by Will Wight
The Chronicler’s smile broadened. “The Emperor’s personal finances were much more interesting than simple piles of silvermarks and goldmarks. They included the location of several items of value. Including, you might say, buried treasure.”
Calder’s eyes filled with visions of ancient chests, filled to overflowing with Izyrian gold coins. He took an involuntary step closer, suddenly much more interested in the story. “I’m sorry if this seems rude, but...do you have a treasure map?”
Naberius tapped the side of his head. “It’s more accurate to say that I am a map. Now, I know that you and your crew are not treasure hunters—”
“Let’s not rush to any conclusions. If you hire us, we’ll hunt whatever you’d like.”
“Well, Captain Bennett recommended several crews in your Guild that were more experienced in the detection and removal of valuable items, but that wasn’t the crew I asked for. I asked for a ship crewed by those who could handle themselves in dangerous situations. She directed me to you.”
“The fool seeks out combat, but the wise man stays at home.” One of the most well-known sayings of Sadesthenes. Calder found himself in fights depressingly often, but he prided himself on never seeking them out.
Except when he had to. There were exceptions.
“So you expect dangerous situations to arise, then?”
“I simply find myself prepared for the possibility. And for ten thousand goldmarks, I believe that you should be prepared as well.”
Calder’s smile stuck. He couldn’t seem to wipe it off.
Quickly, he ran through the math. For day-to-day expenses, most people dealt in marks. For larger expenses, they could use silvermarks, and for monumental investments—like hiring a Navigator to sail across the Aion—the prices were most often measured in goldmarks. Ten thousand goldmarks meant one million marks.
Once, Calder had fallen into debt to the Emperor. That debt had since been cleared, both by his own efforts and by the Emperor’s death, but this single voyage could have covered what he owed twice over. With some to spare.
Cheska hadn’t exaggerated. He really could buy his own fleet.
“I...” He choked, then cleared his throat. “If you have a heading, I have a ship.”
Dalton Foster shoved his way up the ramp and past, seeming not to see their passengers. He held a lumpy sack over one shoulder, and his mane of gray hair stuck up in all directions. Two pairs of spectacles hung from cords around his neck, and he squinted forward in the sunlight.
“A crewmember of yours?” Naberius asked, sounding amused.
“My gunner, don’t worry about him. He doesn’t care where we go.” Calder raised his voice to address Foster. “Andel found you, then?”
The old man sat down cross-legged on the deck, swiveling a cannon around to face him until he stared it down the barrel. “He cost me a deal on a Tedoria Sixty-Six. I expect compensation.”
Calder turned his smile back to the Witnesses. “See? He’s eager to serve you.”
Naberius peered around the deck. “I was told your wife would be traveling with us. Surely you would like to consult with her?”
“She is visiting her family, actually, which means I should be able to see her...” Calder turned to the west, to the crowd at the docks, until he spotted a woman in a simple blue dress pushing through a crowd as though each and every person had offended her. “...right now. She’ll be here in a moment. Until then, shall I show you to your cabin?”
He heaved their luggage onto his shoulder, taking them to the furnished cabin at the stern. It was designed as the captain’s cabin, but whenever Calder had a passenger, he preferred to give them the room. “Generosity pays off when the final bill comes due.” That was Hestor, not Sadesthenes, but no less true for that.
Naberius stood a head over Calder, and he had to lean down to look into the cabin. “Very cozy. Truly, better accommodations than I expected from a Navigator’s vessel. But this is where you sleep, isn’t it?”
Some passengers liked to make a show of reluctance before they accepted. “For this voyage, it’s where you sleep.”
Naberius shared a glance with the bandaged Tristania, who bowed and walked back to the ship’s bow.
“I appreciate your generosity, but we have not spent our entire lives in the Capital.” He gestured for Calder to bring their luggage back out. “While we are here, you may treat us as cargo. Take us where you and your wife were planning to sleep.”
If they really wanted to ride like cargo, then they’d be down in the hold, but Calder said nothing. Instead, with many a protest that they were more than welcome to sleep in the cabin, Calder led them to the space beneath the bow.
It wasn’t another cabin; in the original plans for The Testament, this space was designed to hold extra supplies. The boards were so low that Naberius was bent over almost in half, and there were no amenities except two rolled-up hammocks and a candle next to a box of matches.
