled up the rock pile under the hole. “Maybe not. I can reach the ceiling now. Yanko, how about some light?”
Weary after the gargantuan effort he had made, the simple request made him want to cry. But one did not refuse a beautiful woman—he was fairly certain his brother had a rule about that. Fighting back the blackness that edged his vision, he forced a wan globe of light into existence.
“Thank you.” More spry than any prisoner should be, Arayevo smiled and leaped up, planting her hands on either side of the vertical passage and managing to get the toes of her cracked and faded boots up there too.
Judging by her clothing, the last six months hadn’t been easy on her, but she walked herself up the crooked shaft as if she was well rested and ready for adventure. Dust, grime, and a few rips couldn’t hide the lovely curves of her body. He knew he shouldn’t be looking, but this angle did give him an interesting view.
“Go,” Dak said.
“Uh, right. Of course.” Yanko hoped he hadn’t been too openly admiring that view.
Following Arayevo’s example, he clambered atop the debris pile. His legs went from shaking to quaking when he bent them to jump, but he wasn’t about to ask Dak to give him a boost up. With a heroic effort, he leaped upward, slamming his hands into opposing walls to catch himself. When his back hit a third wall, he realized why he’d had to try so hard. He still had that massive book in his pack. He couldn’t bring himself to toss it back down into the chamber. In part because he didn’t want to hit Dak, but also because he felt bad about betraying Senshoth—even if the telepath had nearly knocked his brain out of his head through his ears after discovering the truth. Maybe he could give Prince Zirabo the book whenever he reached the Golden City, a destination that seemed distressingly remote at the moment. All this effort, and he hadn’t even made it two full days away from his village.
A rope smacked Yanko on the head. It surprised him, and he almost lost his grip. His foot did slip and knock dirt and gravel down into the dark hole.
“Sorry,” Yanko whispered down, knowing Dak had started up underneath him.
“If you drop that book, I’m going to throw you to the sharks before the ship leaves the harbor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
When Yanko reached the top of the hole, he pulled himself out and collapsed on the earth, hardly caring that more of that razor grass stabbed at him. He might have lain there all night—or at least until Dak climbed out—but a loud whoop floated across the top of the cliff. He jerked into a sitting position and looked around for Lakeo. Enough of a moon had come out to illuminate the grass and road with its silvery hue. He did not see Lakeo, but a knot—no, a mob—of men popped into view, running along the path that led up from the prison.
“I recognize some of those people,” Arayevo said. “But, uhm—how many prisoners did you let out, Yanko?”
“Only the ones in the cell you were in. They must have gotten some keys and started letting out others.” Yanko swallowed as he watched no less than four dozen men sprint into the grasslands and run north or south along the coast. More than a few of them carried swords, the types of swords the guards had worn at their belts. Some of those blades, lit by the silvery moonlight, dripped blood into the grass.
Yanko dropped his face into his hands. He should have listened to Dak back in the pub. He’d had to get Arayevo, but the rest... what had he done?
10
“His ship’s this way,” Arayevo said.
She was leading the way now, with Yanko, Lakeo, and Dak following. A few of the crew members were trotting down the boardwalk ahead of them, but more had veered into the city after escaping the prison. Yanko didn’t know if that was because they had friends or relatives to visit or because they simply wanted to enjoy a night of freedom before returning to their captain. He just hoped they did return of their own volition—and soon. It might be after midnight, but Yanko would prefer to leave right away rather than delaying another day.
“It hasn’t been impounded?” Dak asked.
“I don’t think so,” Arayevo said. “The cargo was, and we were, but Minark has a way of finding mouse holes to hide in. He bribes people when necessary. Blackmail on occasion. That’s how we got out of the Turgonian port.” She grinned at Yanko, as if this was a wonderful practice rather than being a crime.
“Minark?” he said, choosing to focus on that instead of the fact that his former babysitter was participating i
n criminal activity. Besides, who was he to judge? Now that he had freed a crowd of bloodthirsty prisoners?
“Yes, that’s the captain’s name. Shark is a nickname, because he’s fast, he says. I’ve also heard it’s because he’s not above biting people in a fight.”
“Do you think the men we let go will return to him tonight?” Yanko asked. “Does he have their loyalty?”
