Orphans and Outcasts (Northland Rebellion Book 1)

by Kylie Leane

  “Yeh all right there, Sonny Jon?” Titus called.

  He had lingered too long in one place and must have stilled into a statue. He hated to cause his master to worry.

  “I’m fine, sir.” Jarvis bounced over loose planks, quickly catching up with the Hunter and Aaldryn. They were waiting by the holding area of cargo crates far larger than any he had ever seen. Jarvis ran his sensitive fingers briefly over one. It held live trade, possibly cows, imported from Pennadot, and he wondered where they would be heading. It appeared they were going to be loaded on a nearby sand-ship so enormous it dwarfed the Lawless Child several times over.

  “How are we supposed to find a little boat?” He looked hopefully at Aaldryn, who swept his gaze over the harbour.

  “You’d be surprised what you can find here at Ishabal. Pretty much everything can be bought and sold. Ishabal is a fair-trade city.” Aaldryn chuckled at his blank stare. “It means it isn’t run by the Iposti State. It’s a city for outcasts, pirates, and folk who evade the taxation laws.”

  Titus frowned. “Why don’ it get shut down then?”

  Aaldryn shrugged and began to trot down a flight of stairs, towards the dock managers’ stations in the distance. “The Iposti might own the burning-sea but someday we will take it back.”

  “Plotting to take down a government.” Titus rubbed his hands together. “I like it.”

  Aaldryn laughed. “Figured you would.”

  Jarvis gripped the railings of the rickety stairs in a vice. The wind fluttered his hair. Was it the same wind swirling over his father’s farmland, that had chased him as a child running free in the long Pennadotian grass? He smiled, releasing his hands and brushing them against his tunic. This was true freedom—freedom to choose his own path. The wind’s freedom.

  The Lawless Child bobbed on the burning-sea as though it were a dainty little leaf caught on the surface of a pond. Sitting in a lively harbour, surrounded by trading sand-ships that loomed over the small nyhot, it made for a rather pretty sight. The immense trading sand-ships were shambled together barrels, metal caskets with cracked hulls appearing ancient and worn by their lives upon the burning-sea. While their wings and sails were currently wrapped tightly, when released the sight would be majestic, like the train of a fine frock around a lady’s ankles. Denvy almost wished he could behold the old lugging vessels leaving the harbour, just to catch a glimpse of their sails. Now he understood Jythal’s concern the night before over the drop in Mist supplies. The fuel that ran the engines of the magnificent sand-ships, and, no doubt, much of technology the Kattamont race had built, surrounded him everywhere in the port, strapped to the Kattamonts who strolled past so casually, and to the Humans and Kelibs who scurried around them. Contraptions for deep burning-sea diving, cranes for hoisting cargo into the trading vessels, small floating trolleys whizzing around, but most disturbing were the pistols and the blades, all Mist operated, all alarming to behold.

  Denvy dipped away from the paw that came up swiftly, patting his cheek. He hissed, slapping the touch aside. Zafiashid’s rich laughter followed as she twirled around him, skipping over the loose planks of the harbour on her dainty foot-paws. “You are far too tense, even for an old warrior.”

  “I have learnt the moment I relax my guard, something awful tends to jump out.”

  “Me? Awful?” She gave her chest a pat, causing her fur and air-gills to fluff out in a show of her beautiful colours. Denvy huffed. Her paw latched onto his arm, pulling him along.

  “Now, now, you need to enjoy yourself.”

  “This world is too foreign to me,” he grumbled. “And what are these strange things?” He picked at the pistol hanging from the belt around her waist, holding down the pleats of her loose kilt. “Weapons? Do you trade them with the Humans of Pennadot?”

  Zafiashid scoffed. “Rythrya, no! Mist manufacturing and all its wonders is entirely Utillian.” She glanced at the sky-sea. “I don’t entirely understand the process but I don’t believe it’s possible to produce Mist in Pennadot, nor do I think it works beyond the Border.”

  Denvy rubbed his chin. “Interesting.”

  The queen smiled. “Are you worried about your precious little Pennadotians?”

  “I worry about everything,” Denvy grumbled. “I am incapable of not worrying.”

