A Plague of Giants (Seven Kennings Book 1)

by Kevin Hearne

  “I won’t be falling down again,” I told them. “Thank you.”

  With the menace of the spears removed, Saviič focused his gaze on the book and on my question. He sniffed and rubbed at his bare chin, refolding his arms and thinking about the problem for a few seconds before answering. Then a half smile formed on his face as he met my eyes. He held up a finger. “Zanata jed: Vatra.” Fire.

  A second finger appeared. “Zanata duv: Vjetar.” Wind.

  The third finger went up, and he said, “Zanata tri: Tilo.” That was the earth. He was naming the elements, so zanata must mean “elements.” As expected, for the fourth finger he said, “Zanata čet: Water,” that was water. But if the title was Zanata Sedam and he had named the four elements we all knew, what were the other three?

  With all five fingers extended he continued: “Zanata pet: Bilje.”

  “Bilje?” I repeated, frowning.

  He nodded. “Deh. Bilje.” That couldn’t be right. Bilje was a catchall term for plants, and they weren’t an element. Unless he wasn’t referring to elements after all. Still with a half grin on his face, he raised a finger on his other hand and said, “Zanata šest: Zivotinje.” Animals.

  “Reinei give me breath,” I said. “Are you talking about kennings?” Of course he didn’t understand my Kaurian. He shook his head and continued, holding up seven fingers.

  “Zanata sedam: Vječnast.”

  I didn’t recognize that word. But I couldn’t give up now.

  Uncorking the ink pot and snatching up the quill, I quickly scribbled out childish illustrations of fire, water, earth, and wind and then wrote the old words next to them and showed them to Saviič, confirming what each one was supposed to be. “Deh, deh,” he said, nodding each time. I drew a flower for a plant and then pointed at the osprey for the animal, and he confirmed those as well. I then wrote the word vječnos and rose from the table, coming around to hand him paper, quill, and ink pot, asking him to draw what that word meant. With all the examples he already had and a large blank space to fill in, he knew precisely what I wanted. But he waved me off and spewed a river of words at me, only a few of which I might have recognized but couldn’t place into any meaningful context. His body language proved to be much better. He tapped his skull and shrugged, communicating that he knew of no way to draw the meaning of the word. It must be an abstract concept rather than a common noun.

  That was all right. I knew the title of the book and already suspected that it would give the fops in the Calm plenty to talk about. Reinei blow me down, it would give the whole world plenty to talk about! Returning to the chair side of the table, I sat and penned a quick message to the mistral’s chamberlain: “Reinei’s wind has brought us something remarkable indeed. I know not yet whether it is for good or ill, but the title of the book is Seven Kennings. Not six—seven! Same order as we count them. Sixth is for animals. Seventh is unknown as yet.”

  I didn’t quite know what to add after that. Several profanities and exclamations came to mind, and I almost wrote one of them down when I realized that this piece of paper might become part of history. I would not want to be remembered as the man who wrote “great lakes of longarm shit!” to the mistral’s chamberlain, so I confined myself to adding a few surplus exclamation points—and ended with “Learning more.”

  Folding it and handing it to one of the guards to deliver immediately into the hands of Teela Parr, I then began to write down my recollection of these events while they were still fresh in my mind, for I sensed that a full accounting of my labors would be demanded sooner rather than later, and being thorough might allow other eyes to notice something of significance that I, in my haste, might have missed.

  I sent the other guard to fetch a set of children’s primary language cards, the kind with pictures and words underneath them in large letters, and another ink pot and quill for the prisoner to use when he had need. I will learn the language of this strange, bony giant from across the sea, and maybe Kauria will be the first nation to secure access to the Seventh Kenning, whatever and wherever it was.

  I looked up to check on Saviič and found him staring at me with curiosity. I smiled back at him. “This is good,” I said. “How do you say good, Saviič? Dobar?”

  He wasn’t sure what I meant, so he tilted his head and ventured a guess. “Dobro?”

  I grinned and nodded. “Dobro. Deh. This is dobro.” Maybe we could let him out of there once we could speak well enough to let him know we just wanted to talk and read his fascinating book.

  He smiled back, and I almost wished he hadn’t. His teeth were rotten, and he laughed unpleasantly as he said, “To če biti dobro kad smo osvojiti svih sedam zanata.” I think I have that right; I asked him to repeat it so I could translate it later. Anything said with that much menace deserved a closer look.

  When the bard dismissed the seeming of Gondel Vedd, there was quite a bit of noise but only distracted applause; everyone was eager to discuss, or rather shout about, the revelations of the tale—that the Bone Giants were not illiterate savages but religious zealots, and they knew of a Seventh Kenning. A Seventh Kenning. I think many people might have missed the last few paragraphs of that particular story because they couldn’t contain their surprise once they heard about it. Unlike Gondel Vedd, I will write down a couple of exclamations I heard on the wall because that’s history, too:

  “Fuck me with a kraken cock! A Seventh Kenning!”

  “I couldn’t shit harder if you fed me week-old shellfish!”

