The Larion Senators e-3

by Rob Scott

  ‘That’s not terribly comforting,’ Garec said. ‘What if he opens the table?’

  ‘He won’t.’ Gilmour seemed more confident now that he’d had a moment to think. ‘He’ll be too afraid to open it until he knows exactly where Steven is – that’s Nerak’s fear, a Twinmoon later, and still echoing like a fart in a canyon.’

  ‘Nice.’ Brexan frowned.

  ‘But true,’ Gilmour said. ‘Mark didn’t know anything about magic, but Nerak did, and Nerak died terrified of Steven Taylor. Thank the gods the creature inhabiting Mark Jenkins had a taste of that insecurity, or we’d all be dead already.’

  ‘Why the fear?’

  ‘He knows we’re here, but he can’t find Steven,’ Gilmour explained. ‘If he can’t find Steven, he risks Steven crashing down on him the moment he opens the table.’

  Captain Ford dipped a crust of bread into his goblet. ‘So what will he do?’

  Gilmour shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Wait? Search?’

  ‘Bury the whole city under an avalanche of fire?’ Garec added.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gilmour conceded, then dug about in his robes for a pipe.

  ‘Gods, I wish you could feel this,’ Alen said.

  ‘What’s that? Magic? No thanks.’ Hannah tore off a piece of warm bread and wrapped it about a sausage.

  ‘It’s everywhere.’ Alen appeared to have developed a nervous tic. He ignored his breakfast and checked the wharf. ‘It’s like Sandcliff used to be, energy all over the place; I can feel it on my skin like summer wind.’

  ‘Whose energy is it?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s enormous, more powerful than me or Fantus, or even Milla.’

  ‘Could it be another shipment of bark? That’s an awfully big ship. If even one of the holds was full, it might resonate-’

  ‘No,’ Alen interrupted, rubbing his arms against the chill. ‘This is like…’

  ‘Alen?’ Hannah spoke with her mouth full. ‘You all right?’

  ‘I wish I had contacted Fantus again.’

  ‘So what should we do?’

  ‘We should wait. It won’t be long.’

  *

  Redrick slipped behind the workers nailing wooden braces into the wharf. The block-and-tackle crane towered overhead as they lashed it to the braces and let out a length of heavy rope, then they hefted crude stone counterweights from a trolley, two men to each stone. They stacked them on each corner and checked the stability, tugging hard on the main line – then waved to the sailors waiting near the quarterdeck.

  That’ll keep them for a while anyway, Redrick thought as he ducked between the harbourmaster’s office and a boarding house. At the frontage road, still out of sight, he sent a seeking spell through the waterfront, but it yielded nothing helpful: there was too much magic around, too many waves of noisy power emanating from the spell table and the keystone, from Fantus and Steven. They were here, nearby, but lost in the miasma, impossible to locate.

  Perhaps a bit closer, Redrick thought, and slunk along the road, back towards the deep-water pier. He kept the seeking spell alive, searching the crowds, the side streets, the buildings.

  Then Gilmour was there, stepping from a dockside tavern.

  But no Steven.

  ‘They’re about finished securing that crane.’ Garec was sweating. ‘We should go.’

  ‘Another moment, please; have another drink.’ Gilmour didn’t look at him, but stared across the Bellan’s decks, watching and feeling for signs of Mark. It was a daunting task, locating anything in the mystical fog.

  ‘Why didn’t the table give off this kind of power when we found it in Meyers’ Vale?’ Garec asked. ‘I don’t remember you being this overwhelmed by it down there.’

  ‘Because this is more than the table,’ Gilmour said, ‘this is me, Mark, the table, and… someone else.’

  ‘Kantu?’ Brexan asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ Garec swilled the last of his tecan.

  Gilmour whispered, almost to himself, ‘That little girl, Milla.’

  Before the others could respond, Gilmour was bustling towards the door. He tossed a few copper Mareks to the barman and forced a smile. ‘Lovely breakfast, my friend. What’s on for midday?’

  ‘Fish stew.’ The Malakasian was drying tankards with a cloth. He caught the Mareks and stashed them in his apron.

  ‘Shrimp, booacore and jemma?’

