by J. C. Staudt
Boards creaked with the weight of laboring sailors and longshoremen. Rusting metal freighters were moored beside clippers and galleons, with no discernable docking system except that each ship looked snug in the space it occupied. A hundred-or-so fathoms down the docks, Daxin came to the source of the smoky smell: a huge oar galley that had caught fire and sunken in its berth. It was leaning dangerously to one side, a burnt-out hulk cowering in the darkness. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, taking a moment to look the vessel over before he continued on his way.
Where the dock ended, Daxin lowered himself off the edge and dropped onto the long, flat rock below. He made a pillow of his bags and laced his fingers behind his head to watch the daylight spread across the roof of the cave. This was the spot. Their spot; the place where he and Vicky had hidden themselves away and fallen in love. It had been awkward and uncomfortable, and he’d felt the fear and excitement of being caught, but those moments had also embodied the rhythm of youth: actions without consequences, whispered laughter, the rush of a new lover’s skin.
Maybe Daxin had been more like his brother at that age than he remembered. He’d known nothing of Victaria’s home or family before they married, only that she had been born and raised in the east. She rarely asked him about his past, and she spoke of her own more seldom still. No, Daxin told himself, refusing to believe it. I’ve never been like Toler.
That was why Daxin had resolved to come back to Sai Calgoar. He would give the new routes to the nomads, even if it put Bradsleigh in jeopardy this time; even if his own brother became caught in the crossfire. And he’d make sure Vantanible’s daughter met her end before she could bring any half-blood mongrels into this world. Daxin couldn’t protect his brother from the hazards of the career he’d chosen for himself. But he could still protect Toler in other ways.
There was a noise; an echo from the cavity beside the breakwater, even further out beyond the docks. Not the sound of the waves lapping, or the creaking of ships, or a seagull’s call. Just an echo. Daxin sat up sharply. His hand went to his gun, and he waited. When nothing more happened for a long time, he took a breath and scratched at the itchy new hairs coming through the spots of rain rash on his scalp. White flakes of skin fluttered onto his leathers, and he brushed them away.
A boat came speeding out from the breakwater cavity. Daxin felt a pinch on the right side of his chest. Everything started to drift sideways and go fuzzy. He felt around, plucked something out of his chest, and looked down to see a yellow-plumed dart with an empty liquid barrel. He knew then that he needed to get back up onto the dock. He was about to pass out, and if he passed out down here, he was apt to roll into the water and drown.
Flinging his bags over his shoulder, he leapt up and caught hold of the dock. He hadn’t gotten a good look at the boat’s occupants, veiled in shadow as they were. He began to pull himself up, but there was another sting from behind, this time at kidney level. He swung sideways and hooked his foot onto the edge. Almost there. The first thing he was going to do when he’d gotten up, he decided, was to kill the bastards in that boat, whoever they were. His gun was clean, loaded and ready. A pair of well-placed shots would do the trick. Then his sight clouded and washed out of him like a mouthful of spoiled milk, and he fell.
CHAPTER 47
Eh-Calai Phylecta
Artolo the Nuck took Lizneth wading through the surf outside Gris-Mirahz. They hugged the cave wall until they reached a secluded section of beach, where a driftwood dugout canoe lay in the sand, upturned and hidden. It was a narrow thing of grayed wood with a shallow draft, accompanied by a scratched plastic paddle from the old world. Together they righted the canoe and set it at the water’s edge.
Lizneth had spent the past few days with Zhigdain and the others, resting and talking about what they’d do next. The air was warm in Gris-Mirahz, but the sea breeze was strong, and you could sleep outside with only the cave roof high above you just as comfortably as you could sleep inside one of the hovels. With her friends around her, Lizneth could drift off to sleep each night without worrying that she was in danger, or that someone would come to steal from them while they slept.