  “Tah.” She danced around him once more, this time shifting onto all fours, rubbing against his legs before clambering up a tower of crates and perching lazily over the edge. “You must learn to live in the present, in the now, not when, then, and over there.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And how did you learn this?”

  She smirked, arching her back. “It’s a process.”

  Turning away from the queen lounging across the crates, Denvy surveyed the passing crew. None paid any attention to their captain as she tapped her thick bladed claws on the side of the supplies. They all wore the same weapons as the queen, though. It did make it easier to spot which scurrying burning-seafolk belonged to the Lawless Child.

  “Are you expecting trouble?” he queried.

  Zafiashid slapped her paw down against the pistol at her side. “Just a bit of insurance.”

  She uncoiled herself and landed beside him.

  “Insurance?” Denvy scoffed. “I thought that is what this is for.” He swung his fan-tail, waving it in front of her nose. She brushed it aside with a barking laugh.

  “Not here, you old man. This is Ishabal! This is not some outland island or a fight-pit.” She shoved something cold into his paw and he froze at its familiar texture. “I do believe this is yours.” Her paw gave his cheek another fond pat. This time he managed to repress the hiss as she rubbed his scent-glands.

  “Do try not to get into too much trouble.” She swaggered off, her voice bellowing out over the dock as she waved to a neutral Kattamont in the distance. Denvy stared down at the object in his grasp with a fond smile. The hilt of his water-sword glittered, and, as if his muscles were reminded of battle days, they tightened around it. Denvy scrubbed at his air-gills, shaking his head. He hooked the hilt to his belt, looking at Zafiashid, lording over the neutral who stood atop a crate in an attempt to better the queen.

  What was it going to take for him to figure the exiled queen out?

  The neutral she was yelling at seemed to have enough bite to not take Zafiashid’s gusto to heart. Denvy shifted slightly as Jythal’s scent caught his attention. The prince was startlingly silent in his approach and Denvy cocked his head to watch the blind Kattamont wander between crates and crew-folk, bearing a large parasol to shade himself from the Sun. Though Kattamonts wore very little Human clothing, it seemed as though Nixlye’s love of her Human culture had managed to affect her mates and they proudly wore homespun scarves and large ponchos for winter. They at least added some colour to Jythal’s pale tones.

  “Is Mother giving poor Kuhrl a hard time again?”

  “Kuhrl?” That had to be the neutral the exiled queen was dressing down.

  “Kuhrl is the Mist Expeditor. Usually Aaldryn deals with the Mist supplies. Mother is…ah…not very tactful.” Jythal laughed softly. “I don’t think they teach queens like Mother how to speak to neutrals.”

  Denvy sighed. “Something we’ll have to work on.”

  Jythal gave his arm a pat, though Denvy had a feeling he had been aiming for his shoulder. “Have fun with that. If you would excuse me. I’m going to go and interrupt before Mother blows our chances of ever buying a triple supply of Mist.” Jythal’s head turned towards the Sun and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I tend not to come out unless I have to. Ah, by the way, if you are looking for your cubs, they are with Nixlye.” Jythal pointed down the harbour. “Over there by the opening to the markets, with the street urchins. Nixlye likes to sell her wares when we get here, but before that she hands out supplies to the misfit-born at Mother’s wish.”

  Jythal twirled his parasol. The crew parted way for him. They appeared utterly relieved to see him moving towards Zafiashid
. Denvy ruffled his air-gills in amusement as he started in the ambiguous direction Jythal had pointed. For a vague moment he wondered how the blind prince had known where his mate was, before he, too, picked up on the faint dreamathic colour of Nixlye’s mind. As he pushed through the milling morning crowd of burning-seafolk, harbour workers, and market sellers, he kept tight his surprise at not being stopped for his odd pelt tone. Nixlye had presented him with a heavy, woven poncho, something many of the Kattamonts around him wore to shield them from the chilled winter air. He had not expected to blend in so easily.

  He heard the laughter of children before he reached the wrought iron gates of the market. They arched between two smaller spires of the Zaprex turret, bent and twisted into place. Kattamont guards stood either side, watching in silent amusement as a group of grubby children surrounded Nixlye’s wheelchair. Perched on Nixlye’s lap sat Clive with a large cloth bag. He handed out torn off pieces of freshly baked bread to the children. The smile on Clive’s face was brilliant to behold. The lad had even put on what looked like a handmade cap, resembling what he would have worn as a trainee monk at the Temple from where he had hailed.

