Anaar gave him a wide, vaguely incredulous smile. "My word? If it will ease your mind, then you have it," he said with a chuckle. "As I said, I'm a businessman. So long as I get paid, you'll be in no danger from me."
Wirr glanced at Davian, who gave him the slightest of nods in response. Anaar wasn't lying.
"Good enough," said Wirr.
Anaar rubbed his chin, still looking amused. “Go back to your rooms for now, and wait there for me until later this evening. Do not leave for any reason, and do not open the door for anyone except me. Be prepared to depart as soon as I arrive.” He plucked a couple of the coins from Wirr’s palm. “I will collect the rest once you are in Desriel,” he concluded.
Wirr inclined his head. “Agreed.”
Anaar rose and walked away without another word.
Davian and Wirr sat in silence for a few moments. Then Davian turned to his friend.
“What was that?”
Wirr stood, stretching. “He’s a smuggler, Dav. ”
“I guessed as much,” said Davian dryly. “But why are we trusting him?”
“Did he lie to us?”
Davian made a face. “No, but that is hardly the same thing as being trustworthy. He could change his mind in the next few hours, and we wouldn't know until the moment he's stabbed us in the back.”
Wirr shook his head. “He already knows what we are; if he’d been able to profit from turning us in to Administration, he would have done so already. This way, he gets to keep the streets of Talmiel quiet and earns some coin at the same time. We get into Desriel. Everyone wins.” He paused, frowning as he considered the last part of his statement. “Well. As far as these things go.”
“I think he saw the Vessel,” said Davian, unable to keep the worry from his voice.
Wirr grimaced. “I wondered about that too, given the timing, but what’s done is done. If he did see it, we can only hope he doesn’t know what it is.”
They made their way back through the common room. From the corner of his eye Davian could see the woman Anaar had pointed out watching them thoughtfully, but she made no move to stop or pursue them as they left.
He breathed a sigh of relief once they were out of sight. She was so young, barely older than he and Wirr. Could she really be a Hunter – someone who tracked and killed the Gifted for profit?
“I haven't used Essence since we left Caladel,” murmured Wirr, his thoughts obviously running along similar lines. “And she never got close enough for skin contact. She can't have noticed us with a Finder.”
That hadn’t occurred to Davian. “Then how….”
“Exactly.”
They walked the rest of the way to their room in uneasy silence, Wirr latching the door as soon as they were inside.
Davian gathered his belongings – which had barely been unpacked – and lay back on the bed, determined to get some rest before they had to leave. He was uncomfortable placing so much trust in Anaar, but he knew it was a chance they’d had to take. If the bridge was as heavily guarded as Wirr seemed to think, the smuggler was probably their best chance of getting across the border.
Still, he touched the Vessel in his pocket again, unable to shake the impression that Anaar had seen it. He could only hope the man hadn’t recognised it for what it was.
Suddenly remembering what had happened in the common room, Davian took the Vessel out, removing its cloth and studying it closely. The glow he’d seen earlier had vanished, and its metallic surface wasn't even particularly warm any more.
“What are you looking for, Dav?” asked Wirr.
Davian hesitated. “There was... some kind of symbol on it, when I dropped it downstairs. A wolf, I think. You didn't see it when you picked it up?”
Wirr shook his head.
Davian sighed but nodded, unsurprised. "It's gone now, anyway." He stared at the cube intently for a few more seconds, then wrapped it again and slipped it back into his pocket.
Wirr watched him with a worried frown. "Let me know if it comes back," he said eventually.
Davian just inclined his head in acknowledgement, and they lapsed into a companionable silence.
He puzzled over what he'd seen for a few more minutes before deciding to put the issue from his mind, at least for now. Worrying about it, or the impending journey into Desriel for that matter, gained him nothing. He had to trust that Ilseth and the sig'nari had known what they were doing when they'd sent him here.
He closed his eyes with a deep sigh and settled down to wait.
- Chapter 7 -
Less than an hour had passed when someone knocked at their door.