The villagers put them to work right away, and they worked hard; plucking snails off the rocks, digging in the sand for clams and shovelcrabs, poaching seagulls, gathering seaweed, and hauling nets for fish in the shallows. Whenever they weren’t harvesting food from the sea’s plentiful bounty, they found that there were plenty of other tasks that needed to be done to keep the village running smoothly. Despite the questionable nature of its residents, Gris-Mirahz offered a sense of community that Lizneth hadn’t felt since she left Tanley. It was a place where zhehn treated each other more like family than any of them were used to, and it put them all at ease.
From what Lizneth gathered during their discussions, it seemed that her group of former rowing slaves would be going their own separate ways when the time came. Fane was from a village far to the north called Palokk, so he wanted to find work aboard one of the trading ships to earn his way across to the northern shores of the Omnekh, plus a little extra if he could manage it. Bresh had little in the way of family to go back to, so she said she would stay in Gris-Mirahz. Zhigdain thought it best that they all leave since there was still the threat of a visit from Qeddiker, but Bresh refused him, saying she would die before she became a slave again. Zhigdain himself meant to stay only long enough to decide which ikzhe village at this end of the Omnekh to make his home. Dozhie had been away from home for so long that her cuzhehn were all grown up by now. Her mate was dead, so she said she would go wherever Zhigdain went.
Artolo had joined Lizneth to hunt and fish almost every day while he wasn’t on one of his excursions into the blind-world, and they’d formed a plan for how they were going to find and capture their eh-calai for Jakrizah. Artolo would come back from the blind-world with cuts and scrapes and bruises on his body, but whenever Lizneth asked him about his activities, he would brush her questions aside and change the subject. They spoke of many things as they walked along the beach, or sat for long hours in the shelter of some abandoned hut on the edge of the village. The plan they had worked out was a good one, but Lizneth was a bundle of nerves this morning nonetheless.
“Have you ever been in a flat-bottom boat before?” Artolo asked, as they slid the narrow canoe toward the water.
Lizneth shook her head.
“Okay then. It’s very simple, just remember to stay low. These things are stable as long as you don’t lean them too far. Why don’t you get in first and have a seat, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Lizneth tossed her bundle into the boat, then stepped in and sat on one of the smooth plank benches while Artolo shoved off. She’d brought the spare dagger Artolo had given her, a set of manacles, a pair of waterskins, and some dried fish and bread wrapped in a faded white cloth. There was also a flat leather pouch full of Jakrizah’s elixirs, along with some other instruments that Artolo knew more about than Lizneth did. He was wearing a vest that made him look like one of the fisherfolk back home, outfitted with various pockets and other trappings for use in the task at hand.
The canoe wobbled as Artolo hoisted his feet out of the water and splashed aboard, and Lizneth lost her stomach for a moment. She gulped the sensation down and pushed away her memories of being aboard the Halcyon, clamping her hands to the gunwales as Artolo began to paddle them toward the big galley’s dim shape in the distance.
A line of rocks formed a natural breakwater that sheltered their advance. Artolo guided the canoe with an expert’s grace, skirting the rocks like a length of thread through a set of massive black fangs. Schools of silverfins and glowfish darted about in the shallows. Lizneth cringed when a lurking rock slipped by them, inches from the canoe’s hull. She’d only just seen it beneath them, but Artolo had known it was there.
“There are only a few body parts Jakrizah needs,” he was saying, his eyes sharp ahead. “Most of them can be found in the abdomen.”
“I thought you said the eh-calai needed to be alive,” Lizneth said.
“Never said that. Mama Jak keeps them alive if she can, but she isn’t thorough about it. She’s not very fond of humans, as you might have noticed. When we can’t bring them back whole, we settle for pieces. I should remind you not to use your dagger, if it comes to that. The venom spoils the blood.” Artolo’s voice was monotone, his focus on the terrain ahead.
Everyone I meet plays me for a fool, Lizneth thought. Or is it my fault this time for not asking the right questions? She had known there was the likelihood that she would have to kill again, but the thought haunted her all the same. She hoped it would be easier to slay another eh-calai than one of her own kind. This was about getting home, and she’d do what she needed to do. With Artolo at the helm, navigating the tiny boat with an expert hand as he’d done countless times before, she began to doubt why she needed to be here at all. “Why do you need me for this when you could do it just as well by yourself?” she asked.