  Denvy whistled and all heads turned his way. The younger cubs clambered for him, surrounding his ankles. He heard Nixlye’s laughter. “Oh, you’ve done it now. They’ll never let you go. They like princes.”

  His heart ached. How he wished his dreamathic mind was healed, that the yoke did not bind him, so he could dream for the sweet faces surrounded him new clothing, healthy food, and fresh buckets of water, and fill their thin stomachs with something more than the bread Nixlye and Clive handed them.

  “Tah, tah children. Get off the weak, skinny prince. He is nothing but bones. You will break him.”

  Denvy heard himself hiss again as Zafiashid’s paw slid over his shoulder, her silken fur sliding smoothly against his own as she slunk past, sweeping through the horde of children, spreading them in a wave.

  “You did not harm poor Kuhrl, did you Mother?” Nixlye hefted Clive off her lap, setting him down beside Penny.

  Zafiashid rolled her eyes. “Jythal decided to take over the bartering. He said I am too blunt. You should speak to your prince about respecting a queen.”

  “He does respect you, Mother. That is why he wanted to make sure you didn’t kill Kuhrl.”

  “Hah!” Zafiashid scoffed, grabbing the bag of bread from Clive. “Like I would do such a distasteful thing.”

  Nixlye eyed the queen. “Need I remind you of—”

  “Don’t speak of it.” Zafiashid knelt and began to hand out more bread, her harsh features softening. Denvy pursed his lips, crossing his arms as he tapped a paw on the wooden planks beneath him. Zafiashid threw him a thin smile.

  “You are surrounded by children once again. It seems, for an old warrior, you cannot escape them.”

  Denvy ruffled what was left of his beard. “Ah, yes, well, cubs are the bane of my existence. I have lived a long time but never fathered any, so I always do seem to gravitate to the children of the world.”

  She ducked her head. “Am I young to you, then?”

  “A mere youth, my dear.” The jeer leaving his mouth was an utter surprise. He had never acted so childishly. However the retort was out before he could stop it. Swiftly he turned before anything else decided to burst forth, and he followed Nixlye through the wide gates of the market.

  “And you are still a sack of bones!” He heard Zafiashid’s shouted remark and glanced back, catching sight of her sitting amongst the street urchins, all hungrily eating their pieces of bread. The sight tugged his chest. An exiled queen, surrounded by children, forgotten by society. He wished he could have frozen the image in time, or used one of the old Zaprex memory-capturers. His foot-paws carried him away from her, following after his cubs as they trotted beside Nixlye and her wheelchair.

  Penny gripped his paw, looking anxiously at the foreign surrounds. “Should we just leave Queen Zafiashid like that?” she piped up.

  “Don’t worry.” Nixlye thrust against the wheels of her chair. “Mother doesn’t like being out of sight of the Lawless Child for long, and she enjoys helping the street urchins. She rather feels they are like her.”

  “They were so dirty,” Penny griped.

  Clive looked at her with a frown. “And that was a problem, because?”

  “Well…I just…why couldn’t they wash?”

  “Mist costs a lot, and water a lot more.” Nixlye shook her head. “Even this close to the Border with Pennadot. The street urchins have to rely on the weekly handouts from the Mist Expeditor. Washing is not really a high priority. Kattamonts can last longer without drinking, so the older Kattamonts tend to water the Humans and Kelibs first. That is why you’ll notice the older Kattamonts look worse off.”

  “Oh…” Penny touched the pouch strapped to her side under her apron. “I wish I had given them my water, then.

  Clive shrugged at Penny. “It’s like Monk work—we would do this all the time when I was at the Temple. The Hundred Sol-Cycle Trading Collapse caused a lot of families to be displaced, to lose their farms, their homes. Many refugees would come through the Temple, too.”

  Penny looked down, scrubbing her shoes against the wooden planks. “Tempath was not affected by the Trading Collapse.”

  With more maturity than he usually displayed, Clive gave her a hug. “Isn’t that a good thing? You should be happy your home wasn’t hurt like the rest of Pennadot.”

