“I doubt that’s a regular occurrence.”
“Regular encounters with enemies have a tendency to get one killed.”
“And yet, you’ve made a habit of encountering enemies.”
“Not by choice,” Yanko said. “You know me. I’d happily be back home, tending my bees and garden and taking the hounds on the mountain trails.”
“I know. And that’s why I don’t think you’ll ever understand.” She patted him on the arm. “I’m just going to check in on him and the crew. I have friends among them. Maybe he or the others know something about Zirabo. I’ll ask for you.”
Yanko forced a smile, though he feared she would be lured away again by the promise of adventure. “Thank you.”
After Arayevo and Lakeo disappeared into the shadows along the dock, Yanko headed slowly down the gangplank. He tried not to feel lonely, but everyone else had gone their own way, and he lacked even Kei’s company. He’d left the parrot snoozing in the cabin since Kei had proven numerous times that he wasn’t nocturnal. Further, his mouth—his beak—tended to get Yanko in trouble.
“He’s with me,” Tynlee said, waving to Yanko when he reached her and the port-authority officer.
“Is everybody with you?” The man waved in the direction Arayevo and Lakeo had gone.
Dak and Amaranthe had disappeared as thoroughly as Sicarius had, and Yanko suspected they hadn’t gone past the officer. Yanko didn’t crane his neck to look for them, lest he draw the man’s attention.
“A diplomatic consul does not travel without an entourage. He’s my assistant,” Tynlee added when the officer looked contemplatively at Yanko.
“Moksu?” the officer asked.
Yanko blinked. Was this man helping round up those from honored families?
Tynlee chuckled. “Would a moksu boy deign to help some minor diplomat?”
“Perhaps not, but he has that cocky useless look about him.”
One of Tynlee’s bodyguards snorted. Yanko didn’t know how to respond. This was such a different response than typical—when he’d left Nuria, it had been considered a crime not to bow deferentially to one from an honored family. To suggest such people were superfluous…
Yanko shook his head. At least the man wasn’t asking to search his pack for magical artifacts.
“That’s simply because he’s young. But he has uses. Yanko, carry my pack.” Tynlee thrust it at him.
“Yes, Honored Consul.” He accepted a hefty backpack, the poky corners of books stabbing him in the chest through the canvas, and headed past the officer, hoping the man wouldn’t stop him.
“The captain will cover the docking fee,” Tynlee added, and Yanko sensed her using a tendril of her magic to convince the officer not to question her further.
He waited at the end of the dock, eyeing the flag that Dak had pointed out, until she joined him.
“He has orders not to let any strangers into the city without thoroughly questioning them,” Tynlee said. “I had to convince him without him realizing he was being convinced. I’ll take my leave of you here—trusting you’ll find Dak, wherever he went—and remind you again to be careful and not to use your surname.”
“I know. I won’t.” Yanko shuffled the heavy pack back into her arms, surprised she’d been carrying it herself. It had to weigh fifty pounds, and she was a small woman, scarcely over five feet tall. “Are those some of your textbooks?”
“Some of the latest Turgonian mysteries, thrillers, and romances. My publisher asked to see them. I thought I would be shipping them from the Great City, but perhaps since I’m delivering them in person, she’ll be even more inclined to give me information about what’s been going on.”
“Turgonian… romances? I wouldn’t have guessed such things exist.”
“Every culture has romance, Yanko. Don’t be silly.”
Yanko thought of all the dour Turgonian men he’d met, with their big muscles, big guns, and big warships. “Are the men involved?”
“Usually.” She snorted. “Return to the yacht if you need to sail back with me. I’ll likely be here gathering information for a few days. Poor Professor Hawkcrest will have to hide in the yacht.”
“Thank you, Honored Consul, but I don’t anticipate leaving Nuria unless it’s to claim our new continent with Zirabo.”
“Give Dak the same offer then, please.”
Yanko bowed and walked in the opposite direction of Tynlee, trusting he would find Dak eventually. Dak had wanted to bring him along, so he shouldn’t be avoiding him.
