The Duchess Quest (Jordinia Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

  It was Quixheto’s fault. Had the Jordinian assassin never divulged those damning hints of Cosmith’s past, the ensuing confrontations would not have occurred. But of course, he couldn’t curse Quixheto too harshly, for it was due to the hit man’s sword—which Cosmith had retrieved, and sold in the nearest village—that he now possessed the funds to continue his journey in some comfort.

  With his new bag of gold, Cosmith made his way to the tailor and purchased a new blouse with a fitted cowhide vest and trousers. He also selected a cowman’s hat to match, the better to obscure his face when in need of a quick disguise. After, he headed to the local inn for a wash and shave, and finally to the tavern next door, where he flirted and eventually found pleasure in an empty storeroom with a flighty young barmaid. He proceeded to pass the following day upon his barstool, imbibing pint after endless pint at the counter.

  He awoke one morning, possessing both an aching head and a pressing thought. Why continue more of that laborious on-foot business, when he was but a mere hour’s gallop on horseback from the coast? Surely, he could ride to Yuwelyn Bay, find a dinghy at port for purchase or rent, and set sail. So long as he was sure to hug the coastline as he headed south, he could sail all the way to Heppestoni within a few days’ time, sparing his tired feet the rest of the way.

  Feeling suddenly sober, he paid a wagoner to carry him to the bay. At the harbor, he wove his way through the crowd, nicking a fishing net and some bait from an unsuspecting vendor. After spying a league of small, single-passenger dinghies, he haggled with a toothless old mariner for one. Cosmith handed over some coin and selected his vessel of choice. The transaction complete, he jumped eagerly inside. The sails had already been attached.

  The bay waters were calm. He moistened his fingertip and held it aloft. The wind blew due west. He could work with that. If he stayed within bay boundaries and clung to the coastline, he wouldn’t have to worry about an oppressive current of water or wind knocking him off-course.

  Nary a cloud hung in the sky for miles, as far as he could see. If the climate kept on in this manner, he could reach Hopestone Bay within a day.

  Manning the oars, he rowed for a time. As the sun bore down its generous rays, Cosmith donned his new hat, savoring its leathery fragrance blended with that of the clear, open water. He took to humming to himself. He’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Certainly, he’d see this thing through to the end.

  He rose to trim the sheets and sails, speeding his boat along. The prize would soon be his. Eludaine Ducelle was closer to him now than ever before.

  BOS AND MACMILLAN AWOKE TO the sound of gulls and waves rolling through the early air. They trekked down the dunes and out to the quiet bay port. Fishermen and mariners were beginning their day, mending nets, rigging sails and scrubbing decks.

  The pair lay low at first, hovering some distance ashore. The port was filling with all manner of exotic men. Some were heavily tattooed, a few chain-smoking pipes of an alien herb, and proceeding from their mouths was a strange dialect Macmillan had never heard before.

  What had they been thinking? Macmillan suddenly wondered, a sinking sensation overtaking him. It seemed silly to have entertained the thought that these foreign sailors would possess any pertinent information. And even if they did, why would they give it to Macmillan and Bos?

  He turned to his companion. “What now?” he whispered. “I haven’t any coin left to purchase a boat from them.” He craned his neck to peer out to the little harbor. “And I don’t see one up for grabs, anyhow.”

  Bos nodded. “It is decided.”

  “What’s decided?” asked Macmillan, bewildered.

  “We hire ourselves out to a captain.”

  “But I know nothing of sailing!”

  “Nor do I. But it cannot be difficult to learn. Besides,” Bos stepped onto the sandy banks, “a few days’ honest work never harmed a man.”

  Macmillan exhaled. He had not come all that way to be subservient to some Heppestonian captain.

  “Come now,” Bos assured him. “It’s only for a little while. Then we shall collect our wages and any information we’ve gleaned, and be on our way.”

  Unable to formulate a better plan himself, Macmillan followed the giant down the dunes and up the rickety dock. No one paid them any mind, each busy with his own labors under the increasingly hot sun.