  “But I was hurt,” Penny whispered. “My family was hurt.”

  “We’re your family now.” Ki’b took Penny’s hand, pulling her gently. “Come on. I’m sure Khwaja Denvy will buy you something beautiful! Won’t you, Khwaja Denvy?”

  Denvy felt around anxiously for a moment, thinking about the large pouch of rubies Titus had left him earlier that morning. He relaxed when he felt it still attached to his hip-bags.

  “Of course, my dears.”

  He could not save every child in Livila, but at least he could spoil those in front of him, and love them as dearly as his old hearts could manage.

  The shops and houses of the city around them were built in levels above the burning-sea, upon stilts and up against the sides of the looming Zaprex turret. The Kattamonts looked foreign to him. With their mismatched technology attached to limbs and air-gills, some with whole tails removed and replaced with wobbling, rusty mechanical pipes for balance. They matched the world they had built, an environment of pieced-together shambles of aged wood, petrified by time, dragged up from the ruins of the long-buried forests below the sands, and Zaprex metal scavenged and butchered.

  Penny and Ki’b had taken off into the crowd, heading toward a jewellery bazaar. He could trust that was where they would stay. Both had an adoration of jewellery and coming into Utillia had only fuelled their love of piercings and necklaces. It was, at least, something the two girls had in common.

  Clive gave a boyish snort. “What is it with them and rocks?”

  “I believe Ki’b is looking for some stones to make her Kelib necklace,” Nixlye said gently.

  “And do remember, Clive, Penny is from Tempath. Her father was a miner; she knows all about stones.”

  Clive pulled a face. Nixlye reached out, pinching his cheeks. “Careful, the wind will change and you’ll end up stuck with an ugly face. Come along. I think I know what you’ll like.”

  “How do you know what I like?” Clive blew a rasp.

  “You seem like rather a smart lad to me. You must have read a lot of books and scrolls in that Temple of yours.”

  “Oh, yes!” Clive puffed out his chest. “The Monks said I was made to be a scholar, because my Papa was a bard! I have the gift for it.”

  Nixlye, it seemed, knew just how to flatter Clive into peace. She soon had the boy beaming, and he bounced along, telling them of all the incredible things he had read as Nixlye directed them across the street. Denvy kept Ki’b and Penny in sight, through the shifting bodies, and Nixlye rolled herself up to what he
thought at first was a blacksmith. It was the second glance that caught him off guard, drawing his attention to the array of mechanical goods scattered over the desks and hanging on the walls of the small stall. Beyond was a dwelling built up a wall of the Zaprex turret. A Human man sat behind the desk, working silently on a greasy piece of metal. It shone a soft, purple sheen. Denvy’s stomach twisted.

  It was Zaprex metal, pure and beautiful, untouched by the rust of time. How deep, he wondered, had they needed to travel below the surface of the burning-sea to find such a treasure? How expensive was the metal that had belonged to the fairy race?

  Nixlye thumped her fist down on the desk. “Rythrya’s blessings, Obakjen!”

  “Why lookie what the Northern Wind has brought us. If it isn’t the rosy beauty Nixlye. How fair you today?” The Human could not have been older than forty sol-cycles, but the Utillian air had not been kind to him, and Denvy could smell the odour of disease and decay emanating from the man.

  He rose stiffly to his feet, his smile handsome over tattooed cheeks beautifully inked with colours as though he was mimicking a Kattamont’s air-gills.”

  “I am well, Obakjen.” Nixlye fished out a bag from beneath a knitted blanket. “I finished your order. I hope it is to your liking.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “Aaldryn provided the feathers for the trim. He’s been shedding a lot lately. He hopes you approve.”

  “As usual, it is beautiful. Please do tell Prince Aaldryn that his colours are still as impressive as the day he tried to lop off my head. Finally, something to keep my weary old legs warm this winter.”

  Clive peered over the edge of the bench. “What is all this stuff?”

  The Human vendor spread his hands wide, grinning down at him. “It’s all stuff brought up from the below the burning-sea, lad. My son—Where is he? Just a minute—” Obakjen turned and shouted, “Ryojin, get down here! Nixlye’s visiting!”