  ‘Of course. With potatoes, pepperweed and leeks.’

  ‘Nice and spicy; excellent,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’ll be back.’

  The barman shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Whatever.’

  The others hurried after him; Brexan cried, ‘Wait, Gilmour.’

  ‘Did that fellow just say booacore and jemma?’ Alen craned his head to see over the bar. ‘Delicious. I could do without the leeks, though. They always give me gas.’

  Hannah stood. ‘I don’t know about booacore,’ she said, ‘but that woman just called that short guy “Gilmour”.’

  ‘What? Where?’ Alen leapt to his feet.

  ‘There, going out the alley door, that woman. She just called that little stout one “Gilmour”. I heard her from here.’

  Alen moved towards the window. ‘No, it can’t be. He’s too…’

  ‘Young?’ Hannah laughed. ‘Call me crazy, but have you looked in a mirror recently? You look pretty good for a man three hundred years old.’

  Alen was only half listening. He brushed his fingers over the goosebumps that had risen on his forearm.

  ‘What is it?’ Hannah asked. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

  ‘You can’t feel it,’ he said, ‘but the air in here just changed, as if it was sucked out into the street.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  He looked out of the window and peered down the alley. ‘It means you’re absolutely right: that’s my old friend, Fantus.’

  Jacrys finished the wine, tilting the goblet far enough to catch the last drops on his tongue. He let it slip from his fingers and it shattered on the floor.

  ‘Rotten vintage,’ he wheezed, ‘but if that’s the last thing I taste, I suppose it’s better than nothing.’ He propped himself on a pillow and looked over the wharf. ‘Though it would have been nice to have one more Falkan-’

  Jacrys’ voice faltered; his skin tingled with pins and needles. When he finally remembered to breathe, the noisy rasp that filled the room with the wet sound of death unexpectedly unnerved him.

  But I’m not dying. Not yet.

  Through sheer force of will he rose from the cot – his deathbed – and drew Thadrake’s knife from the block of cheese, then staggered towards the stairs.

  It’s not her, you dumb rutter. Get back into bed. You can’t get down there; you’ll die in the stairwell.

  But Jacrys ignored his own advice. It was her, just below his window, emerging from the tavern beneath his own room. She had probably been enjoying breakfast with her friends. The one with the roll of sailcloth looked like the bowman, Garec Haile, still alive despite taking an arrow in the lungs that night in Orindale.

  Get back into bed, he told himself sternly, you’re hallucinating. This is it; this is the end – of course you’d see her at the end. And Garec’s dead; you know that, you killed him yourself.

  At the top of the stairs, the former spy, white, wide-eyed with pain and looking like a man possessed, clenched his teeth over the blade and braced his hands against the narrow walls. Blood soaked his tunic in a scarlet bib as he sucked in tortured breaths through his teeth. His lungs felt heavy, like waterlogged bags of sand in his chest. He took a step, then another. Pain lanced through his hips; his leg muscles twitched. Another step.

  I’m coming for you, Brexan. I’ll be down in just a moment.

  Redrick sneaked into a doorway. ‘It’s him, the short one, sonofabitch,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve gotta get back to the table. I never should have boxed the damned thing up. I should have known, should have felt them coming, worthless
frigging tan-bak. Shit!’

  He peeked from his hiding place. Gilmour was still there, searching the crowds, hustling back and forth along the wharf, obviously panicked about something. His little partisan friends scurried after him.

  ‘What are you looking for, Gilmour?’ he asked. ‘What do you think you know? And where is Steven?’ Redrick watched another moment then stepped onto the road. The table wouldn’t help him; Blackford probably had the crate so tangled in crane lines, it would take all day to reach it. ‘All right, fine. Better this way, with the surprise element, than from the Bellan. He expects me up there.’

  Blackford spun around. Someone’s coming! He took an interminable moment to search the captain’s cabin for a hiding place, then gave up – it was no use, the creature haunting Redrick Shen would find him in a heartbeat. He had to lie, and make it look convincing. The crate was his only option.

  He moved quickly behind the wooden box and pretended to check the top and sides, as if ensuring the box wouldn’t fall open during transfer. Make it look good. You’ve got to make this look good.

