by Will Wight
He tried to roll off his bed and grab the pistol that he knew would be next to him, but his wounds screamed in protest. His head pounded so badly that his vision actually dimmed for a second, and he was forced to lean back against his pillow.
Reader’s burn, he realized, and as soon as he accepted the truth, reality came flooding back. There was nothing wrong—he was onshore. Aboard The Testament, the motion of the boat never stopped, and there was no such thing as silence.
He relaxed and let the pain fade away. Normally, if he’d rolled around like this, he would have woken Jerri immediately. She would be the one to reassure him, to make fun of him for worrying when everything was peaceful.
But she wasn’t here. She would be locked in some secure corner of the palace by now.
So something was wrong after all, just nothing new.
Thoughts of Jerri shook up his memory, reminding him of the afternoon, and he once again tried to sit up. Again, pain convinced him to stay where he was.
What had happened? The Optasia had reacted strangely to the attack...an attack that shouldn’t have landed in the first place. And why was Jerri there, in the Emperor’s chambers, sealed in by an Elder wall that had been there since before she left the Gray Island?
None of that made any sense, so there was only one possibility. An Elder was pulling strings, shaping events directly instead of letting them fall out as they naturally would. Why? He had no idea, and his head hurt too badly for further speculation.
Soft light from a distant quicklamp filtered in around the edges of his window, so it must have been the dead of night. He surrendered himself to the pain, hoping sleep would take him quickly.
Just before he shut his eyes again, the window creaked open, and a man hopped in. He wore his hair long, and in one hand, he carried a dagger in a reverse grip. Fresh blood dripped from the weapon’s tip.
Calder was so shocked that, for a moment, he refused to believe what he was seeing. Not that it was so unusual for someone to try and kill him—that was happening more and more, these days—but that the would-be assassin had come exactly when he woke up.
What were the odds? Seconds earlier or later, and he would have seen nothing. Heard nothing. This man would have cut him in half.
Calder gave up questioning his good fortune as his fight instincts kicked in. The killer turned to him, striding confidently over to the bed, flipping his knife in one hand. As he got closer, Calder realized he was humming a jaunty tune.
I have one shot, Calder thought. He didn’t have time to waste struggling out of bed or fighting against his pain; he had to reach his weapon, and he had to do it in one movement. That was his only chance of survival.
When he’d gathered enough strength, he clenched his jaw against the pain and rolled off the bed.
His assailant caught him and tossed him back. “Whoops, there you go. Up up up.”
The man didn’t seem at all surprised or thrown off by Calder’s escape attempt; in fact, he seemed not to care at all. He pressed lightly on Calder’s chest with one hand, but no matter how Calder struggled, he couldn’t raise his chest an inch. He tried to gather the breath for a scream, but the attacker pushed the air from his lungs. The attacker winked at him and raised the knife.
And a shadow slit his throat with a bronze blade.
Calder had never realized it before, having never seen an assassination from quite this close, but slicing a man’s throat open took quite a bit of strength. The shadow ripped through his neck like a butcher slicing meat, and warm blood showered Calder’s face. And most of the rest of his body too, he supposed. Not that he was in any condition to complain.
He scraped the blood from his eyes, ignoring the pain from his injuries and the insistent hammer-blows of his headache, desperate to see.
When his eyes cleared, he was in for a surprise: the man was still on his feet. His throat was split almost to the spine, but he held it together with one hand. The other smashed back against the black-clad figure behind him.
The killer with the bronze blade flew backward with the force of a cannonball, smashing a crater-sized dent into the wall and falling limply to the floor. Frowning as though the whole mess irritated him, the man with the slit throat collapsed a moment later.
Leaving a blood-soaked Calder alone in his bedroom with two corpses.
“What just happened?” His voice came out in a croak, and of course no one answered him. Gingerly, favoring his newly stressed wounds, he reached out for his cutlass. Whoever had brought him here was also considerate enough to leave his weapon within reach, so he was able to tug the hilt out of its sheath without much trouble.
A second later, he poked at his attacker’s body with the tip of his sword. No movement. Surely he should be dead, given the amount of blood he’d lost, but Calder would have never expected him to continue standing with his head halfway severed. No point in taking chances.
Calder poked him again, harder this time, and almost shrieked as the other body groaned and lifted a hand to its head.
Not just one person who survived a blow that should have killed them, but two. He should take up gambling; clearly the laws of probability were meaningless around him.
The shadow pulled off the black cloth that had surrounded its head, revealing a mess of blond hair. Meia looked up at him, orange eyes flashing with reflected light. “Champions,” she said, with a grimace of distaste. “I’m sorry. I should have been more thorough.”
“I would have thought a slit throat was thorough enough.” A Champion. His body chilled as he realized how close he’d come to death. If Meia hadn’t been there...if it had been someone other than Meia, the Consultant who could fight Urzaia...
This was far too many coincidences for one day.
Meia hauled herself to her feet. “I’ve never met anyone that could survive that. But let’s be sure, shall we?” She crept over to the man’s body, pulling needles from her pouch.
