by C. K. Brooke
Dainy looked up, clearly puzzled, when they were interrupted.
“Step back, Cosmith.” It was Pascale, flanked by Bos and Macmillan. “Dainy,” he beckoned her warningly.
But she only shook her head. “I feel betrayed by you all. And I wish to wed none of these men. How could you sell me out like this, Pascale?” A tear escaped her eye. “You are no uncle of mine.”
With that, she stalked off. They listened to the pounding of her steps as she descended the companionway and slammed her cabin door.
Cosmith rounded on them. “Playing dirty, are we?”
“What was Dainy on about?” demanded Pascale suspiciously. “What’s going on between you two?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” said Cosmith smoothly. “What sort of slander did you wretches feed her about me?”
“Only the truth,” said Bos.
“That’s right.” Macmillan looked smug. “We simply told her that you care nothing for her, and your only desire is to bed her, then take off with the gold once you’re through.”
Cosmith raised his fist and clocked Macmillan in the jaw. The others shouted, and Bos’s enormous mitts restrained him. “I saved your life twice, Macmillan!” Cosmith struggled to escape the great brute’s grip. “And this is how you repay me?”
“You saved me only to help yourself!”
“And you can read minds, can you?”
“What’ve I done?” breathed Pascale. “Perhaps this was all a mistake.”
“Should we sail her back?” said Macmillan grimly, massaging his jaw.
“We are not turning this boat around, Pascale,” growled Cosmith, and Bos tightened his hold painfully.
Pascale wasn’t looking at him. “She deserves to meet her family. I will do what I said I would. Even still,” he swallowed, “her aunts may never forgive me.”
AT THE QUIET PORT OF Hopestone Bay, Anton Visidair of Jordinian Intelligence learned all he needed. According to the fishermen there, some unusual white men had indeed come by, not long ago. They raised their hands over their heads, indicating the considerable height of one of the travelers, and Visidair grinned with triumph. In his capable Heppestonian, he asked if they knew where the men had gone.
“With Pascale,” they replied.
Upon further inquiry, Visidair learned of the fisherman from Beili, and intended to sail there, when a most curious item drifted his way on the southbound current.
Visidair lowered his line to collect the bobbing object from the water, and discovered it to be a stiff cowman’s hat. It had a fresh luster about it, barely worn, not damp or soggy enough to have been at sea for long.
Visidair turned it over. CORREN BROS., the label read, and below that: KINGDOM OF THE BAINHERD PLAINS.
Visidair ran spidery fingers across the rim. What could a new hat from Bainherd be doing in the Hopestone Bay? It couldn’t have floated all the way from the plains and still appear so dry and new. The piece was far too posh for a fisherman’s wages. And the cowman’s hat was not a popular style in the south.
But Visidair knew of three northerners traveling in those parts.
With haste, he trimmed the sails and raked aft the mast. Stepping onto the edge of the bow, he cupped a hand over his eyes. As the boat slid over jumpy waves on propelling winds, he climbed the rigging. Visidair perched there for some time, until, finally, he spied a speck on the horizon.
Visidair shimmied down the mast. He would trust his instincts. Thus far, they had never led him astray.
PASCALE WELL KNEW THE SOUNDS and sensations of his boat at sea—which bumps and noises were common…and which were not.
He awoke late that night at the faint sound of an impending vessel, the flapping of a sail that wasn’t his, seeming to approach too closely. He then felt a mild pull, and sensed that they had slowed, as though dragged back by an added weight.
Pascale’s feet hit the floor. Careful not to wake the others, he grabbed his knife and crept upstairs. Brandishing his weapon, Pascale met his shadowy intruder face-on.
The stranger held up two bony hands. “Anton Visidair,” he drawled, reaching into his breast pocket. He extracted a badge and flashed it in Pascale’s face. “Jordinian Intelligence. I have been ordered to search your boat.”
Pascale did not lower his knife. “You have no right.”