Wirr and Davian looked at each other, expressions uncertain. “It’s hardly ‘late evening’,” said Wirr. He kept his voice low, though whomever was outside was unlikely to be able to hear them over the cheerful commotion of the crowd in the street.
“Maybe he had to come early,” said Davian, his words lacking conviction.
The knock came again, this time more insistent. “Open up. Anaar sent us,” a voice called quietly from the other side.
Wirr hesitated. “He said not to open the door for anyone but him,” he called back.
“Plan’s changed,” came the voice again, soft but urgent. “A Hunter got wind of what was happening.”
Davian ran his hands through his hair, wavering. Finally he nodded to Wirr. “It’s a risk either way. And if they’re here to turn us in, they’ll just end up breaking down the door anyway.”
Wirr grimaced. “True.” He unlocked the door, opening it to admit two rough-looking men. One was thin with long, stringy hair and a moustache, while the other was square-faced and almost bald. They bustled in, looking around before turning their attention back to the boys.
“You ready to go?” the long-haired man asked.
Davian and Wirr both nodded, watching the men closely. The balding man stared back at them for a second, then gave a curt gesture towards the hallway. Relaxing a little, Davian grabbed his pack and headed towards the door.
Suddenly Wirr gave a startled shout; before Davian could turn his left arm was being twisted behind him and had something hard touched to it. The Shackle was sealed before he realised what was happening.
Davian spun, only to be met with a fist crashing into his nose. He collapsed, too stunned to cry out in pain. Dazed, he saw Wirr on the floor further back in the room, holding the side of his head where he had evidently been punched. The cold black of a Shackle glinted on his arm, too.
“Bleeders,” spat one of the men. “You’d think they’d be smart enough not to come here any more.”
Davian tried to get to his feet, only to have a heavy boot crash down between his shoulder blades, pressing him back to the hard wooden floor.
“More gold for us, Ren,” said the long-haired man cheerfully. “We don’t even need to split the profits with Quendis this time. No cloaks and no Shackles, so they’re runaways. Sharenne will take them off our hands direct.”
Rough hands searched Davian for any hidden weapons, after which he was hauled to his feet and his wrists bound. He shook his head to try and clear it, wincing as he wrinkled his nose. He didn’t think it was broken, but there was definitely blood trickling from his nostrils. He glanced dazedly across at Wirr, who looked like he was having trouble focusing. Whether it was from the blow to the head or the effects of the Shackle, Davian wasn’t sure.
Suddenly there was movement at the door, and Davian turned to see the young woman from the common room standing there, watching what was happening with an odd expression on her face. She looked... regretful. Almost sad.
The long-haired man grinned at her. “Sorry Breshada, not this time. These ones are ours,” he said, tone cheerful. “Saw you had your eye on them downstairs. I’m surprised you didn’t move sooner.” He spoke casually, as if to an old acquaintance.
Breshada grimaced, her waist-length blonde hair swinging from side to side. She gazed at Wirr and Davian for a long moment, then turned her attention to the ot
her two men. “Renmar. Gawn. Please know that I am truly sorry it was you.” She took a couple of steps inside the room, flicking the door shut behind her with her heel.
Both men froze. “What are you doing?” asked the one called Renmar, a confused look spreading across his face.
Features set in a grim expression, Breshada reached over her shoulder, drawing her longsword. It gleamed darkly in the candlelight, and suddenly the room seemed… quieter, as if the sound from outside was now coming from far away. An odd sensation ran through Davian as he watched the blade; there was something not quite right about the sword, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what.
Rasping steel filled the sudden silence as Renmar and Gawn drew their own swords. “Breshada,” said Gawn, tone a mixture of fear, warning and query. “We got them first, fair and square. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
“I know,” said Breshada softly.
It was over in seconds. Breshada was quick and elegant despite the size of her sword and the confined space; even with Renmar and Gawn trying to use the boys as shields, they stood no chance. There were no cries of pain, no lingering deaths. When Breshada’s sword touched their flesh, they simply crumpled to the ground, eyes glassy. Davian and Wirr just watched in mute, horrified shock.
