Eventually he gave up and fished a pack of cards out of Simon’s trunk. Faidal couldn’t go anywhere. Maybe he would be up for a game or two to pass the time.
“Faidal? You in there?” he called, knocking on the neneckt’s door. “I’ve got a bottle of rum, a deck of cards, and a stack of useless promise notes you might be interested in.” He waited for a response, but frowned when he didn’t get one. “Faidal?”
He put his ear to the door. Maybe he was sleeping – assuming neneckt really slept, and he didn’t know that for certain – but there were no sounds of quiet breathing.
Arran turned around and went up on deck. “Have you seen Faidal?” he asked one of the hands unlucky enough to be chosen for duty the first night in port. “The neneckt,” he added when the man looked blank.
“No. Hasn’t shown a fish eye since we left Paderborn. He’s in his cell, ain’t he?”
“Right,” Arran said, smiling brightly. “Of course.”
“You want to swap if you ain’t going nowhere?” the man asked hopefully.
“Sorry. Can’t. Good luck.”
The empty ship was good for more than just sleeping. It meant the armorer’s tools were left unattended, and it meant no one could see him pick up a slender awl with some sort of flat hook on the opposite end.
Lock picking wasn’t his greatest skill, but neither was locksmithing for whoever designed the closure on Faidal’s door. It only took him a few minutes to pry the metal apart, with a complete lack of outcry from Faidal within. Either he was an incredibly sound sleeper, or Arran’s question had already been answered by the silence.
The room was empty, as expected. Arran slipped inside and closed the door behind him. He was immediately engulfed in darkness.
“Stupid,” he whispered to himself before opening the door again, using the shred of light from the passageway to fumble for a lantern so he could see in the windowless space.
There was nothing unusual. The bunk was tidily made, with the satchel of Faidal’s meager possessions stowed neatly underneath. He hadn’t been there long enough to accumulate anything other than a bit of foggy mirrored glass with a crack in it that might have come from the barber, which he had propped up in the corner. But Faidal should have been there. And he wasn’t. And that probably didn’t spell any good for Arran.
The neneckt could be anywhere. He could easily be gone for good. The sea was a second home to him, and though the waters in this part of the world would be fatal for a human body easily broken upon the rocky shoals, a neneckt could ghost away with little thought, to disappear and reappear half way around the world with someone else’s face.
Arran hoped that wasn’t the case. He sat down on the bunk and started to shuffle the cards, dealing them out in a circle to play a round of patience, smiling at how apt the title of the game could be. He could wait all night if he had to, placing card upon card, stacking and shifting the colored paper as the circle grew smaller and smaller. He would probably have to wait much longer than that.
Falling asleep after drinking a little more of the rum than he had intended severely damped the effect he had been hoping to achieve when Faidal finally returned. No good inquisition started with having to shake the questioner awake, but Faidal seemed more amused than anything else as Arran hastily sat up, scattering cards and almost knocking over the bottle until the neneckt caught it before it fell to the floor.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, uncorking the liquor and taking a drink.
“Where the bloody blazes have you been?”
“Out.”
“Doing what?”
“Things.”
“What kind of things?”
“As much as I appreciate your concern, I was not under the impression that you are my mother,” Faidal said, placing the half empty bottle on the shelf.
“You can’t just leave. What if someone had noticed?”
“Who would notice on a night like this? Other than someone who had broken into my room, maybe.”
“Only with good intentions.”
“I see. Perhaps you’d like to leave now, though,” Faidal said, gathering up some of the playing cards from the floor and putting the pack back into their box. “I’d like to sleep.”
“And I’d like some answers.”
“I already told you I stole the Guild card. I’m sorry, all right? It was a necessary evil. Can you go now?”
“Not about that. What are you planning to do when we get to Niheba?”
Faidal sighed and sat at the end of the bunk, resigned to Arran’s stubbornness. “Talk to some friends.”
“Is that what you were doing tonight?”
“Yes, since you insist on knowing. It was nothing sinister. I was just trying to find out who is still available to me when I reach the island. Is that such a problem?”
“You might have told me,” Arran said. “You have to stop all this wandering off.”
“You seem to have amused yourself well enough without me.”
“That isn’t the point. What am I supposed to do when we get to Niheba, then?”
“Whatever you like. I’d be happy enough for you to help me, but it’s your choice. It could be rather dangerous.”
“Most things you’re involved in seem like they’re pretty dangerous.”
Faidal grinned, showing his teeth. “You really have no idea.”
***
Niheba was always a delight to Bartolo, even if he only ever went there for business. There was something heavenly about seeing the low dome of its lushly green shores peeking up from the horizon, and something very pleasing about crossing the strangely defined border between the cold, dark, rough seas and the clearer warmth of the strong currents that favored the island with its pleasant weather and good soil.
It was as rare a gem as the one Bartolo carried in the little chest that never left his side, and bringing the two together would produce far more good cheer for him than even a walk in Tiaraku’s carefully cultivated gardens could provide.