“You’ve never tried to shackle an unwilling victim, have you?”
“I’ve been the unwilling victim being shackled, and it didn’t take much.”
“What about dragging a body over rocks, or lifting a creature the size of a human into a boat the size of this one? You’re here because this is a two-zhe job. It’s more than a two-zhe job, but there won’t be room for more than two of us in this boat once we’re hauling around a full-grown human. And Mama Jak already explained why you’re perfect for this, so don’t you go losing your nerve.”
Lizneth felt her lower lip quiver, and bit back her self-pity. She remembered the feel of the ropes rubbing and pinching at her wrists when Curznack’s crew had pinned her down and tossed her into the hold; the sensation of breathlessness while the drawstrings were tight around her throat. She’d never abducted anyone before, but she knew more than most what it was like, and so did Artolo, she didn’t doubt. It was hard not to draw comparisons between what they were doing and where they’d both been. But she thought better of arguing any further. This is about getting home, she told herself again. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do it.
The Halcyon’s remains were a pitiful sight; whatever pride the ship had borne had departed with its seaworthiness. It sat askance, its hull emblazoned with smoke stains and scorch marks. Shouldered to rest in the seabed, the ship’s slanted masts were wavering over the docks like unstable roof trusses. Calaihn and ikzhehn came and went along the pier, but the galley remained largely ignored as they approached.
“I want to take a look aboard that ship,” Artolo said when they were close enough to see the shore.
“Have a great time. No tail of mine’s ever touching that thing again,” Lizneth said, shivering. The morning air had grown warmer as they neared the port, but the Omnekh’s spray and the sight of the Halcyon both chilled her.
“Look there,” said Artolo.
A lone eh-calai was seated amidst the pylons, perched atop the rocks with his arms hanging over his knees. They were too far off yet to see much, so Artolo paddled closer, keeping the boat out of sight.
The eh-calai looked worn and tired. He was thin, not muscular like the bronze-fleshed calai; his whole head was shaven, the skin of his face ruddy and sand-lashed. Clothed in worn leather beneath a shoulder strap bearing a string of red cylinders, there was a gun at his side and a blade across his back.
“He’s perfect,” Artolo said.
Lizneth hissed at him for silence. “He isn’t chained. Is he a slave? I don’t think he’s a slave.”
“All the better. No slave masters to come looking for him. He’s all alone; nobody will know he’s missing until we’re back in Gris-Mirahz. Here, keep the boat steady.” Artolo handed the paddle to Lizneth and began rummaging through the supplies they’d brought.
The eh-calai’s eyes darted in their direction, scanning the hollow where their canoe lay waiting in the shadows. It seemed he’d heard them, even over the sound of the tide.
Lizneth tried to hold the boat in place by clinging to a nearby rock, but the rock was black and wet, and the water’s surface was undulating beneath them. She could see the bottom, so she drove the old plastic paddle into the seabed for stability.
Artolo opened Jakrizah’s flat leather pouch and tinkered with the implements inside: tiny cylinders of gleaming metal; an assortment of stoppered vials and vaccine bottles of clouded glass; small tubes for drawing liquid; and puffs of brightly-colored feather. From this array he performed his careful admixture, glancing over his shoulder twice more to observe the eh-calai at rest below the docks before making his final selection.
Despite Lizneth’s best efforts to hold the boat still, a passing wave rollicked them and sent one of the glass bottles rolling across the floor.
“Keep it steady,” Artolo said. The warm smiles he’d given her before had gone as sour and rotten as overripe fruit.
His work done, Artolo drew a thin metal pipe from where it was strapped to his back. His eyes followed the surface of the water from where he stood to the flat rock where the eh-calai sat. The human’s attention now seemed to be on the waves.
“Beh dyagth,” Artolo cursed in a harsh whisper. “We’re too far away. Take us closer.”