“Charming. We’ll take it.”
A little reluctantly, Calder set the luggage down between the two hammocks. He couldn’t help but wonder why they were turning down the cabin. Would this be an excuse to skimp on their payment? How much money was this going to cost him?
But they had made their wishes clear, so he bowed to the both of them. “As you please, Mister Clayborn.”
“Naberius, please.” He stuck out a hand, and when Calder shook it, he found a paper crumpled up within. On further inspection, it seemed to be a crisp yellow-printed bill: a goldmark.
Maybe they wouldn’t skim money from the contract after all.
Jyrine marched onto the deck now, eyes still burning, but she smiled when she saw the passengers. “These must be the guests in Cheska’s letter. Have you come to an agreement?”
“Ten thousand goldmarks,” Calder said.
She curtsied politely. “How very generous of you both.”
“And he suspects there might be danger.”
Her smile grew wider, and the anger vanished from her eyes. “Gentleman, gentle lady, welcome aboard The Testament. How may I serve you?”
~~~
That night, when everyone had returned to the ship, Calder introduced his crew. Now that the sun had set, they had all gathered around a quicklamp on the deck, eating roast quail and spiced chickpeas. This might be the only decent meal they had for the next two months, so Urzaia had stretched himself.
“First, let me introduce the man who crafts all the meals we will enjoy onboard The Testament: Urzaia Woodsman!”
Urzaia rose to his full height and thrust both fists in the air, as though he had been called to fight in the arena. He had pulled his blond hair back into a tail today, and his broad smile held a few gaps where teeth had been knocked loose. His sun-tanned skin bore a network of scars, and he wore patches of fabric all over as though he sliced up all his clothes before wearing them; a stretch of golden hide wrapped around his right arm, and dull snakeskin covered his left. A worn leather breastplate protected his chest, below a woolen scarf that must have been unbearable in the heat. He wore his pants underneath a patchwork kilt straight out of an Erinin legend. Even his boots didn’t match.
“Every meat we eat onboard, I made sure to kill it myself.” He stuck his chest out proudly and jabbed a finger at the plate waiting for him on the ground. “This quail, it gave me more trouble than most. It almost took an eye.”
Andel gestured at him with a drumstick. “Then you too almost became the prey of the deadly Aion Quail. Armies have fallen to its might.”
Urzaia laughed broadly and clapped Andel on the shoulder so hard that he almost lost his plate. “I don’t think that is true, but this quail troubled me nonetheless.”
Naberius chewed, his eyes resting thoughtfully on the big cook. “You are Izyrian, correct? An arena fighter, if I’m not mistaken.”
Urzaia settled down, returning his plate to his lap. “I was meant to die there. The Captain saved me, and now I will die aboard his ship.”
&nb
sp; “Of old age, hopefully,” Calder said, trying to steer the conversation away from death.
The Chronicler in red smiled. “Surely, that is the death we should most seek to avoid. Tell me, Urzaia, why are you called Woodsman?”
The cook reached to one side, pulling out a bundle of two hatchets. They looked as though they had been burned in an oven, with scorched wooden hafts and smoky gray blades. “In the arena, I killed with these. Those who saw me in action, they said I looked like I was chopping wood. Over time, that became my name. Woodsman.” He hefted a hatchet in each hand, proudly. “There are many worse names.”
Naberius looked as though he was about to ask another question, so Calder moved on. “That’s Urzaia, the ship’s cook. And of course you know my wife, Jyrine Tessella Marten.”
Jerri inclined her head and gave a suggestion of a curtsy. It somehow managed to look graceful, even though she was seated on an upturned crate and her mouth was stuffed with peas.
The Chronicler’s eyes flicked from her face, to the hand holding her plate, and back to her earrings. Calder knew exactly what he was looking for, but he waited for Jerri to answer the inevitable question.
“Jyrine, is it? I wonder, where does your family hail from?”
She took a swallow of wine before speaking. “As you guessed, my father and mother came to the Capital from Vandenyas before I was born. I know very little of the southern parts of the Empire.”
He pointed to her hand—or, more accurately, to the script tattooed on the back of it. The lines of symbols covered most of the left side of her body, from the top of her foot all the way up to the side of her neck, flowing down her arm like a tributary river. If he looked closely, Calder could glimpse the symbols terminating below her jawline.