Once Gawn’s lifeless form had joined Renmar’s on the floor, Breshada stood for a moment in front of the boys, examining them through narrowed eyes. She was barely breathing hard, though the exertion had brought a slight flush to her cheeks.
She shook her head. “I don’t see it,” she muttered, disgust thick in her voice. She grabbed Davian by the shoulder; at first he was sure she was going to strike him, but instead she simply steadied him before slicing through the cords binding his hands. Then she did the same for Wirr.
Davian felt a loosening around his arm, and suddenly his Shackle was clattering to the floor. A few moments later, Wirr’s was doing the same. Davian stared at the open metal torcs in confusion.
“Death breaks the Contract,” an impatient-sounding Breshada said by way of explanation, seeing Davian’s expression. She looked at them warily. “Do not attack me. And do not use your powers, else there will be an army of Administrators here within minutes. My saving you will have been for naught.”
Wirr inclined his head. “I wasn’t going to,” he said cautiously. “And thank-you.”
Breshada scowled, and Wirr and Davian both took an involuntary step back. The look of hatred and disgust that suddenly raged in her eyes was unmistakable. “Do not thank me,” she hissed. “I have killed my brethren here to save your worthless lives. Two skilled Hunters for two stupid gaa’vesh. Tell Tal’kamar that the debt is repaid, a thousand times over.” She paused, looking like she was going to be sick. “If I see you again, I will kill you.” She spun, flung open the door and stormed out of the room, not looking back.
Wirr moved slowly over to the door, shutting it again. He looked at Davian with a dazed expression. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” Davian said shakily. “You?” He rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation, then grabbed a cloth, dabbing at his nose and grimacing when the material came away soaked a dark red.
“The same.” Wirr touched his head where he’d been struck, looking pale, though he seemed to be suffering no serious ill effects from the blow. “I wonder what that was about.”
Davian stared at the door. “A Hunter saving Gifted. That must be a first.”
“Not that she was particularly happy about it,” pointed out Wirr. He paused. “And who in fates is Tal’kamar?”
Davian shook his head, grunting as it exacerbated the pounding inside his skull. “No idea. But I think we owe him a drink if we ever meet him.”
“I won’t argue with that.” Wirr glanced down at the two corpses lying on their floor, his brief smile fading and tone sobering, as if what had just transpired was finally sinking in. “I won’t argue that at all.”
***
A soft knock at the door made Davian start fully awake.
He hadn’t really been asleep but rather lying drowsily, his concerns mixing together in his head to create a disquieting sense of unease. He sat bolt upright and took a quick glance out the window. It was late night; there was still noise from outside, but less than there had been earlier. The blue lanterns had burned down to a dull glow, and the streets looked almost empty.
Wirr was moving before Davian could stand, cocking his head as he listened for anything suspicious outside the door. “Who is it?”
“Anaar,” came the reply. The smuggler’s gravelly voice was unmistakable.
Wirr unlatched the door, opening it a crack and peering through before swinging it wide. Anaar and an impressively muscular man stood in the hallway, both looking as calm as if they were about to retire for the evening. Anaar’s eyes widened when he looked through the doorway and took in the corpses lying on the floor, though. He examined the boys’ faces, taking particular note of Davian’s bloodied nose.
“Trouble?” he asked.
Wirr looked the smuggler in the eye. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
Anaar nodded, his expression thoughtful, gazing at the two boys with a touch more respect than previously. Then he gestured towards the hallway; Davian leapt to his feet, stomach fluttering as he snatched up his small bag and followed Wirr out of the room.
Nothing was said as they left the inn and walked through the streets of Talmiel, steering clear of the remaining revellers, most of whom were convincingly drunk by this stage of the night. They followed what seemed to be a circuitous route; after ten minutes of walking without incident, Davian realised that Anaar must have known the Administrators’ scheduled patrols and had been deftly avoiding them.