Stunned and feeling inadequate, Lizneth shoved off the rock, but she forgot to pull the paddle from its stand in the sea floor. She lost her grip and scrambled to catch it before it sank. After a bit of noisy splashing, she discovered that the paddle had been designed to float. She looked up at Artolo self-consciously, and was surprised to see him stifling a playful smile.
“Oh, you—” she began, but he shushed her with a soft chitter and tilted his head toward the docks.
She began to paddle, finding the boat’s trim smooth despite her awkward handling.
“Build some speed,” Artolo said. “Don’t try to stop when we hit the edge; take us right into the open. I’ll hit him on the move.” He thumbed one of the metal cylinders, with its bright puff of feather, into the near end of his metal tube.
Lizneth increased the depth and length of her strokes, swapping the paddle from side to side, as she’d seen Artolo do. It was a different motion than rowing on the galley, but her arms had grown stronger in her time aboard the Halcyon all the same.
Artolo assumed a wide stance and propped one foot on the bow, holding his pipe in front of him with the tip pointed at the floor of the boat. The boat picked up speed as they neared the opening in the rock, where the light from torches and the outside world shone over the port and cut away the shadow that was keeping them hidden until they got there.
“Good, good,” Artolo whispered back to her. “Faster, now.”
They were skimming along at a solid clip when they emerged. Artolo breathed in and raised the pipe, bringing it to his lips. The eh-calai saw them and started, but Artolo found his mark soon after. He heaved, sending the dart home with a pfuh-thunk that was barely audible above the waves. Artolo plucked out another cylinder and thumbed it into the tube.
Sure enough, Lizneth saw the puff of bright yellow feather in the eh-calai’s chest, waving in the breeze like a toxic lapel pin. The eh-calai yanked the dart free and tossed it aside, then hopped to his feet and snatched up his things with a quickness. He seemed to be favoring his ankle, but even with his bag slung over his shoulder, the eh-calai jumped high enough to pull himself halfway up onto the dock before Artolo got the second shot away.
This time, the bright yellow plume blossomed from the eh-calai’s lower back. He was swinging his leg up onto the dock when he faltered. His elbows buckled, and the tension went out of him. He ricocheted off the long flat rock where he’d been sitting, then crashed into the waves, his bag tumbling in after him.
“Got him,” Artolo said, slapping the deck with an excited tail. “Take us over there.”
They were already moving so fast that all Lizneth had to do was drag the paddle to pull them alongside the sinking body. Together they hauled the unconscious eh-calai aboard and fastened
the manacles around his ankles.
Artolo retrieved the eh-calai’s sodden bags from the water and breathed an accomplished sigh. “That was some fine seamanship, scearib,” he said. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Jakrizah’s going to be happy with this one.” That warm smile of his was back, broader than ever.
Lizneth beamed, unable to suppress a smile of her own. “Are we going back to Gris-Mirahz now?” she said, hoping Artolo had forgotten about the Halcyon.
“Not just yet, ledozhe. I have a ship to search first. Take us around back so we can stay hidden from view.”
Lizneth guided the canoe around to the upturned side of the Halcyon, putting the barnacle-encrusted ship between themselves and the port. Morning was coming on and the docks were livening up. They were in plain view of a dozen other ships to either side, but the route they’d taken through the rocks would offer them a quick escape if the need arose.
Artolo donned a set of climbing spikes and tossed a grappling hook over the top of the Halcyon, fastening the other end of the long hempen rope to the hand hold on the bow of the canoe. “I’m just going up to take a quick look around. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Lizneth watched him disappear over the top. She could hear his claws scraping over the deck for a long time afterward, but eventually the surf washed away the sounds of his movement. Short waves rolled beneath the canoe and lapped against the galley, the seabed below reflecting gray and green through its glassy shroud. Lizneth contented herself to watch the other ships and the bodies crawling over them, always keeping one eye on the eh-calai in the boat with her. He never moved, but for the slow rise and fall of his chest.