He didn’t know the city or where he should start looking for information but thought a tavern along the waterfront might be full of gossiping sailors. Before he’d reached the first one, Yanko spotted a man in a pillory, his wrists and head locked into the uncomfortable wooden structure. Rotten fruit littered the cobblestones around his feet. A whale-oil lamp burning across the street did nothing to shed light on his face, but it did illuminate two sleepy watchmen standing nearby. Whoever the prisoner was, he was important enough that someone wanted to make sure nobody sneaked up to free him.
Though Yanko didn’t expect to recognize the man, out of habit, he checked the prisoner with his senses. He stumbled, tripping over a cobblestone. He recognized the man.
Yanko’s flailing arms caught the attention of the watchmen, and they peered in his direction. He caught his balance and walked forward, not looking at them or the pillory. As he passed, the prisoner finally looked up, and Yanko confirmed with his eyes what his senses had already told him.
It was Gramon, his mother’s ally and lover. How had he come to be captured and stuck here? Was his mother nearby? And her fleet? Or had Gramon parted ways from her after the incident with the golden lodestone? Or had she died due to that neck wound, leaving him to find his own way?
Yanko ached to stop and ask a dozen questions, but his stumble had woken the watchmen, and they kept an eye on him as he passed. The last thing he needed was to be arrested for associating with a pirate. He made himself continue past without making eye contact with Gramon.
He was extremely tempted to reach out telepathically and ask his questions. But Gramon was Turgonian. He might object or grow alarmed at telepathic contact. Yanko also found himself reluctant to touch the man’s mind. He hadn’t been horribly despicable, but he’d been willing to torture Yanko. He’d also been willing to torture Jhali.
Still, the questions burned in his mind, and as soon as Yanko stepped around a corner and out of sight, he leaned against a cool adobe wall and braced himself to contact Gramon.
Is my mother alive? It was the most burning question in his mind, the one he most needed to know the answer to.
Seconds ticked past, and Gramon didn’t reply. Yanko could tell he was awake, and he didn’t sense the mental walls that Jhali and Dak possessed that blocked magic, including telepathy. But maybe Gramon was unwilling to speak with him.
She lives, he finally said, the words as grudging as they were terse. He didn’t volunteer anything else, and nothing about his mental tone suggested he would answer questions for Yanko. Maybe Gramon’s parting from Pey Lu had been painful, and he didn’t want to think about her.
As long as she hadn’t died back there on that island from Jhali’s throwing star. After all the horrible crimes his mother had committed, Yanko shouldn’t care one way or another if she lived or died, but it was hard to hate someone who didn’t hate him. Who’d offered to teach him and take him into her fleet. Of course, he could never contemplate becoming a pirate, and he was certain that her interest in him would have been nonexistent if he hadn’t had some of her talent for magic, but… he couldn’t pretend he didn’t care.
Yanko reached out to Gramon again, reminded that, whatever had happened since, he had been the one to carry the injured Pey Lu back to her ship before the Turgonians could catch up with her. Before she could bleed to death on that beach.
Instead of attempting further communication, he examined the wood pillory binding the pirate. The lo
ck that secured it was strong enough that a man would never be able to break it with pure strength, but for Yanko, snapping a lock was a simple matter.
He sensed a tendril of surprise from Gramon as he heard the faint sound and felt his prison loosen. Then Yanko walked away.
10
There weren’t as many taverns and boarding houses along the waterfront as in larger cities, and with his magic, Yanko located Dak’s familiar aura. Dak had chosen a pub called the Drunken Duck, claiming a small table in the back for himself. It was crowded when Yanko walked in, with no other tables free, but he imagined Dak had thrown a few elbows or glowered with his single baleful eye and won himself a spot. There weren’t any other Turgonians that Yanko could see, but nobody seemed inclined to pay attention to Dak.
A man was sticking small flags into a big map of the nation that had been painted on the back wall, and he had the room’s attention. People jeered, groaned, or cheered as the flags went in. The man held a newspaper folded in one hand and glanced at it while he worked.
