The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ Steven said, ‘it’s not your fault. Gilmour’s right: you and Kellin have done far more than Gita expected of you, of that, I’m certain. You belong with your comrades. Go to them.’

  Garec had been staring out between the trees, watching the river wind its way towards Orindale. He looked over at Kellin; she avoided his gaze.

  Gilmour broke the tension. ‘There is one more thing you can do for us, Brand.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Kellin was happy to have something to say.

  ‘Find us a farm. We can’t be carting this table back and forth across the valley. Ride ahead; watch for Malakasian scouts; I’m sure they’re out there.’

  ‘Unless it’s Mark travelling alone,’ Garec said.

  ‘Great gods, if you encounter him, don’t engage him, no matter what he might say or do, no matter how innocent he seems,’ Gilmour said in a rush. ‘Turn and flee; get back to us as quickly as you can – in fact, stay off this path. We’ll move into the forest as well. It’ll be more difficult, but riding along this river is inviting trouble.’

  ‘Very well,’ Brand said, looking at Kellin. The Falkan woman didn’t appear to share Brand’s enthusiasm for the assignment, but she nodded regardless. From what Steven had told her, coming close enough to hear what Mark might have to say, innocent or not, would mean death for them both.

  ‘Find us a farm,’ Gilmour said, ‘then ride for Capehill. You’ll be there in ten, maybe twelve, days with hard riding and a fair wind.’

  ‘This time of year you never can predict the storms across the plains; they can be merciless.’ Garec caught Kellin’s eye and blushed. He silently chided himself for a fool; this was no time for childhood crushes.

  ‘Can you give us a few days? Perhaps three or four?’ Brand asked. ‘Let us find a farm tomorrow, a suitable place for you to secrete the table until the path across the Fold is clear. Then, give us a couple days to ride; I’d like to be north of Wellham Ridge before you knock Stalwick senseless. Maybe if Gita is delayed, even a few days, and we ride hard, we can reach our lines before they engage at Capehill.’

  ‘I will wait until the day Steven, Garec and I plan to open the portal and escort the spell table into Colorado,’ Gilmour said. ‘That gives you six days. You understand that I don’t want to wait longer than that for fear that we may find ourselves across the Fold for more than just an aven or two.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Garec looked nervously back and forth between Steven and Gilmour. It was apparent that he had not considered making the trip.

  ‘Ah, Garec, you’ll love it,’ Steven said. ‘I’ll take you for Thai food.’

  *

  ‘Thadrake?’ Jacrys wheezed. He blinked to clear his blurry vision, but it didn’t help. He rubbed his eyes, then closed them and pressed down hard; he saw bursts of yellow, red and gold. Afterward, he could see well enough to discern that night had fallen and someone was moving about in the corner of the room, maybe folding blankets. The master spy was afraid that in addition to stabbing him through the lung, barely missing his heart, Sallax, that horsecock from Estrad, had hit him hard enough to leave his vision permanently out of focus. Remembering the fight in Carpello’s warehouse, the way Brexan had distracted him while Sallax tried to crush his skull with a table leg, Jacrys seethed. ‘I’m glad you’re dead, you bastard rutter,’ he muttered.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’ The voice was male, a soldier, probably. Jacrys guessed he had been straightening up the room.

  ‘Where’s Thadrake?’

  ‘The captain, sir? Uh, he’s downstairs, sir, eating a bit of supper.’

  Jacrys took a deep breath. It wasn’t much; he guessed something less than half his left lung inflated, and that was with painful effort. When he inhaled, his breath made a sound like air being blown through a hollow tree. Breathing out was even worse, wet and rattling, like wagon wheels rolling over loose gravel.

  ‘Get him now,’ he managed. Three words without panting. Gods…

  ‘Would you like some broth, sir? Maybe some soft bread?’

  ‘Wine or beer,’ Jacrys murmured, ‘I don’t care which.’

  Jacrys let his body relax as the soldier hurried to do his bidding. He concentrated on his breathing – in through a hollow tree and out over loose gravel, hollow tree, loose gravel, again and again – until he fell asleep.