“Well, he has their pay. I don’t know if everyone will come back—the prison experience was a scary reminder of the risks we take when we smuggle goods—but most of them probably will tonight. Nobody had coin or even a change of clothes in prison.”
That sounded promising. Maybe they could leave tonight. Assuming Shark—Minark—would keep his word and take Yanko and his comrades.
“Will they try to mug Yanko again when they come back?” Lakeo asked.
Yanko glowered. Dak, who hadn’t said a word on the walk back to town, snorted—he actually sounded amused. Maybe he had enjoyed flexing his muscles and doing his bodyguard job when those three thugs had jumped out of the bushes.
“Not if he changes out of that robe.” Arayevo smirked back at him.
“I was planning to.” Less because of attempted muggings and more because wearing it made him a fraud.
“Where did you get it, anyway? Some trunk of your mother’s?”
“Yes.” Yanko would give her the rest of the story eventually, since her father and sister were among the people who had been missing in the village, but he would prefer to do that in the privacy of a cabin, not out here where drunks were staggering along the waterfront, occasionally leaning over the side of the boardwalk to vomit into the water.
“It’s beautiful.” Arayevo took hold of the sleeve, rubbing the material between her fingers. Her hand brushed his arm, sending a jolt of electricity through his body. “Bet you could get a thousand zekris for it.”
“What?”
Arayevo lowered her arm. “Does it do anything magical? Maybe you could get even more.”
“You can’t sell warrior mage robes. They’re priceless. Invaluable. Handed down from master to apprentice or older family member to younger family member. Besides, even if you could simply buy one, it’s a crime to be caught wearing them, punishable by years in prison or even death, depending on the degree of fraud you’re trying to pull off.” And yes, he did feel like a hypocrite as soon as the words came out. Hadn’t he just been engaged in fraud of the highest order? That telepath had his name, too, probably his clan name, as well, if he had fished it out of Arayevo’s thoughts. Would the police be waiting for Yanko the next time he set foot on Nurian soil?
In case he had needed another reason to make sure he succeeded at Prince Zirabo’s quest, he had it.
“Oh, does that mean you passed your exams?” Arayevo asked brightly, not reading the chagrin on his face in the shadows between the streetlights.
Her question only brought greater chagrin. Arayevo had never been interested in the mental sciences and hadn’t cared whether he redeemed his family’s honor or not—at least she had never put the pressure on him that his kin had—but he still did not want to admit his failure to her. He groped for a way to avoid answering the question. Weren’t they getting close to Shark’s berth yet? They had passed the cages full of animals. Another quarter mile, and they would be at the giant lizard skeleton and past the docks.
“They bounced him back to the salt mines like an armadillo ball chucked off a cliff,” Lakeo announced.
Yanko groaned and lifted his gaze toward the heavens. Why did he have such helpful comrades?
“I placed at the top of the applicants in the first two events, but I let my pride get in the way during the last event and just missed making the cut-off time.” He hadn’t wanted to admit that failure within Dak’s hearing, either. Couldn’t he succeed brilliantly at something so his family and friends—and Turgonian spy bodyguards—would have a reason to think him competent?
“Oh, I’m sorry, Yanko.” Arayevo touched his sleeve again, this time resting her hand on his forearm.
“Uhm.” That was unexpected. He wanted her admiration rather than her sympathy, but if the latter came with touching, maybe it wasn’t so bad. “Thank you.”
Alas, she lifted her hand to point down one of the docks. “He should be down there, past that boathouse. He likes to choose a berth that isn’t visible from the port authorities’ building.”
“Who doesn’t?” Yanko murmured.
As they headed toward the boathouse, he tried to tame the nervous flutters in his belly, the worries that Shark wouldn’t follow through with the deal or that he wouldn’t believe Yanko and the others had freed the whole crew. It would have been much better if he were leading them all back with him, perhaps tied together by a long rope.
“Minark?” Arayevo called. “Are you there?”
“Quiet, woman,” someone growled from the shadows of the boathouse. The surly man had a heavy accent made heavier by drink, judging by the smell of him. He pulled his legs up to his chest and tugged a blanket over his head. Or maybe that was a tarp.
