Hale heard the clash of weapons and even caught a brief glimpse of movement between the rapid pulses of light which obscured his vision. After several minutes he realized his grip had become so tight on the metal shards that one of them had slipped between the armored plates of his finely-articulated gauntlet and blood was now trickling down his armor.
Refocusing on the task before him, Hale resisted the urge to dismiss the spell and conserve on his armor’s precious energy. This was his only lead, of that he was certain, and he would not discard it carelessly.
The sounds of battle seemed to cease and the strobing light moved from the center of the alleyway toward its edge. Hale saw a pair of clearly female figures from the back as they exited the alleyway, but he was unable to ascertain anything descriptive from his brief glimpse. More’s the pity, he thought to himself angrily.
He focused as hard as he had ever focused, and felt his armor heat as he did so until he could smell burning hair—his own. But Hale paid it no mind, since he knew his spell was nearly at an end.
Then he saw it, and he shouted the command word, “Sarhta’Vendo!” The scene immediately froze in place just after the strobes had died down, and he moved forward slowly. He knew that he needed to be cautious; this was the moment he had come here for, when he would learn the identity of the man who possessed the sword he must retrieve.
As he came to face the man, he snorted in disbelief. At first glance he appeared to be a seventh or eighth generation half-elf, judging from the shape of his ears.
But Hale knew better. This was not the first half-elf who had attempted to deceive him in such a fashion during a hunt, and the shape of the man’s nose was immediately recognizable to him as a third generation half-elf, if Hale was any judge—and he was.
Which raised all manner of questions, but none of them were relevant. The man was clearly heading north toward the docks as he exited the alleyway and Hale took a long, penetrating look at the man’s features to memorize them.
His concentration was broken by a voice and the spell disappeared instantly, taking the disguised half-elf’s image with it as sunlight filled the alley from overhead.
“Can we help your investigation in some way, Guardsman?” asked a pathetic excuse of a watchman standing just outside the alleyway.
“Were you part of the roving patrols at the docks last night?” Hale asked in his cold, gravelly voice as his hand moved slowly to his waist.
“No, Guardsman,” the watchman replied curtly as he braced to attention.
Hale drew his blade and lashed out in a motion so fast that a casual observer might have missed it. The watchman stood with a look of confusion on his face for several seconds before grasping at his now-opened throat and collapsing to the ground in an ever-widening pool of blood.
“Then no,” Hale said as he wiped the bit of blood from his blade on the cloth hanging from his belt—a cloth which he had hung there for that precise purpose, “you cannot.”
Sheathing his weapon, Hale set out for the docks in the hope of leaving the spasming watchman’s corpse, and stink of Three Rivers, as far behind as he was able.
He knew his quarry’s face now, and Hale had never failed to track down his prey. He wasn’t about to let rampant, provincial incompetence stand in his way; one way or another, he would retrieve the sword and bring it to Senator Vendo. What she did with it or why she wanted it were completely irrelevant matters to Hale. He lived, breathed, ate and slept for one purpose, and one purpose alone:
The hunt.
Chapter VIII: New Beginnings
Mid-morning, 11-12-5-659
Randall spent most of the trip in the forward locker of The Jiggling Maid, which was fine with him since he needed little more than sleep and food to heal the wounds of his last day in Three Rivers.
He naturally examined the sword when he was confident he would not be interrupted, and he was more than a little disturbed at what he found.
First, he noted that the leather which wrapped the handle had come almost completely undone. He tried and tried to re-wrap it, but for some reason—which he attributed to a lack of experience in such matters—the leather simply wouldn’t stay bound tight no matter what he did.
But that wasn’t the most alarming thing he found. On closer examination of the strange weapon’s blade, he saw that three of the irregular gem-like bits in the center of the blade were now murky and opaque, while only two remained translucent. Something had happened between the first time he had seen the weapon and this particular examination, and Randall had suspected that whatever it was had not been good for the weapon.
Try as he might to elicit some form of communication with the sword—insane as such an idea is—he was unable to do so throughout the riverboat’s passage. After a few days, he finally accepted that he had experienced some sort of a nervous breakdown. The weapon was clearly enchanted and he must have unwittingly activated its powers somehow, which would seem to track with what the commander had said…something about the sword being ‘out of charge.’
Knowing that the simplest explanations tended to be correct, he shifted his focus from the sword during the final days of the voyage to the nearly full disguise kit. He knew he would need to become proficient in its use if he was to survive outside the Native District. After a few days of tinkering, he thought he had discerned the proper quantities to mix and he estimated that he could apply at least fifty coats of the sticky dye to his skin before the supply was exhausted.
He found that if he slept very still, the dye of his face would last for three or four days before he noticed it beginning to flake and peel away. This meant that he could go continuously disguised for just over a season before running out of the material.
That was more than enough time for him to find a way out of Federation-controlled lands, assuming such was even possible. He toyed with the idea of stowing away aboard an ocean-going vessel and heading for Fissalia, but he knew their fall was imminent and he had no desire to live through the subjugation of their culture as had happened in Three Rivers—once had been more than enough of that particular experience.