“Actually, I do.” Visidair re-pocketed the badge. “There are wanted men aboard this vessel, and it appears you are smuggling them up the coast, helping them to participate in illicit activities.”
“I do no such thing.”
Visidair grinned patronizingly. “Look, Pascale,” he said, and Pascale took an automatic step back. How did the man know his name? “We can avoid all manner of unpleasantries if you’ll simply step aside, and allow me to finish my business here.”
“No.”
“Not even if I spare your life in return?”
Pascale remained firm, wielding his knife.
“Pity.” Visidair brandished a great sword from his belt and swung, but Pascale blocked it with his blade. Visidair thrust the sword again, and Pascale ducked.
“You stand no chance against me with that utensil of yours,” said Visidair. “Save yourself, and leave me to collect the others.”
“Over my dead body,” snarled Pascale.
Visidair broke into a hauntingly menacing leer. “Very well.”
COSMITH JOLTED AWAKE IN HIS hammock. He could hear scuffling on the upper deck. The others heard it, too.
“What’s going on?” asked Macmillan groggily.
“Pascale,” grunted Bos, indicating the sailor’s empty hammock.
They listened to the clang of metal upon metal.
“That doesn’t sound good,” decided Macmillan, leaping to his feet. He headed for the companionway. “Come on!” he called over his shoulder.
Bos followed.
Cosmith tailed them cautiously up the steps, but stopped when he’d ascended high enough to see the deck. A tall, gangly man had intruded aboard and was dueling Pascale. Cosmith knew by one glance at the Jordinian blade, so alike Quixheto’s, and by the stranger’s towering height, that it must’ve been Bos’s brother—the notorious spy, Anton Visidair—come to execute them at last.
Cosmith was not going to stick around for this.
He glanced around for an escape, until he spied the boat tied parallel to theirs. Making a mental note of its position, Cosmith hurried back down the steps for his satchel, then thrust open the door to the captain’s quarters. It gave way with a creak, revealing the interior of a tiny cabin.
“Dainy.”
“Mmm?” came a soft, sleepy moan.
“We must go.” Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he discerned the girl’s curvy shape lounging in her cot.
The jeers and bellows of their companions rang down from above their heads, and the young woman startled to her feet. “Jon?” She trotted to the doorway. “What’s going on?”
“Quickly, sweetheart.” He took her hand.
“But—”
“No time for arguing, my dear.” He took her by the elbow and dragged her up the stairs with mounting impatience.
“Let go of me!” She yanked her arm from his hold and halted on the top step. She glared at him before peering at the upper deck. Her eyes narrowed as she counted one too many men aboard.
“Follow me,” Cosmith mouthed. He led her starboard, where Visidair’s boat awaited.
But Dainy was distracted by the men lunging at each other portside. “Uncle Pascale,” she squealed, and Cosmith covered her mouth.
“Shh,” he warned her. “I am going to board this boat,” he whispered. “Once I do, you climb over and jump, savvy? I will catch you.”
The girl’s lips brushed against his cheek. “What about the others?” she exhaled.
&nb
sp; “We cannot worry about them right now,” Cosmith huffed. He had not come all that way, made it that far, just to be assassinated for saving Marley Macmillan’s ungrateful hide yet again.
Someone cried out, and Dainy jerked her head to the left. “Someone’s been struck,” she whimpered. “But I cannot make out whom!”
“We must make haste,” Cosmith besought her.
“But—!”
“Now, Dainy!” he yelled, finally losing patience.
When she remained adamant, staring up at him defiantly, Cosmith groaned and grabbed her by the waist. Furiously, he hoisted her up and tossed her into a sideways hold over his shoulder.
“Jon Cosmith, what the devil are you doing?”
Tightening his hold over her, the man kicked the brittle side rails until the old wood gave and busted. Through the gap, he jumped with her onto Visidair’s deck.
He managed to smile at their predicament as she lay trapped beneath him. “I hope to resume this position again soon, darling. But presently, we must dash.”