  There was a soft knock at the cabin door. Blackford snapped to and shouted, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Captain Blackford, sir, it’s Kem. The crane’s ready, sir. I have the lines here.’

  Blackford exhaled quietly in relief and bade him enter; Kem came in, followed by three sailors, each dragging a length of hawser.

  Kem looked the box over for a few moments, then announced, ‘We’ll have to turn it on its side, sir,’ he said.

  Blackford’s heart thudded. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He considered slipping over the rail, disappearing into the Pellia streets and making for home – he could be there in less than a Moon.

  ‘How’d he- uh, she- Well, you know, how’d it get it in here in the first place?’ Kem asked, brushing a callused palm over the rough slats of the packing crate.

  Remembering himself, Blackford shook his head.’ That’s not your concern. Just get it onto the deck and wait there for me.’

  Run, fool. Redrick’s gone. You’ll be home in less than a Moon.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Kem said smartly, then turned on the others and shouted, ‘Right you lot, let’s get this motherless whore turned over.’

  Blackford ignored them and was pushing past the crate, making for the companionway, when he saw the chest of drawers. It was fashioned from some ebony-coloured wood from southern Rona, and tucked discreetly away in a recessed area beneath the berth.

  That’s it, Blackford thought, a leap of excitement making his heart beat faster. Unless he has it with him, that’s where it’ll be.

  Kem and the sailors worked behind him, quickly and efficiently, desperate to avoid damaging the stone table – given the probable punishment for damaging it, Blackford could understand why. However, he wasn’t about to search the chest until he had the cabin to himself. The sailors wanted to see Redrick – the monster possessing him – leave the Bellan, for ever, but Blackford knew scared men would say anything to save their own lives. If they caught him searching the captain’s cabin, they’d squeal on him in a heartbeat.

  Despite the cold, the men were sweating.

  ‘Kem, go and fetch another two men to help you,’ Caption Blackford ordered. ‘You three, get above decks and have that dough-headed horsecock of a crane operator slacken the hawsers. Now!’

  ‘But sir,’ Kem began, ‘we’ve got-’

  ‘Now!’ Blackford shouted again.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison. At least they had shared accountability should the table fall and crack.

  The moment the cabin was empty, Blackford knelt to rifle through the chest. It didn’t take long. The stone, a hand-sized lump of grey rock wrapped in a bit of cloth was nestled at the back of the top drawer. He pocketed it, carefully closed the drawer and hurried above decks.

  Home in less than a Moon, he thought, but not without this rock. He crossed the main deck and made his way towards the gangplank. Kem, two additional sailors in tow, spotted him and called, ‘Should we carry on with the crate, Captain?’

  Without slowing, Blackford nodded and said, ‘Yes, please- I mean, yes, at once! I’m off to fetch Redrick. We’ll be back in a moment.’

  Home in less than a Moon. Blackford reached the pier, turned along the wharf and didn’t look back, even after the explosions echoed across the harbour.

  ‘Gilmour, what are you doing?’ Brexan asked.

  ‘Milla, the girl I told you about, the one with Kantu?’ He searched the crowd, looking for children. ‘I think she’s here somewhere. I can feel her.’

  Garec, still shouldering his disguised weapons, felt like he was looking pretty suspicious, hurrying back and forth with a rolled length of sailcloth over his shoulder. ‘What does she look like?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘like a little girl, maybe forty, fifty Twinmoons, not much more.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Garec said. ‘How many little-’

  ‘Fantus!’ someone shouted from the tavern, ‘Fantus, get down!’

  Gilmour turned to see a strange young man waving frantically and charging into the road. The stranger was obscured for an instant while a cart laden with headless jemmafish passed between them. When the explosion shattered the morning, the cart flipped end over end, spilling its cargo and splintering on the cobblestones.

  With the instant’s warning, Gilmour shouted something unintelligible to his friends and dived for the gutter, but it wasn’t enough. Mark’s spell struck him solidly, casting him up and through the thin wooden walls of a workers’ hut. He fell through the stove, burning his back and arms, and crashed into the block-and-tackle crane next to the Falkan frigate.