Yanko paused. Was that map a real-time representation of the fighting going on in the country?
He longed to jump onto a table so he could see more than the northern mountains and seas, but he was reluctant to draw attention to himself. It had startled him when the port-authority officer guessed he was moksu simply by looking at him. He couldn’t imagine why—it wasn’t as if he was dressed in fine silks and gold jewelry—but it had been a reminder to lie low. The last thing he needed was to be captured by a gang of thugs and shipped off to that remote island.
Admittedly, the potential thugs in the tavern weren’t as intimidating as some. Maybe after Yanko had spent so much time around Turgonians, his own people seemed diminished, but he saw a lot of skin stretched tight over cheekbones and hands with every tendon visible. None of the tables held bowls of food, and the beer and rice wine appeared watered down. Nobody in the entire tavern, perhaps the entire city, was well-fed.
Sadness and frustration tightened Yanko’s throat at what was happening to his people. Maybe the nation hadn’t been ideal under the Great Chief’s rule, but it had been better than this.
He headed toward Dak, vowing to take a good look at that map as soon as the room settled. Dak grunted when Yanko sat in an empty seat at his small table.
“I see you missed me terribly in the hour we were parted,” Yanko said, forcing levity into his tone. Railing about his feelings to Dak wouldn’t get him anywhere. He liked Dak, but he could never let himself forget that Turgonians would prefer it if Nuria broke itself apart instead of remaining a force to contest them in battles.
Dak grunted again. He had secured a mug of beer, though he hadn’t drained much of the pale beverage yet. Yanko wondered if he was waiting for some Turgonian contact. Could he have such a person in a city they hadn’t anticipated visiting? And if so, could he have reached out to the person so quickly?
“Are we waiting for something?” Yanko asked.
Dak eyed him sidelong. “I’m waiting to see if you’ll jump up on the table and start a bar fight.”
“I’m planning to avoid drawing attention to myself. For numerous reasons.”
“Oh? Have you grown wiser in recent months?”
“I doubt it.” Yanko grimaced, afraid he would be recognized, no matter how circumspect he was, and be thrown into jail as a criminal.
Dak smiled faintly. “You’re doing all right.”
Yanko felt inordinately bolstered by the praise. “Do you have a plan or a reason for choosing this specific tavern?”
“The map interested me when I peeked in.”
“Ah, me too. Have you gotten a look at it yet?”
“Not a good one. I, too, must avoid drawing attention.”
Yes, a looming Turgonian eyeing an up-to-date map of the conflict in the country might rouse suspicion. The person sticking pins into the wall had disappeared, and people were settling down. They ought to have a decent view of it soon.
“Is that what Sicarius and Amaranthe will be doing in Nuria as well? Avoiding attention?” Yanko didn’t expect Dak to give him any information on their plans, if he even knew them, but he couldn’t help but feel he should try to gather details to share with Zirabo.
“Of that, I have no doubt.”
“Do you think we’ll see them again?”
“Zirabo isn’t their mission,” Dak said quietly.
“But you don’t have any idea what is?”
Dak gave him that sidelong look again.
“Or you do and won’t tell me?” Yanko asked.
“I’d only be making guesses, but no, I won’t share them.”
“Ah.” Yanko decided not to push. Dak had already gotten in trouble for being perceived by his people as helping him. Yanko hoped they would find Zirabo both for himself and for Dak. Maybe success on this mission would help clear the doubt from his name when he returned home.
“If you find it heartening, I don’t believe Rias would arrange an assassination. It’s not his way.”
Yanko hoped that meant the agents were merely here gathering information. “Do you have any contacts in Yellow Delta?”
“Unfortunately not. I had many, at one time, in the capital. I’m tempted to find a lizard carriage heading that way, but I suspect my contacts and many others have fled the city. I would rather simply find Zirabo.”
“Me too.”