Feeling considerably better, now that they were safely aboard the getaway vessel, he hopped to his feet and untied the rope that bound the boats together. He was about to adjust the sails when Dainy stood in his way.
“We must help them!” she implored.
Cosmith faltered at her worry-wrought face. How could he begin to explain to the girl that their attacker was none other than a Jordinian spy come to hunt them down, all because Dainy existed?
He simply could not humor her. He wasn’t about to do something reckless against his better judgment. To reboard Pascale’s ship was suicide. He wasn’t about to spend the rest of his life in Jordinian prison, or worse. All that mattered was Dainy. And anyway, it was still a competition.
“It is too bad for them,” he told her, and trimmed the sails. The boat began to drift.
“What do you mean, too bad?” Frantic, she ran from bow to stern, calling out, “Mac! Bos! Pascale!”
Cosmith caught her and shoved a hand over her mouth, forcing her to duck on the deck floor with him. “Do you want to get us both spotted? Stay down, and keep quiet!”
“No! Not when my uncle and friends are being attacked!” She made to stand, but Cosmith held her down.
He glanced around the boat and sighed. He hated to do this, but she was leaving him no choice. He took the rope that Visidair had used to secure the boats together and began to bind her with it, first by her wrists, then at her ankles.
“W-what are you doing?” stammered the girl. Her eyes widened as she lost her mobility with each tightening knot. “Stop!”
Cosmith worked quickly. Before she knew it, she sat bound on the deck, although she continued to yowl up at him. “Jon Cosmith, you deplorable creature! Unbind me, you coward!”
That would not do.
Cosmith glanced apprehensively at the fishing boat from which they were fast drifting, fearful that Dainy’s voice should carry and attract Visidair’s attention. He reached into his vest pocket, extracted a clean handkerchief and paused, giving her an apologetic look. “You’ll thank me for this later,” he said encouragingly, before fastening the kerchief around her mouth.
She fell silent at last, but her eyes spoke volumes of hatred. Ah, well. He was only saving her life. He would manage to talk her out of her anger later, and she would forgive him, he was sure. But for now, escape was imminent.
“LOWER YOUR WEAPON,” BOS DEMANDED of the stranger on their boat. “Three against one. You stand no chance.”
“I say, Boslon. But my, how you’ve grown.” The clouds parted overhead, and the moonlight finally revealed the intruder’s features as he stood almost at eye-level with Bos.
Bos took in the face he’d once known, now gaunt and blanched, his irises red in the moonlight. “Anton,” breathed Bos. Despite their predicament, long-forgotten memories cascaded freely back to him: his elder brother teaching him how to fell his first tree, praying over dinner around the table with their parents, the pair walking to school, playing ball, whittling a block of wood together….
He lowered his dagger. “Brother.”
“Sorry about this,” Anton said, though without an ounce of remorse in his eyes. “But it must be done, for the good of the Republic.” He raised his sword, the blade glinting as Bos stood immobile.
Surely, his own brother was not about to slay him.
Macmillan lunged at Anton, valiantly attempting to wrestle the sword from his grip.
“Macmillan,” warned Bos, but Anton brought the flat of his blade over the lad’s head. Macmillan was knocked out cold by the steely blow, and his sickle, having flown from his clutches, skidded into a corner.
Anton kicked the unconscious boy aside. “Friend of yours, is he?”
“Anton,” boomed Bos. “Enough. Let us settle this between us, civilly.”
Pascale attempted to intervene, but Anton struck the knife clean from his grasp. The modest weapon hurtled over the rail and landed with a plunk into the dark sea.
Anton turned to Bos, smirking. “Nice work with Quixheto, by the way. I’ve never known anyone to escape him once, let alone twice.”
At the mention of Quixheto, the assassin, Bos was reminded of Cosmith, who had saved them that day. But where was he now?
Anton swung his sword, and Bos deflected it expertly with his dagger. Though Anton was older, Bos had always been stronger. “Explain yourself,” he growled. “Why did you abandon us? Know you not that our parents, our uncle, and all of our cousins were murdered by the rebels after your departure? You did not even attend their funerals.”