He concluded that he needed to head toward the mountains. After studying the emblem on the back of his mother’s pendant, he realized that he recognized the barren hill depicted for what it really was: a mountain. That mountain was notable for its ties to Ghaevlian culture, specifically the culture of his mother’s line, and he hoped to find some sort of help there.
It was unlikely that any pure Ghaevlians had lingered there, but he had nowhere else to turn and time was not on his side. The journey to the mountains took caravans traveling the main roads the better part of a month, and he had no desire to risk discovery by routine patrols. So he suspected he would be doing most of his traveling across the rolling hills to the north of Snake River.
So when The Jiggling Maid finally made port at her second stop, Randall slung his rucksack over his shoulder and checked himself in the mirror one last time before placing it inside the bundle and making for the deck of the riverboat.
He found Rhekim standing at the base of the gangplank overseeing the offload of this stop’s portion of cargo and Randall stopped to thank the burly, scruffy-faced captain.
But Rhekim held up a hand before Randall could say a word. “I thank you for your patronage, Citizen,” he said with a pointed look down the small section of dock. Tracking Rhekim’s glance, Randall saw a pair of Federation customs officials making rounds and coming their way as the riverboat captain continued, “I wish you luck on the rest of your journey, wherever it may take you.”
The captain stuck his hand out and Randall accepted it gladly, doing his best to return the other man’s vice-like grip and failing miserably. “I hope to see you again, Captain,” he said graciously.
Rhekim nodded stiffly. “Starry nights and bright mornings,” he muttered under his breath as he broke his grip, and Randall’s eyes went wide. But before he could comment, Rhekim raised his voice and turned to his crew, �
��Come on, you bunch of broke-back grannies; we’ve not all day to bandy about here. Move, move, move!”
Randall risked a glance over his shoulder at the customs officials before proceeding down the docks away from them and his last connection to Three Rivers, the only place he had ever lived.
He felt the warm afternoon sun on his face and immediately his mood brightened as he surveyed the small, run-down section of dock which comprised this section of the river town.
Realizing he didn’t even know the name of the place, Randall looked around for street signs which might clarify the matter for him and eventually found it.
“Murkwater?” he scoffed with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Not the best of beginnings,” he muttered with a sigh. But determined not to lose his cheerful mood, he strode down frontage street and looked for a ferryman to take him to the other side of the river.
Eventually he came to one such man—of Human/Ghaevlian lineage—who was working on the primary sail of his small, flat raft.
“Excuse me,” he called down to the man from the crumbling riverbank. “How much is a trip to the northern shore?”
The man turned toward him with a blank look on his face. “I can’na speak with ye, Citizen,” the man called back. “I apologize, but the cap’n is away and not to return fer ‘nother hour; I’m just patchin’ the sails, ye see?” he gestured to his task, and Randall nodded knowingly.
“Are there any other ferries I could commission?” he asked, more than a little eager to pass to the less populated side of the river as quickly as possible.
The man shook his head. “Sadly, nay,” he replied. “Ol’ Dyna’s taken wit’ The Burn—that be the burning sickness, Citizen,” the man hastily explained, “and hers be the only o’er ferry goes northside this time o’ year.”
Randall knew what ‘The Burn’ was, having seen many of his community’s women fall to it in their later years. It was a common affliction which took all women with Ghaevlian blood sometime after their fiftieth year. And it was always fatal once contracted.
Worse, it was highly contagious among the susceptible population, being one of the few diseases which could pass from half-elf to human through close physical contact. When a human man contracted the disease, it was generally not lethal but there was still a serious stigma surrounding it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Randall said by way of condolence, “it’s a bitter end, to be sure. But there must be more ferries than just the two?”
The other man shook his head. “It’s the rocks what run the north shore, ye see? Only a few cap’ns know ‘em well ‘nough to keep from wreckin’ on the landing, and with the rains a-comin’, most cap’ns already put their rafts up fer the season.”
Even though he had grown up at the junction of the three rivers—White River, Snake River and Black River—Randall had never really learned that much about riverboats or their operation. But he thought it prudent to avoid expressing his lack of knowledge at that moment.
“I thank you for your time,” Randall said as he stood and waved respectfully to the man.
The man looked up at him curiously before returning to his task, and Randall turned toward the small town as he realized he had no food or other supplies to speak of, and absolutely no ability to live off the land as his ancestors had done, so he set out to find a general store or market.
After not long he found a store called ‘Kinlan’s Imports,’ and he stepped inside the doors which caused a small bell to jingle at his entry.
“Good afternoon, Citizen,” he heard a man say from behind the counter, “what can we do for you today?”
Randall looked to see a pureblood human was who had spoken, and he approached the counter as he reached into his pouch for the pair of silver coins he still possessed.
“I was looking for some trail rations,” he said, having heard the Federation soldiers elucidate the difference between standard camp fare and the dried foodstuffs which comprised their ration packs for scouting excursions and such.
“How long do you need them to keep?” asked the man as he reached for a ledger beneath the counter.