  Bos nodded at a sizeable vessel, where a lone brown man stood waist-deep in water, scrubbing barnacles from the hull. Macmillan cleared his throat. “Er,” he said uncertainly, “excuse me. But would you happen to be in need of assistance?”

  The man shook his head, waggling his thumbs by his ears. He intoned something in his own language.

  “He does not speak our tongue,” Bos murmured.

  A few nearby sailors, however, who’d witnessed the exchange, whistled for their attention.

  A bronze man with a sleeve of tattoos up his arm spoke in broken Halvean. “Pascale speak,” he declared. His companions bobbed their heads. “I call him?”

  Though confused, Macmillan nodded.

  The tattooed man cupped his hands over his mouth and bellowed something in Heppestonian.

  Slowly, from behind an ancient-looking fishing barge, a slender figure emerged. He appeared to be nearing middle age, and Macmillan was taken aback to see just how starkly black his skin was, with eyes that shone an unusual shade of gold.

  “You speak Halvean?” Macmillan asked uncertainly.

  “Aye.”

  “Would you be in need of two sets of helping hands?”

  “I am sorry,” replied the black man coolly, his Halvean impeccable. “But I work alone.”

  “Then perhaps,” offered Macmillan hurriedly, “one of the others—?”

  “They as well,” said the man, indicating his fellows. “We lowly fishermen have no wages to give.”

  “It is not mere wages we seek,” came Bos’s deep voice.

  “Oh?” The man appraised them through golden eyes. “Then what do you seek?”

  Bos and Macmillan swapped the briefest of glances. How much should they tell the stranger? “Please,” said Macmillan at last. “We mean no deception. We simply wish to earn honest passage into Heppestoni.”

  Pascale appeared to be thinking. “All right,” he relented. “Only because you intend to make your way honestly, and because you’ve spoken to me and my fellows here courteously, I’ll help.”

  Macmillan’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Pascale Higueleri.” He held out a hand.

  “Bos.” Pascale’s dark hand was dwarfed in Bos’s overlarge one.

  “Mac,” said Macmillan. He regretted the use of Cosmith’s moniker, but wasn’t about to reveal his identity when, as far as he knew, a neighboring nation wanted him dead.

  “I’m here for one day more,” Pascale informed them. “You can help me fish. Tomorrow at noon, we sail to Beili.”

  “Where’s Beili?” asked Macmillan.

  “Due south, on the tip of the Heppestonian peninsula.” Pascale motioned for them to follow as they boarded his decrepit boat. He handed Macmillan and Bos each a tatty net.

  Macmillan took his and sighed. Although they were finally headed to Heppestoni, he was unable to imagine how the man and his old fishing boat could possibly lead him to the elusive prize he sought.

  THE WINDS HAD BEEN FAVORABLE, and Jon Cosmith was making excellent time. He’d dozed through most of the night, his sails aimed southward, and the winds thankfully cooperating as he rounded the coast’s bend. By sunrise, he’d nearly reached the Hopestone Bay.

  With a groan in his stomach, he examined his net, which he’d hung over the stern. So far, all it had managed to collect were some strands of seaweed and a few snails. He had no fresh water, but a canteen half-full of mead, of which he presently took a sip.

  That was when he noticed something awry. The bow o
f his little dinghy had begun to dip dramatically downward, and Cosmith had to lay across the hull to maintain its balance. Running his hands over the splintery deck, he found the culprit immediately. Why, there were two small leaks! They appeared to have been sealed properly at one point; however, the job had clearly been done long ago, as the tar had since lost its integrity and had well begun to crack. Cosmith patted the wood frantically. It was growing damp.

  His boat was going down. Thankfully, he was surrounded by land a mere crow’s cry away. If he could at least row west until he reached the Hopestone’s port, he could reseal his boat, perhaps sell it off to some other unsuspecting sap, and decide how best to proceed from there.

  Cosmith picked up the oars. If he rowed vigorously, and gave it all his might, he could dock by noon.

  That was, if the blasted boat did not sink first.

  BOS STOOD ON THE UPPER deck of Pascale Higueleri’s fishing barge. High noon was approaching, and they’d caught a fair many fish with which to sail to Beili. He gazed out to the horizon, where the bay poured into the Maleilan Sea, when something odd caught his eye. He raised a hand over his brow to shield off the sun’s glare, peering out.