  Garec couldn’t make out what the stranger had shouted, but he watched as Gilmour wheeled, shouted as well, then threw himself face-first onto the street.

  Acting on instinct, Garec tightened his grip on the sailcloth roll and grasped a fistful of Brexan’s sleeve. He heaved himself backwards, hauling Brexan with him, and slammed into Captain Ford. The three of them tumbled into the street beside the tavern as the dockside windows burst outwards in a cloud of flying glass. Several shards ripped through Garec’s tunic, tearing open his back.

  The street was unforgiving; Garec felt more skin scrape from his hip. Beside him, Ford cursed, and rolled over with a moan.

  Brexan lay still, unnervingly silent.

  ‘See to her!’ Garec shouted, slipping an arm through one of his quivers, but the captain didn’t move. ‘Captain Ford!’ Garec kicked him hard in the lower leg.

  ‘What? What was that? Garec, what was that?’ Shaking, obviously in shock, he covered his face with his hands.

  ‘See to Brexan,’ Garec repeated and strung his bow. ‘I’ll be back.’ He watched long enough to see the seaman push himself onto all fours. Good enough, he thought, trying not to worry that he’d seen no sign of life from Brexan. There’d be time for that later.

  He hesitated at the corner, ignoring the screams of the injured, the headless jemmafish strewn about and the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots. He felt blood trickling down his back and soaking into his clothes. His side ached and his hip blazed where he had scraped it raw. Not much time, he thought. The waterfront guards will be here in two breaths. There was another explosion, this one further away, somewhere east of the tavern, but like the blood, the fish, the screams and the broken glass, the Bringer of Death ignored it. He’d have one shot, maybe two, before Mark Jenkins found and killed him.

  ‘The whoreson was in the tavern the whole time,’ he murmured.

  Jacrys was a few steps from the tiny foyer when the first explosion rocked the tavern and his upstairs safehouse. Without a banister, his tenuous grip on the cracked wooden walls failed and he tumbled to the lower floor. As the last step creaked beneath his weight, Jacrys took stock of his broken body. His chin dripped blood and a collarbone was broken – painful but not alarming; he needed only one good arm for what he was about to do. One
ankle had been wrenched and he recognised the unpleasant tingling sensation that meant he’d torn ligaments. This too was inconvenient, but no real deterrent. The biggest problem was that something had finally broken – irreparably this time – inside his lung. He realised it was filling with blood, and quickly too; he’d drown soon.

  So there was precious little time left. Jacrys fumbled for Thadrake’s knife, set his jaw and pushed himself to his feet with a groan, screaming involuntarily when the broken ends of his collarbone rubbed together, and again when his ankle thunked against the wall. The sound was horrific, a penultimate death-rattle.

  He barely registered the second explosion, nor did he hear the cries of the injured. With blood smeared over his face and bubbling on his lips, Jacrys Marseth staggered into the street.

  Alen – Kantu – had been outside the tavern for just a moment when he felt the seeking spell. He didn’t know why Fantus had failed to detect it, but he would have to act quickly, on faith that he had truly found his old friend. Someone close by was trying to kill him.

  He cast a shield to protect himself and Hannah, a spell he hadn’t called in over a thousand Twinmoons. Then he screamed, ‘Fantus! Fantus, get down!’ and pushed Hannah beneath the doorway, hoping the solid construction around the entryway might offer some slight protection. He had an instant’s eye contact with Fantus before a wagon loaded with malodorous fish rattled past, then the blast crashed and rolled along the road. There hadn’t been time to cast a protection spell over Fantus. His ears ringing, his magic boiling in his blood, Alen sprang to his feet and turned to face their attacker.

  It was Nerak, it had to be, and whether he was in the guise of Prince Malagon, Princess Bellan, or a dockside shopkeeper, he didn’t care. He had waited half his life for this chance; it was time for vengeance. From the east a muscular South Coaster, a sailor, strode into the carnage, rather than fleeing like most. The sailor stared straight ahead, through the crowds and across the wharf to where Fantus’ body lay crumpled against the base of the wooden crane. He didn’t turn aside, nor did he appear to flinch, or even to notice Alen at all.