Randall shrugged. “A month, or two at most,” he replied.
The shopkeeper nodded as he thumbed through his inventory list and nodded. “I’ve got such in stock, Federation issue straight from the heartlands: Pyotrinuts, dried pinkfruit and sun-cured, southern-style beef jerky.”
Randall’s mouth watered at the mention of southern-style beef jerky as he remembered that he hadn’t gotten the chance to eat the meats and cheeses he had purchased with Ellie and Yordan.
He pushed the thought of his distant friends from his mind and nodded. “How much for a week’s supply?” he asked eagerly.
“A silver buys two weeks’ worth,” the man replied. “Two’ll get you four, plus a dozen fresh apples from my own orchard.”
Randall felt the two silvers in his pouch, and knew there was no way he could spend all of his coin on foodstuff less than an hour off the boat, but he nodded slowly. “What do you have that’ll only keep a week or two?” he asked hopefully, trying to keep his hopes up.
The shopkeeper gestured outside, and Randall turned to see a whole rack filled with split river fish that were in various stages of sun-drying. “Hard tack and dried fish: the Trickfish is a copper per flagon-weight, and the Gummer’s twice that but worth the difference since there’s near twice the meat by weight and it keeps better—which is important, since the rainy season’s coming. Each flagon comes with a standard biscuit of tack.”
Randall knew that a flagon-weight meant the weight of a standard-sized flagon’s net weight of water, of which Randall weighed just over fifty the last time he checked. So as much as he would have liked to eat nuts, dried fruit and beef jerky the whole trip, he knew it was a luxury he quite literally couldn’t afford.
But he also knew it was likely that he would encounter difficulties along the way, not the least of which was likely to be inclement weather. He ran a few silent calculations before arriving at a conclusion.
“I would buy one week’s worth of your Federation rations, along with three flagons each of the Gummer and Trickfish for one silver,” he offered as confidently as he could manage.
The shopkeeper chuckled lightly. “Too steep, friend,” he retorted smoothly, “it’s not worth my boy’s time on the riverbank catchin’ the fish at that price, and my profit’s narrow enough on the rations as it is what with the drop in traffic these days. One week’s Fed rations, plus two flagons each of the Trick and Gummer’s the best I can do,” he countered.
Randall knew he had little leverage so he stuck out his hand agreeably, which the shopkeeper made to clasp. But before their hands touched, Randall added, ”Throw in a half dozen of those fine apples and you have a deal.”
The shopkeeper failed to draw his hand back in time and a wry grin spread across his face as he nodded, accepting that Randall had pulled a fast one over him. “Apples from the front row of the shelf, not the back, and it’s done,” he agreed with a curt nod.
Randall looked at the display of fresh fruit and saw that the apples in the back were naturally fresher and of higher quality than those in the front, but he didn’t really care. Fresh fruit in any form would be more than welcome to offset the salty, stringy fish which would apparently comprise the majority of his diet in the coming weeks.
After concluding their business, Randall walked away having literally stuffed his rucksack with his meager belongings and food. He then made his way back to the riverbank to await the captain of the small ferry.
His food supply purchased and still having a silver coin to spare, Randall trotted down the riverfront street of the small town. Although after examining the ramshackle nature of construction and general layout, Randall decided that calling Murkwater a ‘town’ was probably inaccurate. It was little more than a three-slip dock with perhaps a dozen ‘blocks’ of buildings nestled against the river’s edge.
Still, he was pleasantly sur
prised to find the man who had been working on the small ferry was finished with his work repairing the sails. He was further encouraged to see a crusty-looking human appraising the repairs to the craft’s sail.
“It’s good work you’ve done here, Yaeli,” the old man said in a gravelly voice before his eye caught Randall’s. “Ah, you must be the one Yaeli told me about. Good afternoon to you,” he said, doffing his small, woolen cap.
Randall, at a momentary loss as how to respond, remembered that most pureblood humans he had seen would place two fingers to their brow with the knuckles to the forehead in greeting, so he did so before replying, “I’m looking to go to the northern shore. How much is the fare?”
The man rubbed his chin as he looked across the river to the far bank, which was at least two thousand feet away. “Truth be told, I hadn’t planned on setting across so late in the day…but I’d make a special trip for a silver.”
Randall’s jaw dropped. A whole silver; that’s outrageous, he thought as he closed his teeth with an audible click of his molars. “Certainly a silver is…excessive,” he said, trying to be diplomatic. He briefly wondered just how much worse this man would have tried to gouge him if he knew Randall’s true lineage, but dismissed the thought.
The ‘captain’ of the river ferry—which was about twenty feet long and less than half that wide—shook his head. “River’s running higher and harder than usual this year, so it’s a dangerous trip; I don’t normally go with fewer than a dozen passengers—the dawn’s usual tally—at a copper apiece.
Randall looked around in the hopes that he might find someone else who shared his interest in crossing the river while the ferry captain continued, “You could stay at the inn and hope to get a few passengers to split the bill come morning, but traffic’s been pretty light. That’s why I’ve had Yaeli doing the regular maintenance, see?”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 11