The neneckt king did not live on the island itself, of course. As a matter of principle, he spent most of his time in formless, hidden power deep under the sea. But the entrance to his kingdom was vast and impressive: an aboveground palace that rivaled the luxuries of King Malveisin’s red iron monstrosity in Paderborn. Instead of the mainland’s penchant for building brute strength into its architecture, Tiaraku favored delicate ceramic tile in blue and white, which shone like a beacon when the sun caught it just right. Filmy marble archways and graveled paths threaded through the sprawling complex, which perched prettily on top of the intricate network of tunnels and caves that led to Emyer-Ekvori, the hidden heart of the neneckt world.
Bartolo, as a man, could not come before Tiaraku of his own will without being drowned long before he could reach the cavernous seat of his rule. But with a little advanced planning and a visit from one of the oughon, a sort of shaman-priest who could work a magic significantly beyond Bartolo’s best understanding, he could find himself face-to-face – or at least face-to-presence – with the sea king in his own stronghold.
“Your Majesty, I hope it will please you to accept this,” Bartolo said, holding the casket above his head as he kneeled before the empty throne. The seat was a massive conglomeration of colorful corals heaped like tangled yarn over the spars and forlorn figureheads of sunken ships. Seaweed draped over smoothed boulders, waving in the soft movement of the deep waters, and living creatures: crabs and sea stars and bright schools of little fish that darted in and out of the fronds, lent the only life to the stark and shadowy hall, its roof nothing more than five hundred feet of purely clear water filtering the gleaming vestiges of sunlight through its depths before the scattered rays reached the sandy ocean floor.
It was always very odd to try to breathe or move or even think while surrounded by so much water. Something about his mind just couldn’t accept it. Bartolo kept holding his breath and blinking hard at the expected sensation of the stinging sea rushing
into his nose and mouth, but aside from an amusing sort of bounce to his walk and the sluggish movement of his arms and legs as they traced through the resistance, the oughon’s spell let him draw breath, walk, and see and hear the same as he did on land. Any obstacles were simply a product of his imagination.
“Where is the rest?” Tiaraku asked, his voice like the rumble of an earthquake as the water in front of the throne shimmered slightly with the noise.
“It’s coming, Your Majesty. Within a few days. Elargwyd has the pendant, and she has the man, too.”
“I am not interested in half-completed puzzles. Come to me when you have finished the job,” Tiaraku said, the growl shifting the sand into wave-like ridges as he voiced his displeasure.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you. You will not be disappointed.”
Bartolo left the chest on the floor in front of him and bowed his way out of the throne room. Someone would take it and store it safely while they waited for Elargwyd, and he could leave the strange underwater world where he felt so ill at ease to focus on finalizing his plans.
On his way to the surface, Bartolo took a detour to view the storehouse, where ton upon ton of pig iron ingots waited for their transformation. While not even the neneckt king could get fire to burn under water, necessitating that the forges be located on land, the raw material could be completely hidden from the prying eyes of the Guild by storing it where no human could go uninvited.
It was brought up in small installments to the network of smelters within the palace, where it was heated, cooled, shaped, colored, and stamped with the famous Guild mark before it trickled out onto the continent to frustrate the corps of self-righteous inspectors to no end.
The completed product was barely sold at a profit, but making money wasn’t the point. The irresistibly low price spread the iron quickly and widely, keeping the Guild constantly occupied and its forces stretched thin over a hundred different invisible points of entry as the counterfeit flooded the pathetically eager market. The Guild was so busy snatching baubles from the unwitting poor that they were completely clueless about what was coming, and completely unprepared to counteract it.
Bartolo sighed in contentment as he relaxed into the steaming, scented water that sloshed gently against the side of the bath. Upon reaching land again, his clothes and skin had been completely dry, but he still felt like he needed a change and a hot soak or he would catch his death of cold, like he would after any ducking. The beads of his red iron bracelet rang out against the side of the copper tub, and he lifted his arm to stare at the charm for a minute with a smile on his face.
Soon there would not be a need for such protection. With the two Siheldi gems reunited and the blood of the keeper to bind them, the night spirits would be helpless to disobey whoever controlled the shining stones. Tiaraku would be the emperor of everything below and above the ocean’s horizon, and the Guild would beg to be able to hand over control the most lucrative trade in the world just to escape the devastation the sea king could bring with a flick of his finger.
With the Siheldi on a leash, the red iron industry under neneckt control, and no more Guild to meddle with affairs they didn’t understand, the landbound humans would have no choice but to bow to their betters and prostrate themselves before Tiaraku, pleading for his protection during a war of his own making.
It would be beautiful, Bartolo thought as he opened the hot tap again with his toes. He could sit back and laugh as the smug aristocrats had their red iron stripped away by an army of neneckt no longer afraid to take their rightful place in a society that had always shunned them. Tiaraku had promised Bartolo half of everything that was confiscated. How much would those terrified nobles pay to have their salvation returned to them? He would have no more qualms about calling himself wealthy. He would be so filthily rich.
