“Where are they headed?” she asked one of her men.
“Port Ravenaught, miss.”
Megrithe nodded thoughtfully. “Very well,” she said, turning away.
“Aren’t we going to follow them?”
“There’s time,” she called back over her shoulder before stepping up into the coach. “I am tired of hunting blind.”
She picked up a piece of the iron that she had brought with her and examined it again as she thought. She could not stage a raid on a royal vessel and keep the Guild’s strained relations with the King’s laws intact. If that had been a possibility, she would have jumped into the water and swam to the cutter if she had to. The thieving neneckt must have known that.
She could certainly follow them to Port Ravenaught, where the Guild house there would honor her authority, and it seemed like that was what she must do. For the past three years, her record had been perfect. She was not going to let the northern port, as seedy and unsavory as it may be, deter her from keeping her reputation unblemished.
But Ravenaught could not possibly be the source for such high quality metalwork. It may be a convenient place for Swinn and his friend to try to escape, but unless something significant had changed in the year and a half since she had been there last, there were no operations within a hundred miles of the city sophisticated enough to produce what she held in her hands.
And then there was the sea demon, she mused, turning the metal sheet over and over as she stared at it. His involvement was very curious. What did he think he could get from flashing a Guild card in Niheba?
That was, of course, where he must be going. There had been rumors about the neneckt making false iron on Niheba for years, but the Guild had no jurisdiction there. Not unless they were chasing a credible suspect who tried to seek asylum. Did the neneckt fancy himself the pursuer instead of the pursued?
Megrithe smiled as she placed the metal on the bench beside her. That Swinn fellow would not be a problem, but if she was going to chase one of the sea people to its homeland, she would need more than a sketch of one of its many faces, which were as changeable as the ocean that bore it.
She would need its true name – the one that marked it out as an individual no matter what appearance it took – and the black rose tattoo Godefroy had mentioned would lead her directly to it.
The sun was still high in the sky as she clutched the handle of her basket and tried to avoid the piles of droppings – horse, rat, and human – that dotted the path through a neighborhood so long abandoned that it had given up all but one of its ghosts.
Megrithe had never seen an eallawif before. She didn’t really know if she could find it by following the old lore her grandmother liked to use in order to frighten her brothers and sisters on cold, creeping nights.
She had brought an abundance of gifts: the mandatory thick, sweet cream and the three loaves of bread, along with a silver brooch with crystal beads, a set of polished pewter combs, and a beautiful gossamer scarf that she might well keep for herself if the eallawif didn’t accept it.
Megrithe hoped that she would, of course. And she hoped that she had the right one. There were three or four of them in Paderborn at any given time, but they were tied to no place and no season, wandering freely where they would as they preyed on the hopes of the luckless with nowhere else to turn.
The noise of something scrabbling in a pile of desiccated refuse made her shriek, though she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. She had come alone, and there was no one kick the enormous mouse away from her as it scuttled over the toe of her shoe, making her shiver in disgust as it disappeared again into some invisible bolthole.
“Hideous things,” she whispered as she started to move on, but she fell silent again when the very smallest, merest echo of music reached her ears.
She followed the sound, weaving through whatever was left of the buildings, ignoring the heartbreak of living quarters broken open like overripe fruit, spilling their meager contents into the forgotten reaches of history. Even if she had the desire, she didn’t believe she had the leisure to stop and lament the filthy monuments to poverty and despair. The music was deeply, irresistibly compelling, and the beauty drove her onward through the wrack and ruin.
“Mistress, I beg – I implore thee,” she called, trying to remember the formulaic greeting when she had reached the source of the melody, a tent-like structure made from an ancient tarp, partially eaten through with a bluish mold that stank of old bread and urine. “May I enter?”
The song stopped. “You may,” the eallawif said after a long pause.
Megrithe took a deep breath and ducked into the tent, holding the basket out before her like a shield. “May these please you, Mistress.”
The eallawif was sitting cross-legged at the back of the tent, hidden in shadow. She did not rise to examine Megrithe’s offerings, and that made her very nervous indeed.
“You wish no bargain,” the eallawif said instead.
“No, Mistress. I merely seek information.”
“Information has a price. What shall you give me for it, inspector?” the eallawif asked, the last word tumbling from her mouth like a poison.
“I have brought you gifts, Mistress.”
The eallawif stood then, and came into the light as she looked down at the basket. Megrithe tried not to stare at her, but it was no use. She was strikingly beautiful. Beautiful enough to make Megrithe feel small and ashamed of herself for ever trying to aspire to be anything near as lovely, with her false, hot-pressed curls and her artfully tailored silks.
She was not incurably vain by nature, but beauty was a chief requirement for maintaining her position in the Guild, and she had put much effort into enhancing her natural assets to meet her employer’s demands. But what folly it was to adorn herself with rouge and creams and daubs of scent when something so achingly divine existed with so little effort. It made her hang her head in despair. It nearly made her cry.
“These have bought you my audience,” the eallawif said, twining the scarf through her fingers. “But you desire a greater prize.”
“You or one of your sisters has had dealings with a neneckt recently, Mistress. I wish to know its true name.”