Paying him no mind, Arayevo trotted up the gangplank of the two-masted schooner docked directly to the side of the boathouse. Lamps burned intermittently on the docks, showing the wooden hull to be painted a deep blue, but none of the lanterns on the vessel itself were lit, and Yanko did not see anyone on the deck. The name across the bow read: Falcon’s Flight. Since it shared his brother’s name, Yanko might have found it auspicious, but the deep gouges and scorch marks promised the vessel had seen a lot of trouble. It appeared old, as well, the wood worn beneath the paint, and he wondered if it truly was a fast ship.
Yanko waited on the dock with Lakeo. Maybe they should have searched for the captain at the Lady’s Skirts first. Or maybe he was drunk and sleeping under a tarp somewhere like the grumpy man.
Surprisingly, Dak had stopped at the corner of the boathouse. At first, Yanko assumed it was because he wanted a view up and down the main dock, but he was talking to someone. The grump from under the tarp.
“What’s he saying?” Yanko whispered.
“Don’t know,” Lakeo said, “but it’s not in Nurian.”
If Dak was going to continue attempting to smuggle Turgonians out of the port, Yanko wished he would pick less surly ones. He wouldn’t invite that man along, would he? The grump wasn’t in prison or chained to an oar bank anywhere. Couldn’t he leave on his own, if he wished?
Yanko eased a couple of steps in that direction, trying to hear a few words of the conversation. The man was speaking quite animatedly now, pointing at the warships lining the harbor exit as he did so. Yanko only knew a spattering of Turgonian, but he didn’t think the man was speaking that language. This was less guttural. Not as singsong as Nurian, but somewhere in between with lots of short words.
When the man wound down, Dak said a phrase in the same language, then walked up the dock to join Yanko and Lakeo.
“Kendorian?” Yanko guessed, less because he had recognized any other words and more because of the clump of shaggy blond hair that was poking out from under the tarp. It was also one of the other major nations in the world and a neighbor to Turgonia, though as far as Yanko knew, the Kendorians weren’t allies with the Turgonians. Nobody was allies with the Turgonians, not willingly, anyway.
Dak looked at him for a few seconds before answering. “Yes.”
“He have anything interesting to say?”
“The freighter he was working on was blown up when the rebel ships first came down.” Dak pointed toward a wreck stuck on a rock near two of the warships. “A lesson to those who thought the blockade might not be serious. He swam ashore and is waiting for another ship to be heading in his direction, so he can work his way home. That suggests the rebels don’t have a relationship with Kendor. Some people thought an outside force might be financing their insurrection, but perhaps it’s all internal.”
Though Dak didn’t take out a notepad and record anything, Yanko couldn’t
help but get the feeling he was committing everything he learned to memory. For a report that might be sent home from the Kyatt Islands?
“Some people thought?” Yanko repeated. “Who were these some people?”
Dak was too busy surveying the warships waiting out there—they all had their lanterns lit—to answer. Or maybe he was only pretending he was too busy to answer.
“Yanko.” Arayevo waved from the railing. “He’s here. Come on up.”
“Is he sober?” Yanko trotted up the gangplank.
“No. He was up in his cabin sleeping off his drink, but he said he would put on trousers and come out to talk to us.”
Lakeo elbowed Yanko. “He’s putting on clothes for you. I had no idea you were such an honored guest.”
“An honored passenger, I hope.”
“Maybe the robe will impress him into giving you a better deal.”
Yanko would settle for any deal at all.
Arayevo walked around the deck, lighting lanterns while they waited. Even though Yanko’s senses were weary, he felt something on the ship, some Made artifact. He couldn’t see what it might be, but it reminded him of the energy source on his father’s carriage. Maybe the captain had something that helped with speed.
Eventually, a door banged, and Shark walked out on deck. He had indeed put on trousers, and he jangled with each step, his charms bumping and clinking together.
“Hello, Minark,” Arayevo said with a cheerful wave.
“Good to see you, girl.” The captain veered toward her first, clasped her hands, and kissed her on the cheek. He held her gaze for a long moment.
Yanko shifted uncomfortably. They couldn’t be... more than coworkers, captain and crew, could they?
“I knew they couldn’t hold you,” Minark said.
“Of course not.” Arayevo kissed him back, also on the cheek, but there weren’t many inches of skin between cheeks and lips. And she hadn’t kissed Yanko on the cheek. Why would she want to kiss some smarmy smuggler captain? With a big beard. That couldn’t feel good to brush against.
Beginnings: Five Heroic Fantasy Adventure Novels Page 122