Anton gave him a hard look. “You were but a boy. You knew nothing of the world, other than the fanciful ideals you were so wrongfully taught of the empire.”
“The Visigoth line is loyal to the emperor, as is mandated by the Eternal God.”
“Neither exists,” his brother spat, and Bos traced a circle on his brow to fend off his brother’s blasphemy. “There is only Mother Republic, who cares for her own, as no king or god shall. And now, there are no more greedy nobles hoarding wealth, while woodworking families in the north go hungry.”
“And what improvement has the Republic made?” demanded Bos. “In fifteen years, it has gotten worse, not better.”
“Enough.” His brother twirled his sword. “I know not why I’ve suffered you to live this long.”
Bos stood before him, unmoving. “You would murder your own kin?”
“I’m only following orders.”
Bos was out of options. It was clear that no appeal to reason—or humanity—would sway his brother. He lunged, wrestling for control of Anton’s sword. He forced it out of Anton’s grip and tossed it aside. With a mighty clang, it skipped across the deck.
Anton looked disheveled for once, whitish hair falling down his brow.
Pascale darted across the deck to retrieve the fallen sword. With the blade pointed outward, he charged. Anton sidestepped him, grabbing hold of the pommel. He arched back his elbow, and before Bos could do anything to stop him, thrust the weapon into Pascale’s stomach.
“Pascale!” Bos dropped to his knees as the man toppled down, heaving unsteady breaths. The sword stuck out indecently from his gut, a pool of crimson spreading through his tunic.
“No.” Tears welled in Bos’s eyes.
Sweat glistened upon Pascale’s face, his eyes wide as he glanced regretfully around the boat. He looked beseechingly at Bos. “P-Priya,” he tried to sputter, but blood began spilling obscenely from his mouth.
Bos placed a soothing hand on his brow. “Priya knows you love her.”
“Dainy,” whispered the man.
“We will keep her safe.”
This seemed to assuage Pascale, and he rested his head on the deck, staring up at the moon. He took in one last, shaking breath, and no more after.
Hi
s glassy eyes continued to stare upward, reflecting the starlight, unseeing.
Bos closed the man’s eyelids. How much more innocent blood would the New Republic spill? Mournfully, he traced a circle on the poor man’s forehead before withdrawing the murderous weapon from his flesh.
Bos rose and turned, enraged, to his brother. “Are you satisfied? Are you content that you have, once again, fulfilled your Republic’s command for bloodshed?”
“He need not have died,” shrugged Anton. “I told him earlier to stand aside.”
Bos looked down at the blood-soaked sword, then threw it overboard. “You have no weapon now. You can do no more damage.”
His brother did not appear concerned. “Actually, I still possess my weapon of choice,” he said cryptically. “It is my duty to eliminate all who seek the duchess…kin or not.”
Bos’s heart pounded. He prayed that Eludaine remained safely below decks in her cabin. And where the devil was Jon Cosmith?
From his cloak, Anton extracted a stick of stark white. From his sleeve, he slid a tiny matchbox, and extracted a single match.
Bos’s eyes widened.
“I am going back to my boat,” said Anton softly. “And you are staying here. I promise, brother, when the wick burns down, it will be quick, and virtually painless. Then again,” he grinned slightly, “what do I know of dying?”
Bos glanced around. “I see no boat,” he growled.
Anton glanced starboard, and his expression changed to fury to register the empty waters beside them. “No matter,” he declared icily. “I can swim.” He struck the match.
Abruptly, he gasped, dropping the stick of dynami to the deck. It rolled across the planks as Anton fell forward, face-down, a long sickle sticking clean from his back.
Marley Macmillan stood behind him, chest heaving as he wrenched the weapon out of his victim’s flesh. He wiped the bloody blade on his trousers, panting.
Bos stared at him, stunned.
But the young man glanced down and cried, “Bos!”