  It’s hard to imagine what that kenning might be, however, since the Bone Giants displayed no magical talents in their invasion. Foremost in my mind was the question why we hadn’t learned of this captive earlier: the Kaurians had done us a disservice by keeping it to themselves. Fintan picked up on such sentiments, especially the angry epithets spewed by one reactionary mariner nearby who thought that the Kaurians had allowed us to be attacked and hadn’t behaved like allies at all, and addressed it.

  “Some of you may be thinking right now, with the benefit of hindsight, that the Kaurians should have told us immediately of their discovery. But remember that they had no idea of what was to come. They had a single strange man in captivity and the same language barrier that we faced. Except that they had a way to solve it. We will check back with Gondel Vedd later to see what he learns, but you already know the most important bit: not only is there a Sixth Kenning, there’s a Seventh! Or at least the Bone Giants think there is. They didn’t use one when they attacked—they just had surprise and overwhelming numbers—but maybe they’re looking for it. Maybe the source of the Seventh Kenning is hidden somewhere on this continent, along with the Sixth, and that’s why they have come: they want it for themselves. It is food for thought, yes? We’ll continue tomorrow!”

  Fintan and I parted for the evening, and I smiled on the way home, savoring the idea of a Kaurian fleet transporting our armies across the ocean to strike back. And since the bard had mentioned that Gondel would at some point join us—he’d no doubt go with us if he could speak the Bone Giants’ language—I’d have to put together a suitable gift basket for our meeting. Perhaps themed around some fine mustards.

  Elynea and her children surprised me when I came home by not being there. And neither were most of my belongings.

  The first thought I had upon seeing my looted house was that Elynea and the children would have no place to sleep except the floor because the couch and the beds were all gone. Then I worried that I would have to sleep on the floor, too, and Bryn of the Deep, it looked pretty rough. Only after that did the thought enter my head that maybe Elynea had something to do with the robbery.

  Unworthy of me, perhaps. Unjustified by any facts other than the single one that she was not in my house at a time when she usually was. But I supposed there would be no reason to stay in my house in such a state if she had gone out and come back to discover it this way.

  Not everything was gone. My writing desk still squatted in my bedroom, together with my
materials and papers; that was a mercy. Such things were worthless to desperate people right now, but beds and couches were in short supply out on Survivor Field.

  So, apparently, were bathtubs. Mine was gone, the drainpipe to underground sanitation sluices sticking up out of the tile like a lightning-struck stump. I cursed, and it echoed off the walls. I still had a commode, at least. And although they had carried off my wardrobe, they had tossed my clothes out of it first, leaving them scattered about on the floor.

  My pantry was bare, every scrap and crumb of food pillaged. I supposed there must be far hungrier people than I who needed it. My dishes and silverware were missing, too. Recognizing a pattern, I saw that most of my personal items remained but all the housewares and basic needs had been stripped. If it was indeed Elynea who was responsible for this, I didn’t begrudge her a bit of it, though I would have liked to hear how she explained such behavior to her kids.

  There was nothing to do but inform the constabulary and make inquiries with my neighbors, not in any hope of recovering my possessions but merely to let them all know it had occurred, and perhaps my neighbors would beware and take steps to make sure it didn’t happen to them.

  Dame du Marröd, the nice widow across the street who’d given the orange tunic to Elynea, had seen nothing.

  “You didn’t notice some dodgy types removing my bathtub and furniture?”

  “I was knitting a pair of socks for my grandson and listening to that bard fellow tell his story,” she said. “And the young men I have staying with me were all out working or looking for work today. I’m sorry, Master Dervan.” She sniffed a couple of times, uncertain and a touch worried. “Do you need a bath now?”

  “No, thank you, I have much else to do. I might take you up on it later, though.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  When the constable arrived, one Master du Bartylyn, he let me know that I should not hold out any hope of swift justice. A slightly pudgy and avuncular gentleman with a beard going gray and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, he had a voice that was both tired and sympathetic. “There’s been a rash of these types of robberies recently. This is the fifth one this week. We haven’t recovered anyone’s belongings yet, and I’m doubtful we will. Everyone’s moving in and out all the time with this refugee situation, and nobody looks twice at furniture moving now. It’s so commonplace that you’d have a difficult time distinguishing between lawful and criminal furniture moving, you know?”

  “Right. How does one move furniture suspiciously these days?”

  The constable chuckled. “Well, you’re being quite sensible about it. The last family screamed at me for not instantly returning their grandmother’s candelabra to them.”

  Shrugging, I replied, “I suppose it’s nothing to scream about compared to what most people have lost. I can’t summon too much outrage when they left me my work and my clothing.”

  “A man with perspective! That’s rare. Well, if we do find anything, we’ll be in touch. Thanks for reporting it in any case. Helps us establish a pattern.”

  “And if you see Elynea or her children?”

  “Same thing: we’ll let you know.”

  I returned to the palace to sleep on my old cot for the evening and let a mariner know why I’d returned and ask him to please inform Rölly. My friend the pelenaut had me join him for breakfast in the morning, sending a longshoreman to take me to a small private dining room. He had decided that morning that everything was orange, or at least he would be, dressed head to toe in varying shades of it. It wasn’t a traditional palette for Brynlön, and I wondered if Rölly had lost a wager.