A poisoned needle went into both thighs and both wrists before she sliced the tendons on the back of each ankle. Calder prided himself on a strong stomach, but he looked away. He’d seen enough for one night.
When she was done, she walked over to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. “The hallway is unguarded. That’s a pity. He killed eight Guards, two Watchmen, and one Magister that I’m aware of.”
Eleven people, killed just to reach a twelfth. This was all too much for Calder to take in at one time. He struggled out of bloody sheets, hobbling over to the wardrobe. He was practically naked in front of Meia, wearing only a pair of shorts, but he couldn’t possibly have cared any less.
“I was going to ask how he got in, but I guess that explains it.” His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t open the wardrobe—fear, pain, exhaustion, and the rush of danger combined so that he was surprised his limbs didn’t shake themselves off completely.
Meia moved to the window, closed and bolted it, and then returned to the door. “It’s a good thing it was a Champion, in a way. They don’t concern themselves with stealth, they just kill a straight line to their target. As soon as I noticed him, I followed. I would never have seen a Gardener.”
And she wouldn’t have stopped one either, he was sure, but that did bring up an interesting question. “How did you notice him? Where were you?”
She spared him a glance, saw that he was frozen in front of the wardrobe, and reached over to pull the door open for him. “I grew up in the palace for years. I could stay here for the rest of my life, and no one would see me if I didn’t want them to.”
Which didn’t exactly answer his question, but it was likely the closest he would get. Calder removed the servant’s uniform, the one that had been waiting for him earlier, and quickly pulled it on. His skin was tacky with blood, so these clothes would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He felt too vulnerable without anything on.
This will be the third set of clothes I’ve destroyed since I arrived here. An idle thought, but almost enough to make him
laugh.
“That explains how you were nearby, but you actually saw an intruder and saved my life. That’s not your job.” In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if her job was the exact opposite.
She frowned at him. “Right now, my job is to keep the Optasia out of the hands of the Elders. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
“Trust me, I don’t want Elder tentacles on the throne any more than you do.”
Meia turned back to survey the hallway through the cracked door. “Then we’re on the same side.”
As Calder finished buttoning up his red-and-gold jacket, he considered Meia. Over the last month or so, since he’d found out that Consultant assassins were after his life, he’d thought of the Consultant’s Guild as heartless, bloodthirsty monsters who were only pretending to serve their clients.
Now, he was reminded of the Consultants as he’d always heard of them. The most loyal Guild in the Empire; the only one that had always, through the past two thousand years, had the Emperor’s complete trust. Everyone knew a Consultant would guide you and help you, and would remain utterly dedicated to your cause...for the duration of their contract.
More than one of the great classical philosophers had words of praise for the Consultants. If he could get one on his side, even if the rest of their Guild opposed him, that could be a huge advantage.
A distant door slammed open, and booted feet pounded down the hallway, toward Calder’s room. Meia eased the door shut, sliding away and over to the window. “Imperial Guards. They’ll take you somewhere safe.”
“Wait!” Calder called before she vanished. She froze, one foot on the open windowsill. “Why leave?”
She looked at him like he was asking why she sharpened her knives. “For the same reason I disappeared aboard your ship. Our Guilds are in conflict, and maybe soon open war. If they catch me here, they’ll try to take me into custody, and I’ll have to kill them.”
The boots were closer to his door now, and raised voices had begun to call his name. He motioned for her to stay where she was. “Stay there. Don’t leave.”
She gave him a doubtful look.
“Trust me. Please.”
He walked to the center of the room, casually putting himself between the door and Meia. If he wasn’t mistaken, they would jump to conclusions any second now.
Sure enough, a Guard with massive lion paws for feet kicked the door in a second later, brandishing a musket and bayonet in his hands. He looked past Calder and gave a shout, leveling his gun.
Calder showed his empty palms. “Lower your weapon, Guardsman.”
“Move out of the way, sir!” the man shouted, stepping forward as though to move Calder physically out of the way.
Calder walked into him voluntarily, so that the bayonet rested at the end of his chest. The Guard jerked the weapon away hastily. “This woman saved my life. He tried to kill me.” He jerked his thumb toward the Champion’s corpse.
More Guards poured into the room, and two immediately checked the body for vitals. “Slit throat,” one said.
“Champion,” the second responded.
“Good point.”
Together, they drew swords and hacked the limbs from the man’s body. Shivering, Calder turned away. “Excuse me, my friend and I would like to be taken somewhere else. I’m not feeling particularly safe in here, for some reason.”
The Guard’s gaze hardened when it moved over Calder’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir, we need to ask her some questions. Standing orders.”
“Why’s that?”
“She’s a Consultant, sir. One of the enemy.”
“Ah, I can see your confusion.” He stepped back, presenting Meia with one arm outstretched. “She’s not a Consultant at all. She’s a Navigator. A member of my crew, in fact, my new...cook.”
Meia’s eyes were back to a human blue, and she stared at him as though she could focus hard enough to Read his Intent. Maybe she could; was she a Reader? He had no idea. But if she was a Reader and a trained assassin and a warrior with enough enhancements to fight toe-to-toe with Urzaia Woodsman, that just wouldn’t be fair.