  There looked to be some sort of seabird struggling in the water. It rocked back and forth, seeming to fight for balance, unable to make up its mind whether to take flight or submerge below the gentle waves’ surface.

  He turned to young Macmillan beside him. The lad’s hair was greasy from travel and was growing bushy. Many days of direct sunlight had not helped his freckled visage, either. Still, his appearance was probably more palatable than Bos’s, whose goatee had now transformed into a beard, and whose hair was certainly longer—and wilder—than when he’d first left home.

  Macmillan followed his gaze. “Is something the matter?”

  Bos pointed. “It appears to be some sort of waterfowl,” he explained, “the likes of which I’ve never seen before.”

  Macmillan cupped a hand over his eyes. “Waterfowl?”

  Pascale stepped between them, holding a spyglass to his eye. He hummed a long note. “But that is no fowl.” He laughed, handing the spyglass to Bos.

  Peering through the lens, Bos realized the flailing creature was, indeed, not a bird, but a man. He handed it over to Macmillan, who eagerly pressed it to his eye and gasped.

  “What?” asked Bos.

  “Look again.” Macmillan gave the spyglass back to Bos. Squinting into it, Bos could now see sunlight glinting off a crown of shining, perfectly windswept brown hair….

  “Cosmith.” He lowered the scope. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You know this person?” asked Pascale, sounding amused.

  “His name is Jon Cosmith,” answered Macmillan, after a beat.

  “And is this Jon Cosmith a friend,” asked Pascale carefully, “or an enemy?”

  “That,” said Macmillan weakly, clearly struggling to determine the answer, “is rather difficult to say.”

  COSMITH COULD SEE THE PORT ahead, fishing vessels bobbing as the deck of his ragged dinghy collected more water, bowing down and knocking him off-kilter. He tried to use his weight to steady it, but the boat was going down, and soon. If needed, he could jump off and swim to shore, but he hated to see his brand-new cowhide ruined.

  He rowed his way west to port when, to his astonished relief, he spotted a modest, two-tiered fisherman’s barge making its way in his direction. Frantically, Cosmith paddled to it, his tiny boat threatening to capsize with each movement.

  Finally, when he’d come parallel with its decks, he stood and bellowed, “Ahoy!”

  Two figures stepped forth. Cosmith was shocked to recognize the contrast of their sizes: one enormously brawny, hair fluttering to his shoulders; the second athletically built, but dwarfed by his overlarge companion.

  “Well, well,” smirked Marley Macmillan. “If it isn’t Jon Cosmith.”

  “And in a sinking boat,” added Boslon Visigoth, with an uncharacteristic leer.

  “Fancy meeting you two here!” Cosmith called up. His mind raced to determine how best to work this highly serendipitous encounter to his advantage.

  “Careful, Cosmith. That canoe of yours is fast filling with water,” observed Macmillan. “You don’t wish to drench your fancy new trousers, do you?”

  “Ah, Mac,” beamed Cosmith. “Always perceptive. You noticed they were new.” He forced a grin through his ivory teeth at the freckly little prat. “Now, if you’d be so obliged, kindly lower your rope and permit me aboard.”

  “Hmm.” Macmillan pretended to ponder. “I don’t know, Bos.” He turned to the larger man. “Do you think we ought to bring him aboard?”

  “Enough jesting, Mac,” Cosmith pleaded, as his boat was submerging in earnest, and he now stood ankle-deep in water. “Please, bring down your rope.”

  “Oh, my. Do you think he’s being sincere, Bos?” asked Macmillan with exaggerated doubtfulness.

  “I know not.” Bos grinned, stroking his beard. “As I’ve told you before, Macmillan, I never trusted that one.”

  “Mac,” said Cosmith warningly. “You owe me a life debt. I saved you from Quixheto, did I not?”

  “Only for your own gain,” snapped Macmillan.

  “But what should that matter?” Cosmith was beginning to panic as the water reached his knees, soaking the calves of his fine trousers. “I saved you! And if you have any sense of honor, you will lower your rope and help me board this instant!”