  ‘Sir?’ Captain Thadrake was young and trim and looked good in his uniform. He’d been ingratiating himself to Colonel Pace, perhaps even to General Oaklen – it wouldn’t be long before Captain Thadrake became Commander Thadrake, or even Major Thadrake. If he kept from making any big mistakes or from getting himself, or his company, into any trouble, he might end up serving Prince Malagon as an Eastland colonel. That’s a no-win appointment, Jacrys thought.

  ‘Wine?’ Jacrys licked his split and swollen lips.

  The captain bent to help him drink. ‘Take your time, sir. I’ve got plenty.’

  Jacrys drank, revelling in the familiar flavour. It wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted, but given the circumstances, it was a drink worthy of the gods. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked. He wasn’t one to hide from the bald truth. He stared up at the good-looking captain.

  ‘No sir; you’re a gods-rutting mess, sir, but you’ll live.’ He offered more wine, but Jacrys shook his head. ‘Two partisans broke in here, hoping to kill you,’ Thadrake continued. ‘They started a fire in the encampment, sneaked past the overnight watch, killed Hendrick, my assistant, and then stabbed you, sir. It was-’

  ‘Sallax and Brexan,’ Jacrys interrupted, wheezing. ‘I saw them here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘More, please.’

  Thadrake was surprised to hear the Malakasian spy, usually a disagreeable bastard, say “please”. He held the goblet against Jacrys’ lips.

  ‘Malagon?’

  ‘No one has seen him, sir, not since the late-autumn Twinmoon. That’s about ninety days now, sir. There are all manner of rumours going about the city, but the only credible ones suggest that he’s gone into hiding, that he drowned on the Prince Marek the night it went down, or that he was blown up and the locals took his body as some kind of twisted prize. I don’t like thinking that one, sir, but it might have happened.’

  Jacrys nodded. It would take too much effort to explain to the ambitious Captain Thadrake how little he cared.

  ‘And I’ve just heard from a lieutenant who supervises shipments down at the wharf that word is coming in that Bellan Whitward has gone missing as well.’

  Jacrys breathed – hollow tree, loose gravel – and said, ‘So no one’s home at Welstar Palace? That’s interesting.’ His last words were lost behind an especially wet and noisy breath.

  ‘Correct, sir. There’s no one watching the store, so to speak.’

  ‘Oaklen?’

  ‘Gone east with the bulk of the division brought up here for the blockade. I think he’s going with them to Estrad, at least into Rona, to meet with the officers down there.’

  ‘And Pace?’ Jacrys was growing weary; even the few words he had managed were tiring him out.

  ‘The colonel was called away in a hurry, sir, some trouble in Wellham Ridge. One of his majors, Nell Tavon – do you know her, sir? She’s Malagon’s soldier to the core – has had some kind of breakdown. She’s run up into the hills with most of the Ridge battalion. Denne and Hershaw are the two captains. I don’t know much about Denne; he’s a bit older, but Hershaw and I trained together back in Averil Twinmoons ago. They managed to get a rider out with an urgent message to Colonel Pace. He mustered a guard and left as quickly as possible.’

  Jacrys could not have cared less.

  Thadrake held up the goblet. ‘More wine, sir?’

  Jacrys nodded. Yes, Captain, keep it coming. I want to sleep tonight, not the drug-induced sleep of querlis, but the deep slumber of a good wine drunk. He swallowed deeply several times until Thadrake cut him off.

  ‘Whoa there, sir. This
doesn’t mix well with the querlis.’ He set the goblet aside. ‘We’ll never get you up tomorrow.’

  ‘Brexan?’

  ‘No sign of her, sir. She just disappeared. If she’d been running with Sallax, then I guess she knows all the places along the waterfront where he was hiding.’ He shifted the bedside candle, throwing a bit more light onto Jacrys’ face. ‘I found them in a tavern I had been searching with a squad of Seron warriors from the blockade; Sallax was posing as a simpleton, and Brexan had been pretending to whore for the scullery staff. We overlooked them a couple times; Sallax was surprisingly convincing as an addled idiot. I guess there really was something wrong with him. Brexan must have known what she was doing to get the two of them into the barracks and all the way up here to your bedside without alerting anyone. We’re blanketing the waterfront with surprise searches. We haven’t found anything yet, but we will.’

  No you won’t, you fool, Jacrys thought.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want any food, sir?’ He produced a bowl of broth and a chunk of fresh bread. ‘I might be able to find a pastry or two in the city, even at this aven. I know you like those, sir.’