Megrithe had to fight to keep her hands down from her ears as the eallawif laughed. It was a chiming, liquid sound that made her feel like she was drowning. The spirit woman was laughing at her – she was laughing at everything that Megrithe held dear: the excitement of the chase, the glory of the capture, the tempered gratitude of the poor and innocent whom she had saved from being duped by roguish, swindling men.
What was her mission in the face of such thorough scorn? It was nothing. She was nothing, and all her joys were small and stinking. She felt a tear slither down her cheek, and shook her head to shed the droplet from her skin before it cut a visible path through the cosmetics on her face. Megrithe had always known that an eallawif could rip the heart out of her supplicants. She just hadn’t known it was as easy as that.
“Please, Mistress,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
The eallawif took a step closer, taking Megrithe’s chin in her hand and turning her face side to side, examining it closely. “What do you love, Megrithe?” she said softly.
“My work,” she replied after a moment, trying not to meet the woman’s eyes. “It is all I have. And I will lose it already if I fail in this task. There is nothing else you can take away from me.”
“You are wrong,” the eallawif said. “There is always something. But I am feeling generous, and I will give you what you wish.”
“You will?”
The eallawif turned back to the basket, picking up the brooch and playing with the pin as she sat back down in her place. “The neneckt will try to cheat me. This I know. If you capture it, you will bring it to me. If not…well, you will punish yourself better than I could, I suspect.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Megrithe agreed glumly. There was hardly anything more true.
“It is
called Nievfaya,” the eallawif told her. “You may know it as Faidal. It has also called itself Elargwyd and Elwiese. By these names has it committed many crimes. That is not my concern. It has promised me a locket. I want it.”
“A locket?”
“I have given you all the information you require. Be satisfied.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Then our business is concluded. I will only ask a greater price if you end up failing me. Do you understand?”
“I do, Mistress. Thank you, ma’am. I am eternally grateful.”
“As well you might be.”
Megrithe curtseyed so low that her nose nearly touched the fetid floor. Her heart was beating so fast that her lungs felt like they were being squeezed by a giant’s hand as she straightened up and fled the tent as quickly as was decent, hurrying half a block before she dared to stop and breathe properly.
As she started walking again, a smile began to grow on her lips. She had gotten what she needed, and it was powerful information indeed.
A neneckt’s true name was the most intimate thing about it, rarely revealed – by choice, at least – to anyone other than its nest mates and its spouse if it chose to join in the neneckt equivalent of marriage. It was as sacred to the sea people as a young woman’s virginity was to the land-dwelling men: a precious secret, a defining trait; a gift to be given but never taken away.
And now it was a weapon. She didn’t know exactly how she would use it yet, but it meant that no matter what type of body the neneckt chose to hide behind, she would know it. It could not deny who it was when asked. It could not run from her forever.
The smile didn’t leave her as she ran up the steps of the Guild House to pack some things for her journey. Would Nievfaya lead her to the hidden secrets of Niheba? Would Megrithe be the first – would she be the only one to crack the mystery of the red iron flooding her city’s shores? What renown would be hers if she could hold back a tide thought impossible to stem! She would get a mention in the Guild’s eternal annals, for certain. She might even be promoted. The thought made her skip with joy as she approached the door to her room.
The key stuck in the lock for a moment, and she sighed as she wiggled it around, trying to dislodge whatever speck of dirt was impeding her. It was an old door in an old house, and it wasn’t unusual to have to fight with it.
“Oh, come on,” she said, growing frustrated as she kept turning the handle and pushing the key in farther, ramming her hip against the solid wood before the door fell open with a strange, scraping click under her weight, and an instant later she screamed in terror and boiling, searing pain as the entire room suddenly burst into smoke and fire.
***
Arran tightened the strip of cotton he had wound around his hand and tied off the end again, sticking his knuckles in his mouth to clean the blood before he turned back towards his opponent to the sound of cheering. It was hardly a fair fight: the slender topman just didn’t have the muscle to match him, and Arran felt a little bad when his next jab sent the man flying backwards into the ring of spectators, who caught him and bounced him forward again.
Arran waited as his rival tried to get his balance back, but the flickering in his eyes made it clear that wasn’t going to happen. He reached out to steady the fellow, but ended up practically carrying him towards his corner as the tin plate serving as a bell was struck and the defeated man’s supporters groaned at losing yet another bet.
“I think we can call it a day,” Arran said once the other boxer had regained his senses, giving him a weak smile and a nod to signal he was finished. “I’ve got watch in an hour, anyway.”
“Already?” Faidal asked distractedly as he collected slips from those who had bet against them. “You can get another hundred out of ‘em easy if you stick around.”
“Leave it for next time,” Arran said, drinking deeply from a mug of cold water before leaning forward and pouring the rest over his head to sluice away the heat and grime. “It’s no fun if we take it all at once.”
“Honestly, I didn’t really peg you as a boxer,” Faidal commented as he counted up the chits.
“Why not? It’s fun. Besides, there are few other situations where it’s acceptable to beat the tar out of someone. I’ll take it where I can get it.”