  We bade each other good morning and sat at the table, and a longshoreman promptly set glasses of orange juice in front of us. I wasn’t going to comment aloud on the overload of orange, but after that I couldn’t resist.

  “Are we celebrating citrus today?”

  Rölly looked down at his outfit and smirked. “A Kaurian ambassador arrived last night with a shipment and I’m meeting with him later today, so I suppose we are.” He plucked at his tunic and snorted. “Everything you see on me was a gift from him in the past few years.”

  “No. He’s been giving you orange clothing every time he visits?”

  “Yes, he has. I’m trying to visually communicate to him that perhaps it’s time to be a bit more thoughtful. You think it’s too subtle?”

  Shaking my head and chuckling, I said, “I’m so glad I don’t have your problems.”

  “Yes, you should be. But I understand you have your own. Your home was robbed?”

  I let him know what happened and asked to resume my residence in the palace, but he surprised me by stating that he’d have some longshoremen bring me a cot and a chair for my writing desk instead. “I’d really rather you weren’t in the palace, Dervan. Föstyr tells me that—well, never mind. I am purposely sheltering you from what’s happening here.”

  “I don’t understand why.”

  “This bard is going to be trained in reading facial expressions. He’ll be able to tell when you’re hiding something. I need your reactions to be genuine and open.”

  “Reactions to what?”

  “Whatever he says. He will say some things just to see how you react.”

  “Huh. That might explain yesterday. He brought up my marriage to Sarena as if she were still here.”

  The same longshoreman as before arrived with plates for us, and after the pelenaut thanked him and he left, he ignored the food and leaned forward, eyes boring into mine. “Tell me exactly what he said as best as you can remember.” I told him, and he leaned back when I finished, wagging a finger at me. “You see? He has already begun.”

  “Begun what?”

  “He’s assuming you’re a trained spy because of your close ties to both Sarena and myself. He will be looking for tells that you are trained, and he mentioned Sarena entirely to gauge your reaction.”

  “You mean he already knew about Sarena’s passing?”

  “Of course he did, Dervan! The Raelech ambassador he mentioned visiting was at her funeral.”

  I felt an ache bloom between my eyes. I’d been so foolish to think I could match wits with a trained bard. “I’m really not suited for this, Rölly.”

  “You’re fine. Ask him something for me next time, will you? Pretend you know nothing about the Triune Council members—”

  “I won’t have to pretend.”

  “That’s good. Ask him who they are and what they are like. Listen but also watch his face as he describes them. Does he make small expressions of disgust when he thinks of any of them? Does he blink his eyes a lot or look elsewhere when talking of one of them? Notice everything.”

  “Why? Is there something going on with one of the council members?”

  “Maybe and maybe not. I don’t want to say anything because you can’t give away what you don’t know. Just be openly curious and clueless. And watchful.”

  We didn’t say much after that, just fell to feeding our faces, but my mind whirled with so many questions that I didn’t even notice what we ate. Something fishy.

  I spent the remaining hours of the morning back at my house, picking my clothes up off the floor and folding them into neat piles. I stacked them on top of my writing desk, having no other place to put them. Then I sorted through the papers that had been casually perused and tossed aside with little interest. I had to reorder my manuscript, but nothing was missing; in fact, I found something extra. It was a note from Elynea that she evidently had left on my writing desk, thinking I would have seen it there immediately.

  Master Dervan:

  I didn’t get a chance to tell you before you left, but during my job search this morning I ran into an old friend from Festwyf. I thought he had perished with most everyone else, but he is in a stable situation here and has room for us to visit. We’ll spend the night there and try to return tomorrow before you leave for the afternoon.

  —E.

  So perhaps that
was what had put her in the mood to smile yesterday. And perhaps she hadn’t been involved with the robbery after all but merely made it possible by leaving the house unoccupied—and unlocked—in the afternoon.

  I heard the creak of my front door, followed by a gasp and Pyrella’s voice: “What happened?”

  Tamöd, with a note of outrage, cried out, “Where’s all his stuff?”

  “Lord of the Deep,” Elynea said, and I entered the living area to find them frozen in the doorway with wide eyes.

  “Welcome back. I’m glad you’re well. I was worried,” I said, waving her words that were still clutched in my hand, “and I just found your note.”

  “Are you moving?”

  “No, quite the opposite. I’m staying no matter what, it seems. But I’ve been robbed. Everything’s gone except my desk and clothes.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.”

  “You mean there aren’t any beds?” Pyrella asked. “Where will we sleep?”

  “The longshoremen walking up behind you have the answer to that, I believe.”

  Four longshoremen, obviously sent from Rölly as they were wearing palace corals, arrived with a total of four cots, four chairs, and a basic square wooden table. One of them remained behind to install a new lock on my door, one of the expensive ones forged from Hathrim steel. Elynea and her children stood mute the entire time, trying to stay out of their way.

  “I’d understand if you wished to find lodging elsewhere,” I said after the longshoremen had all departed.

  “No, no. The kids have been happy here.”

  I noticed that she didn’t include herself in that happiness.