“Johan, could I have the new almanack, please?” he said to his servant. The flowers in the garden would be lovely this time of year, perfect to enhance his evening stroll. Perhaps he would visit Tiaraku’s treasury after supper, too, to see if Mister Osbury had any interesting new specimens to share.
He might even snap up the mismarked Queen Ranthya silver sovereign he had had his eye on last time, if he was feeling particularly bold. That would be quite a treat, and he felt like he had earned it. It wouldn’t be too much to splash out on a little something special, would it? After all, with Arran Swinn on his way to Niheba, Bartolo would be recouping his investment very soon indeed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The ship was bobbing up and down like a particularly drunken cork as the storm kicked up with high winds and tossing seas. It was making Megrithe feel ill. She had never been a very great traveler. Although she always tried not to let a little seasickness stop her from executing her duty, and the rough ride was testing her to her limits.
A queasy stomach wasn’t the only discomfort she had to overcome. The torrent of fire that had engulfed her Guild quarters had left her with three broken ribs after being knocked sideways into her bureau, a long, scarring burn on her forearm from trying to protect her face, and a new hairstyle. Her curls had been cropped short under her hat, necessitated by the horrible stench that had followed her for hours until she had finally agreed that there was nothing to be done about her charred and cindery locks.
She had never been so angry. If nothing else, it was absolutely humiliating that she had almost destroyed the entirety of the ancient, venerable Guild House. A crowd had gathered as smoke billowed through the roof, and they had pointed and whispered to their neighbors when she had run down the steps into the street, gasping for air and madly slapping her own sleeve to try to put out the smoldering silk. It had been wholly and irredeemably embarrassing.
The Guild Master had questioned her for an interminable length of time, even as the physician salved and bandaged her wound, and she had done the most careful dance of her life to answer his inquiries without really lying to him. But in the end, he had seemed more concerned about the smoke damage to the stained glass in the banquet hall than anything else, and after pleading the exhaustion of her nerves, she was able to escape the interrogation in one piece.
Instead of resting and taking stock of her ruined possessions, she had borrowed a fresh dress and a coat from one of her friends, slipped her red iron Guild insignia into the pocket, and headed to the harbor with Sergeant Godefroy firmly in tow.
Neither she nor Godefroy could immediately think of anyone besides Durville who would have a vested interest in stopping her from pursuing Arran Swinn and his slippery companion. Despite his bemused and insistent protests that he had done nothing at all to harm Megrithe, he had been arrested for an attempt at murder. He would stay in a cell until further evidence came to light or she forgave him, neither of which was all that likely.
After completing the unsavory business, she had stepped onto a ship heading to Niheba. She knew full well that’s where Swinn and the neneckt would go. Port Ravenaught was much too small a town to hide fugitives for long, despite its reputation for lawlessness and hard living. Swinn would stick out like a sore thumb in such a place, even if he tried to flee to the rugged country behind the port’s borders. He was a city man, with a city accent and city manners, and there were few things more glaringly distasteful to the residents of the pioneering outpost.
Besides, the Guild presence in Ravenaught was extensive, which made it a foolish place for its opponents to settle. There was a slightly less obvious network of representatives in Niheba, where the Guild was officially without any credential or authority. Everything of interest was noted and recorded and sent back to Paderborn in coded missives, and it wasn’t quite as much of a refuge as many criminals seemed to think. But there was nowhere else for a neneckt to run, and she felt sure that she was making the right decision.
The only thing she found when she reached Niheba’s harbor was that she was alone. She had spared no expense from her personal funds to secure the fastest direct passage available, and her speedy little mail
packet had arrived two whole days before the earliest the Celia could be expected.
That wasn’t such a bad thing, she thought as she disembarked and looked up at the strange buildings that lined the wharf. There was plenty to learn about the island before her quarry reached it, and plenty more to see.
The residents of Niheba had little to fear from the Siheldi. Either they didn’t have a taste for neneckt, or the sea people had some way of dissuading their enemies from preying upon them, and the ease with which the island’s residents spent their nights had left them with no concern when it came to building their houses and public places tall and proud.
“Four stories,” Megrithe said wonderingly to herself, counting the large, clear glass windows as a shadow fell over her while leaving the ship. It was just an ordinary block of offices, made of plain brick, and it stretched into the sky higher than anything else she had ever seen besides the needle-thin watchtowers and the spires of the King’s palace.
And it certainly wasn’t the only wonder to greet her as she took in the sights. The sea was everywhere in Niheba. From the musical fountains that seemed to dot every crossroad to the deep pools of riotously colored reef that took the place of manicured lawns in front of homes and businesses, there was a pervasive sense that the entire island might sink beneath the waves every evening to take its proper place on the floor of the world, and rise every morning to drain off its mantle and offer its treasures to the unfortunate men who could only breathe the free air.
It was enchanting, and Megrithe took much more time than was strictly necessary in wandering around the city that shared its homeland’s name, exploring the curious goods for sale in shops and stalls that lined the wide, sandy roads, and strolling through a park filled with neneckt children playing some sort of complicated game with a ball that seemed to float in the air as much as it bounced along the ground.
Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1) Page 13