  Jacrys braced himself, inhaled through his discomfort and said, ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Home, sir?’

  ‘Tell Pace; tell Oaklen, you’re taking me home.’

  ‘To… Malakasia, sir?’

  Jacrys nodded.

  Thadrake tried to hide his enthusiasm. He hadn’t been home in nearly twenty Twinmoons, and while being stationed here at Oaklen’s command post was good for his career, escorting the prince’s personal espionage agent back home to retire, to die – to dance with a malodorous fat man from Port Denis, who cares? – would be a way to remain in Oaklen’s good graces, to serve the prince’s personal staff and to get back home for a Twinmoon or two. He would be packed and ready within the aven. ‘Shall I charter a boat, sir, or would you rather take a naval cutter?’

  ‘Private-’ Jacrys was fading. One eye fluttered shut, while the other found Thadrake. ‘Carpello’s yacht.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll take care of that tomorrow and report back when it’s arranged.’ Thadrake paused. ‘Of course, I’ll have to check with General Oaklen’s healer as to when you can be moved.’

  Jacrys managed a half-shake of his head. ‘Bring him,’ he whispered.

  ‘Bring him, sir?’ Thadrake beamed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And send riders.’

  Captain Thadrake leaned in close to make out what his patient was saying. ‘Riders to Colonel Pace and General Oaklen?’ He couldn’t just leave; he had to ask. Pace and Oaklen needed to know, and grant their permission. His mind raced. ‘Where should I tell them we’re headed, sir? They’ll want to know where we’ve gone.’

  ‘Pellia,’ Jacrys whispered. ‘I have a safe house over the wharf in Pellia. I’ll stay there.’

  ‘Pellia.’ Thadrake waited for Jacrys to drift off, then gulped the rest of the wine. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said to the gaunt, sickly form lying asleep in the middle of the chamber, ‘I’ll tell them you’ve ordered us back to your home in Pellia. I’ll make the arrangements tomorrow, sir.’

  Jacrys didn’t hear him; he was already lost in the brilliant dreams that followed closely on the heels of querlis leaves and wine. Brexan Carderic and he were on the narrow strip of sand that passed for a beach outside Pellia during the summer Twinmoon. Across the inlet from the city, the beach could be accessed via private ferries, usually little more than floating flotsam manned by entrepreneurial vagrants. Jacrys had paddled across the river in his father’s rowboat, dodging genuine barges, Malakasian naval ships and fishing trawlers to reach the ribbon of sand. Even now, two hundred Twinmoons and an almost-mortal wound later, Jacrys still dreamed of the beach, where a hundred million tiny seashells lay upon the sand in a jumbled, glittering mosaic of beige, white and black. It was the most beautiful place that Jacrys Marseth had ever seen, and he was there now, back home with Brexan. She had won his respect, proving herself a talented spy, even if not quite a killer. He dreamed of breathing deeply again, of smelling the salt, the tide and the sea air. Breathing with the lungs of his childhood, he quietly inhaled the very essence of Brexan, touching her, feeling her body respond to his gentle caresses, and then cutting her open and watching as her lovely face twisted itself into a mask of terror.

  A CARNIVAL TRICK

  Garec was hungry. Dinner was still half an aven away, but though his stomach growled like distant thunder, he didn’t bother complaining: he knew Steven and Gilmour would ignore him. The two sorcerers had been guiding, pushing, pulling, heaving and periodically casting all manner of creative spells to move the Larion spell table north through the forest beside the river. They were three hundred paces off the path, far enough east to hunker down and hide while any Malakasian scouts passed along the riverbank, he hoped. Truth be told, Garec would have been more comfortable if they were another two hundred paces into the forest, but progress would be slower and they would risk having the cart tumble over and having to excavate the granite artefact from yet another shallow grave.

  Tuning his ears to the forest, Garec ignored the magicians’ banter and listened for riders approaching. Kellin and Brand had been gone since dawn and he was growing anxious. He was especially hoping to hear Kellin galloping back to find them.

  His stomach growled again.

  ‘Are you keeping something from us, Garec?’ Steven guided the carthorses around a crowded patch of saplings. His own horse was tethered to the rear slats.