Soon they were out of the town and into the nearby forest that lined the Devliss, gradually leaving the sounds of the festival behind. Still no-one spoke. There was little light beneath the trees, but the almost-full moon provided enough illumination to navigate. They walked at a brisk pace for another twenty minutes before Anaar held up a hand, bringing them to a halt.
“Just through here,” he said softly, indicating an almost indistinguishable break in the thick shrubbery.
They pushed through what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of foliage; suddenly Davian found himself stumbling onto the beach of a tiny natural cove, protected on all sides by either stone or forest. The Devliss rushed past just beyond the mouth of the inlet, quicksilver in the moonlight. The water was moving uncomfortably fast, but it at least appeared smooth here, with no jagged rocks to create the white-tipped rapids for which the river was famous.
A little way down the beach was a small boat, pulled out of the reach of the water. Davian stared at it dubiously. He’d never been in a boat before, but this one looked small to be making such a dangerous crossing; it would barely fit all four of them, particularly as Anaar’s companion counted for almost two.
Anaar saw Davian's expression and grinned, slapping him on the back. “It’s perfectly safe, my friend. Not comfortable, perhaps, but it will get the job done.”
Wirr examined the boat with a concerned look. “Surely it will just be swept away by the current?”
Anaar shook his head. “That’s why I brought Olsar along,” he said, gesturing at the burly man who was now dragging the boat towards the water. “With the two of us rowing, we can make it to the other side without any problems.”
“We’ll have to take your word on that,” said Wirr, nervousness making his tone strained.
“Indeed,” said Anaar absently, his attention focused across the Devliss. Water stretched almost as far as the eye could see, but as Davian followed the smuggler’s gaze a darker mound resolved itself on the horizon, barely visible in the darkness. Suddenly a tiny orange light, little more than a dot, bobbed into view. Soon it was joined by several more, all in a line.
“Patrol,” Anaar explained to Wirr and Davian, not taking his eyes from the lights. “They pass by every few hours.
It takes close to an hour to reach the other side, which gives you a little more than two to get well clear of the border.” He nodded to Olsar as the lights winked out again, the distant patrol moving on. The large man gave the boat a final shove, leaving it bobbing in the river. “No talking once we’re away – sounds carry over the water, especially at night. Once we touch the shore, you pay your fee and we have nothing more to do with one another. If you're caught, you never met me. Understood?”
Davian and Wirr both nodded mutely. Anaar gestured for them to get into the boat, then hesitated.
“One more thing,” he said. “Every border soldier in Desriel has a Finder, so if you use your powers to so much as blow your nose once you’re over there, they’ll know. And believe me, once they know, they won’t stop hunting you until you’re dead.” He gave them a serious look. “Which would be terribly inconvenient if Olsar and myself were still nearby. So I want your word – nothing until at least an hour after we’ve parted ways. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Wirr, sticking out his hand. Anaar shook it, then offered his hand to Davian, who grasped it firmly.
As he did, Anaar’s eyes strayed downward, towards Davian’s pocket.
Davian stiffened. The other man knew.
A flash of anxiety ran through him, followed by… something else. A surge, rippling through his body and coalescing in his palm before draining away – straight into Anaar. Davian pulled his hand back sharply, fingertips tingling.
Anaar gave him a confused look, then shook his head as if to clear it. The smuggler turned away, and Davian released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Whatever had just happened – if something had just happened, and it hadn’t been Davian’s imagination – Anaar was unaware of it.
Soon they were in the tiny craft, Anaar and Olsar pulling with long, practiced strokes towards the opposite shore. Davian’s fears of the vessel being taken by the currents proved unfounded. Both smugglers rowed with power and precision as they angled against the flow of the river, their progress gradual but steady. For a while Davian wondered if they would be able to keep up such a hard pace, but eventually he began to relax. Neither man seemed close to tiring.
The Shadow Of What Was Lost (Book 1) Page 8