Yanko twisted in his seat to eye the map, now that he could see it. Colored flags were attached to the pins, and groupings dotted both coastlines and the interior of the nation. Large swaths of orange and red—was that the same red that marked the white-and-red flag flying in the bay?—occupied the interior. The coast with the capital and the most populous cities was covered in a mishmash of six different colors of flags. Green and blue seemed to be contesting the capital. Red marked Yellow Delta. Orange the next major city down the coast.
“Do you know which colors match which factions, by chance?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do any of them mark the Great Chief and his allies?” That would be the logical place to seek out Zirabo.
“No.”
“How was he ousted so completely so quickly?” Yanko shook his head. He had been gone a couple of months, but it seemed like it should have taken years for so much to change so quickly.
“This has been brewing for more than a decade. It was your Great Chief’s choice not to take his advisors seriously. I believe Zirabo himself warned him a few times of the growing unrest.”
Yanko reminded himself that the rebels had already been in action when they’d taken the salt mine and attacked his brother. Which faction had been responsible for that?
He looked down the coastline to Red Sky and then inland, to his mountain home and the mines on the dry side. He didn’t expect anyone to have the salt mine his family had overseen marked—what newspaper would bother reporting on such a small resource?—but he gaped when he saw a green flag on the spot. His gaze lurched back to the mountain village in the valley that his family owned. Or had owned. Who knew how land would be divvied up if the ruler of the nation changed?
He half-expected another green flag, or for the area not to be marked, but a red flag stuck in the mountains right by the tiny blue dot that marked his family’s lake. Yanko gripped the edge of the table. Hard.
“Swift Wolves,” he whispered. It looked like his family had been rounded up for an internment camp. “Do you know anything about the leader?” What was the name Dak had shared on the yacht? “General Tang Chu?”
Yanko had a hard time imagining someone who was neither magically gifted nor from an honored family having the connections and resources to raise an army capable of taking cities and kidnapping people who were gifted.
“We know quite a bit about him,” Dak said, “as he’s been one of your army officers for more than thirty years, but we’re not positive he is who he’s claiming to be.”
“Er, what?”
“It’s not common k
nowledge, but our agents have learned that he has a twin brother.”
Agents like Amaranthe and Sicarius? Maybe they were being sent to spy on the faction leaders.
“The twin brother,” Dak went on, “was trained as a mage hunter from an early age. The Chu family has reputedly loathed magic-users for a long time. They must have put a son into that intense training program.”
“A mage hunter? Is he from Jhali’s sect?”
“She never told me her sect.” Dak looked curiously at Yanko. Wondering if he had some intelligence that Dak lacked?
Yanko wished that were so. “She didn’t tell me the name of it, just that her leader is Zu Chey. A woman.”
“It could be a different sect, though most of the smaller ones that once existed have combined into two major ones. I bring this up because there’s speculation that Tang Chu was replaced by his brother Jootan. Tang was never known for being revolutionary or seditious. Little is known about the twin except that they are identical in appearance.”
“I’m going to assume our friend isn’t associated with that faction,” Yanko said, avoiding sharing Zirabo’s name aloud as he waved at the red flags on the map and the city around them.
“He is the epitome of someone from an honored and privileged family, so it seems unlikely,” Dak said. “But just because the faction purports to want a commoner on the dais doesn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t work with magic-users. In your country, they would be extremely disadvantaged if they didn’t. It’s hard to imagine even mage hunters taking so many cities and resources without help.”
“True. Our friend isn’t a warrior though.”
“No, but he has that flute that can persuade people. That’s valuable.”
Yanko nodded, remembering the artifact.
His gaze shifted back to the map and the flag at the salt mine. “Do you know the name of the green faction?”
“Actually, I do not. The green have a treed mountain on their flag with a cannonball and a fireball in front of it. As far as I know, they’re simply known as Admiral Lahtu’s men. He’s a naval officer from an honored family and a mage. Weather, I believe. He also has a sister who is not a magic-user, but who was responsible for thwarting a few Turgonian attacks during the war. She must be close to sixty by now, but she was a great combatant and a talented tactician, something that’s rare among your people, to be frank. You rely a great deal on magic.”
Assassin’s Bond: Chains of Honor, Book 3 Page 17