The Guard looked uneasy. Calder took advantage, pressing him while he was uncomfortable. “Let’s go, Guardsman. Lead me and my cook to safety.” He held a hand to his temple against a throb of sudden pain. “And a medical alchemist, as soon as possible. I’d like to kill this pain yesterday, if that can be arranged.”
While the Guard was uncertain when faced with Meia, he knew exactly what to do with an injured ally. They practically carried him down the hall, sending for the palace alchemists, and Meia followed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nine years ago
Half a year after delivering Urzaia to the arena, Calder was finally starting to learn his way around the ship. He could furl the sail without tangling it nine times out of ten, and he could steer his way through a predatory coral reef without putting his hand on the wheel.
More importantly, Jerri had taken to the work of a pilot—she scanned the horizon, charted their course, studied their position by the stars, and logged whatever deadly creature or impossible phenomenon they encountered during the day. She enjoyed, as she called it, “planning a safe route through an endless maze of horror and death.”
Calder had even grown used to the two monsters in his life: the Lyathatan and Andel. The Elderspawn, it turned out, existed in a perpetual state of malice and burning frustration. It had very little to do with anything Calder did. So long as he allowed the creature to snag the occasional shark and otherwise let it sleep, he and the Lyathatan remained on good terms. He still got the impression that it was plotting something ominous at all times, and that its service to Calder was but one step in some insidious game, but he was beginning to realize that its game wouldn’t end for another few centuries at least. He couldn’t bring himself to care about that.
Andel was a little trickier to handle, in some ways. The problem was, he was just too useful. He tended to assume responsibility for every problem as soon as it arose, so he would often have fixed whatever-it-was before Calder was even aware. This undermined his authority in the eyes of the passengers, so Calder tried to take charge whenever possible.
But having a crew member who was too skilled was a good problem to have, especially when the total crew numbered precisely three. Calder conducted most everything related to the handling of the ship himself, but passengers still ended up working for the duration of their journey.
Except this passenger.
Mr. Valette looked like a schoolteacher. He was thin as a fence post, with expensive spectacles and long gray sideburns, and he had a tendency to frown at Calder as though expressing deep, heartfelt disappointment. Only one thing ruined the impression: his long, black coat.
He refused to work, refused even to acknowledge it when Calder asked him to carry a box or tighten a line. He would simply frown and walk away. The passenger seemed to spend most of his time scribbling in a journal, which he kept tucked away in the inner pocket of his coat.
Two weeks into the journey, Calder finally mustered up the courage to ask his passenger a question. “If you’ll pardon me asking, Mr. Valette, what does the Blackwatch need in the town of, ah...” He had to glance down at the log to remember the name of their destination. “...Silverreach?”
Mr. Valette slapped his journal closed, glaring at him. “I would pardon you asking, Captain Marten, but I doubt my Guild Head would do the same. She would be irritated with you, in fact. If you had ever met her, you would know how terrifying a prospect that is. So let’s keep our questions to ourselves, hm?”
Calder still had nightmares about his first meeting with Bliss, but he couldn’t admit that to this Watchman. Valette wasn’t the only one who preferred to avoid sensitive questions. “That’s understandable, Mr. Valette, and thank you for the warning. But considering the nature of your business, this information could affect the safety of everyone onboard. I wouldn’t want to run into any trouble with Elderspawn, a
fter all.”
The passenger scratched at one of his sideburns, considering this. “I do not anticipate trouble,” he said at last. He slipped the journal into his coat, rising to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my cabin. The weather does not look like it will be kind to ink and paper.”
Calder glanced up to the stormclouds, which rolled in a slow, spiraling whirlpool. There was a storm on its way, but it wouldn’t be likely to harm his book. Clouds like those meant that the rain would come in reverse.
He headed over to Jerri, who was slumped over the ship’s wheel, an expression of absolute boredom on her face.
“I’ve seen two fish today,” she said, as he approached. “One of them ate the other.”
“Looking for lives of excitement and adventure? Join the Navigators!”
She smiled out of the corner of her mouth. “At least it looks like rain today. That’s the only difference from yesterday.”
“And we won’t even get wet.” He leaned against the railing next to the wheel, watching her. “What do you think of Mr. Valette?” he asked, voice low.
“Reclusive and shady, like every other Watchman I’ve ever known. All of them. No exceptions.”
“No wonder they kicked me out. So you don’t want to know what’s happening in Silverreach?”
Jerri looked out over the sea, her eyes narrowed. She began to tap her fingers, drumming a rhythm on the ship’s wheel. Just when Calder was about to break the silence, she spoke. “I’ve...read about Silverreach before. Somewhere.”
It wasn’t too surprising that Jerri would have read something he hadn’t, but he hadn’t thought Silverreach was that significant of a town. “Is it famous?”
Her eyes flicked to him and then back to the horizon. “Not famous. But if I’ve heard about it, something must have happened there. We should do some research.”
Calder thought about the pathetic four books they kept on the entire ship. “By ‘research,’ you mean...”
“We should steal Valette’s journal.”