“True. Here are yours,” he added, holding out the pile of papers. They were just handwritten promise notes, intended to be redeemed at the end of the voyage when the sailors received their payment for the voyage, but they were as good as gold as far as anyone on the ship was concerned, and he hurriedly tucked them away in his shirt before any disappointed gambler tried to snatch some away again.
“You better get back,” Arran said, feeling the spreading bruise on his brow and wincing. He was good, but he wasn’t invincible.
“Right. See you later,” Faidal said, giving him a little wave as he headed back towards the storeroom that had been converted into his quarters for the journey.
The first lieutenant was something of a fanatic for a wager, and was not always so concerned with what his strict and sanctimonious captain had to say. Occasionally, he let Faidal witness the games when the lower deck took to a fight or a race for their entertainment, as long as he was back in his make-shift cell before anyone noticed. Faidal had been very good about sticking to the rule, as far as Arran knew, and Captain Bomont either hadn’t noticed or had decided not to say anything about it.
Arran lay back in his hammock and unwound the padding on his hands as he relaxed a little. The Celia was somewhere just south of Port Ravenaught, hugging the coast as it traversed the cantankerous waters surrounding the remote city. Third watch was no treat during the long, gloomy nights, often complicated by thick fog rolling onto the land from the ocean, but he was still enjoying himself a lot more than he thought he could, considering the circumstances.
Being master of his own concerns was all very well in its way, but with all the cares that currently weighed on him, it was nice to have someone else giving the orders. He worked hard and did what he was told, deferring to Bomont’s unnecessary reprimands when he happened to fix his eye on his unexpected passenger, and carefully counted down the days until the moon turned, growing ever more anxious when poor winds stymied their progress.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Simon told him, plucking at the rope that held the hammock up and making it quiver. “We’re up in an hour.”
“I know,” Arran replied, stifling a yawn. “Wake me then, will you?”
“Hell no. I’m busy,” he scoffed, sitting down on a locker and taking out his knife, fishing in the bag at his feet for his half-carved whale tooth, in which he took immense pride.
“You’ll be keeping me awake with all that scraping anyway,” Arran said, stuffing his pillow over his head as the ear-piercing squeak of the blade against the ivory filled the berth.
“Serves you right. I lost three pounds on you tonight.”
“That’ll teach you to bet against me.”
Simon scratched the knife down the tooth with extra force by way of reply, and Arran groaned.
The next thing he knew, though, Simon was waking him up with more or less good grace. The bell was sounding, and he tumbled out of his hammock with an aching head from the bruise on his temple that had deepened during his rest.
The watch crept by as slowly as possible. He spent most of it squinting at pieces of rope under the dim glow of a little lantern, trying to work on a series of splices with an inadequate marlinspike while ignoring his sore head. It was a dull job, and made for a dull shift, despite the occasional interruption from someone who either applauded or condemned his performance earlier in the evening. He kept looking up at the moon.
Dawn brought him a great deal more satisfaction, however. Not only did he finish his task, but the barest glimpse of Ravenaught’s watch tower, dark against the light of the rising sun, prompted the lookout to holler at the top of his lungs that they had almost arrived.
Arran was even more relie
ved that he had thought he would be. The city was just a stopover on the way to Niheba, but it was one leg of the journey completed, and it had only taken seven days. There was plenty of time. There would be plenty of time.
Long after the ship had tied up and the docking duties had been completed, he was sitting in his hammock again as the rest of the sailors were preparing for a night ashore. They would be staying in Ravenaught for two days to replenish their supplies. That meant some leisure time for the hands, and that meant liquor and loose women.
Arran wasn’t particularly looking forward to it. The lower deck would turn into a tawdry saloon all night long, and he wasn’t going to be able to get any sleep. Not to mention the fact that it was going to eat into the crew’s theoretical earnings, and at least half of the money he earned from the fight would go up in smoke.
Besides, it wouldn’t help him keep a low profile when there were strangers aboard, especially if he refused the attentions of the very solicitous young ladies that flocked to such gatherings. That would stick out as odd, and anyone looking for information on a wanted man knew that prostitutes offered more than just their affections for a few coins. Being appropriately genial in such situations normally didn’t bother him very much – quite the opposite, sometimes – but he just wasn’t in the mood. He wanted to be moving. He wanted to be free.
“Ain’t you coming?” Simon asked, tugging at the collar of his shore-going jacket, which was stiff and shrunken from being rarely worn and poorly washed. “Bet you could get one of the leftover girls if you scrubbed up right.”
“That’s all right. I’m sure I couldn’t fight them away from you.”
“If you say so,” Simon shrugged, and left him on his own again.
As the ship emptied out, he lay down and tried to close his eyes, knowing he would only have a few hours of quiet before they all came back again, trailing the stench of bad beer. But sleep wouldn’t come, of course, not even after twenty minutes of groaning quietly as he punched his pillow into shape and rolled over again and again, hoping each time that his new position would be the key to his rest. It was too early, and his mind wouldn’t stop its tedious, repetitive workings.
Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1) Page 12