  ‘Me?’ Garec’s face reddened. He was too hungry to be teased about his attraction to Kellin and decided not to take it gracefully. ‘Why?’

  ‘Your stomach,’ Steven said. ‘Has some woodland creature snack disagreed with you? Or are you just hungry?’

  Garec smiled, relieved. ‘I could eat a woodland creature, if that’s what you’re wondering. I swear I’ll kill the first edible thing I see.’

  ‘We’ll take a break soon,’ Gilmour said. ‘This has been much more difficult than I’d guessed. I for one could use a cup of tecan.’

  ‘Beer for me,’ Garec said.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Steven joked, ‘I’ll just pop into the nearest pub.’

  Garec said, ‘I’ll get a fire going.’

  ‘In the lee of that boulder over there, please,’ Gilmour warned, ‘and a small one at that. Mark has had plenty of time to get to Wellham Ridge and begin making his way back here.’

  Garec looped his reins around a low branch. ‘How do you know he’s gone to Wellham Ridge?’

  ‘I think we would have seen him by now if he hadn’t. He has the key; he’ll want the table. My guess is that he’s marshalling some local ruffians, mercenaries perhaps, interested in a few pieces of silver. He’ll bring them along either to kill us, to distract us while he kills everyone – them included – or to help him excavate and transport the table if we have failed to do so already.’

  ‘That’s a grim list of options,’ Garec said.

  ‘He’s not coming alone,’ Steven said. ‘He knows us too well. He knows what we can do. Together, Gilmour and I would be too formidable. While one of us locked horns with him, the other might blast the spell table into rubble; Mark’s too smart to risk that.’ He considered the wooden cart. ‘My bet is that he’s coming with a huge force, enough to overwhelm us all, even you and me, Gilmour.’

  ‘Because he knows you won’t engage in wholesale slaughter,’ Garec finished.

  ‘Right,’ Steven said.

  Gilmour dismounted and rummaged through his pack for the tecan leaves. ‘Let’s hope we don’t have to face him then.’

  Garec looked hopeful at that, an option he had forgotten existed. ‘I’ll get the fire going.’

  ‘A small one, Garec,’ Gilmour repeated, ‘just enough to heat the water, and no smoke.’

  ‘We don’t need a fire; I’ll heat the water,’ Steven said. ‘You two take a break.’

  ‘Wait,’ Garec warned.

&n
bsp; ‘If you want to warm up a bit, go-’

  ‘Quiet,’ he said harshly, then, ‘listen.’

  ‘I hear them,’ Gilmour said. ‘Steven, cloak the cart.’

  ‘Got it. Mom’s old blanket.’ Steven closed his eyes in concentration. Time slowed. The air thickened to a paste and the forest of green and brown melted into a waxy curtain. Draping the small company, their horses and Brand’s stolen cart, Steven said, ‘Done. We’re hidden.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Gilmour whispered, dropping to one knee and peering back towards the river. ‘They’ll be along in a moment.’

  Garec crossed to Gilmour’s side and considered nocking an arrow. He placed his hand palm-down in a frozen footprint the old man had left in the snow. Nothing, not the slightest vibration; the riders were close now, but not making much noise, no pounding the earth in great numbers. He wouldn’t need his bow… not yet, anyway.

  ‘There aren’t many,’ Gilmour whispered.

  ‘No,’ Garec agreed, ‘a handful at the most.’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s Brand and Kellin.’

  When the Falkan partisans came into view, Garec was both relieved and alarmed. Seeing Kellin safe, obviously uninjured, lifted a stony weight from his chest; he was glad to see her and wondered briefly if it would be inappropriate to hug her when she slipped from the saddle.

  Garec’s amorous musings faded quickly, as he saw how hard Kellin and Brand were riding. The Falkan soldiers had loosed their reins and were frantically galloping, guiding the horses south. Chasing one another along the winding path would have been dangerous at half their speed; Garec looked away, afraid he might see one of the mounts slip on an icy patch or even shatter a limb on an exposed root or a snow-covered rock.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Gilmour said, and cupping his hands over his mouth, he murmured a spell and whispered, ‘Brand, Kellin,’ across three hundred paces of empty forest.

  As if they had been struck, Kellin and Brand reined in and searched the woods, patting the frothing animals gently, thanking them for what had obviously been a harrowing flight.