  The giant snorted. “You, lecturing us on honor?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not my decision to make either way, Cosmith.” Macmillan shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the captain.”

  Dumbfounded, Cosmith removed his vest and held his satchel aloft to secure them from the rising waves, as a man with skin blacker than a new moon’s night stepped to the edge of the deck.

  “You wish to board my humble vessel?” he demanded.

  “For obvious reasons.” Cosmith smiled uneasily, gesturing to the rising water in his dinghy. Would they not hurry up? Why did they insist upon toying with him first?

  “If I grant you passage, what will you give me in return?” inquired the captain.

  “The sweat off my brow,” promised Cosmith. “No wages necessary.”

  “Is that all?” The captain sounded disappointed. “Pity. I’ve already two capable men aboard with no desire for wages, either. Why should I haul your weight and feed another mouth as well?”

  It was all too humorous for everyone except Cosmith. Oh, well, he thought. Let them laugh today. They would see, in due time, who would have the last laugh later…. But for now, he was truly in dire straits, and much as he didn’t want to surrender any more coin, he was running out of options. “I have gold,” he finally offered, after a moment’s hesitation.

  The captain’s eyes widened slightly before his face went blank again. “How much?”

  “How much do you need?”

  The black man rubbed his chin contemplatively. “Enough to buy a fine piece of jewelry,” he decided.

  “Jewelry?” repeated Cosmith, before he could stop himself. The response had caught him off-guard. Jewelry was the last thing he expected this stern man to be in want of.

  “A fine nuptial bracelet for the woman I wish to wed,” explained the captain. “If you can help me afford such a piece, then perhaps we might have a deal.”

  Cosmith cursed under his breath. A quality nuptial bracelet would cost him a fair portion of the gold he’d collected from selling Quixheto’s sword. “Very well.” He gritted his teeth. “How many pieces would you like? Nine? Ten?”

  The captain thought. “I will permit you aboard if, when we arrive at port, you accompany me to market and purchase the bracelet of my choosing.”

  Cosmith exhaled heavily. This was not a fair price for boarding a decrepit fishing boat. But the bow of his vess
el suddenly reared so far downward, he had to slam his boots onto the stern just to stay afloat. “All right!” he shouted. “I’ll buy you the blasted bracelet; now lower your rope!”

  A thin, knotted rope was finally thrown down, starboard. Cosmith seriously questioned its integrity, but it was his only choice. Slinging his satchel over his shoulder, he grabbed hold of the fiber and commenced his upward climb. And not a moment too soon, for instantaneously, a mild wave came along, tipping his little boat clean over, the front end drooping down before entirely submerging at last.

  The others watched, not concealing their amusement, as Cosmith climbed the knots, swinging precariously once or twice, before hurling himself over the rails and at their feet.

  “Welcome aboard,” muttered the captain, stalking to the upper deck.

  Cosmith looked at Bos and Macmillan, who stared back. “Well, is this not an extraordinary coincidence?” he said, attempting to break the cold tension as he wrung water from his trouser legs.

  “There are no coincidences,” said Bos darkly.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we suspect you’ve been following us.”

  “Nonsense!” Cosmith got to his feet. “I remained in Bainherd the night I left you. From Yuwelyn Bay, I rented that godforsaken dinghy and sailed here. I had no idea I’d be intercepting the likes of you two.”

  “Well, it is rather curious,” muttered Macmillan, turning away and following the captain to the upper tier.

  Cosmith dreaded to be alone with Bos. Although he knew the man avoided violence at most costs, his surly demeanor was never particularly pleasant to deal with.

  When Bos continued to glare at him, Cosmith snapped, “What?”

  “You and Macmillan are even now.” He folded his brawny arms. “But this does not give you license to take advantage of us. If you wish to travel in our company, you will act honorably. If your sole intention is to use us, then I will throw you overboard right now.”

  “I agreed to buy the captain’s bracelet,” Cosmith defended. “And anyway, I’ve made you no promises, Bos, not now or ever. This is a competition between Macmillan and me.”