“They must have been somewhat important, if you carry the lines.”
Jyrine smiled politely. “And you? Surely ‘Naberius’ is a Vandenyan name.”
It wasn’t much of a guess—the Chronicler also bore the same caramel-tan skin as Calder’s wife, though his was a shade lighter.
“Half-heritage, I’m afraid,” Naberius said. “My father came from Erin, and my mother was an Imperial clerk from Vandenyas.”
Calder cleared his throat and spoke again, to draw attention from the fact that his wife had dodged the question. “Next, we have our resident alchemist, Petal.”
Petal wore a drab gray dress and hunched over her meal, her frizzy black hair hiding her expression almost entirely. She twitched when she heard her name, but said nothing.
“Introduce yourself, Petal,” Andel ordered.
The alchemist shook her head, her hair shaking like a tree in high wind. Her fork slid from her plate and tumbled toward the deck.
It never made it. Suddenly Tristania was there, the fork in one bandaged hand and her coat settling behind her like a bat’s wings.
The whole crew jerked back, including Petal. Urzaia raised a hatchet on instinct, then laughed and put the weapon back down.
Tristania placed the fork carefully back on the other woman’s plate. She reached out, smoothing Petal’s dress, and with a few quick strokes tamed the alchemist’s hair. Petal’s eyes stared out as if from a cave, wide and blinking.
The Silent One took a few steps back, bowed to Petal, and then sat down in her seat. It might have been Calder’s imagination, but he thought she looked somewhat proud of herself.
Naberius gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened. “An alchemist. Was she trained in Kanatalia, then?”
“You might say she was self-trained,” Calder answered. “But don’t worry. She has enough experience to match any three Kanatalia alchemists.”
And paranoia to match any twelve, he thought, but elected to stay silent.
The Witness nodded to his partner. “Tristania was self-taught as well, in a manner of speaking. And in a Kanatalia laboratory, no less.”
Tristania ate her meal calmly, her bandaged hand lifting a fork to her mouth. The strands of hair sticking out from behind her bound head made her look even more like an asylum inmate than Petal, and her high-collared coat belonged on a battlefield.
Perhaps because she wore such a strange outfit without a hint of shame or self-consciousness, or perhaps because she was a member of the Guild of Witnesses, he got the impression that she would make a solid, dependable ally.
Naberius, on the other hand...he was too handsome, his suit too bright. He showed up without a proper introduction and rushed them into departing quickly. Either something was rushing him or he was trying to keep Calder from looking too closely into his business.
Though that, on its own, didn’t particularly bother Calder. Many travelers hired Navigators for less-than-reputable business, and as long as this treasurer kept throwing money around, Calder would be willing to show him far more trust than he’d earned.
Jyrine had picked up the introductions, waving to Andel. “Please, allow me to introduce you to Andel Petronus, our Quartermaster and our oldest traveling companion.”
Andel pressed his wide-brimmed white hat to his chest as he executed a seated bow. “A glorified babysitter, really.”
“A Luminian? Really? On this crew?” Naberius shrugged, holding a forkful of quail in one hand. “How did a man such as yourself end up in such company?”
Slowly, Andel returned the hat to his head. The sun was long down, but a white suit was not appropriate attire for working on the ship at any time. Andel wore what he did for reasons other than practicality.
“I found myself at odds with the Order,” Andel said. “I turned to another Guild. It’s as simple as that.”
Naberius held one hand out in a pacifying gesture. “Truly, I meant no insult. Quite the opposite. Very few have the courage to turn against the Luminians and their beliefs.”
“I don’t think I said anything about their beliefs.”
“True enough, true enough.” He turned to face the last member of the crew, only to find Foster’s seat empty. “And what about your gunner?”
Foster had returned to sitting in front of a cannon, scrubbing out the insides with a long iron rod. He had finished eating and left without a word, even to their guests. That was very much in character for the man, but it left Calder in the awkward position of having to explain.
He chuckled, trying to lighten the insult. “Don’t mind him. He was a gunsmith, once, and something of a hermit. He doesn’t talk to anyone unless it’s about iron and powder.”
Naberius opened his coat, revealing for the first time a pair of pistols, one on each hip. He pulled one out, holding its polished handle up to the steady light of a quicklamp. “That’s a pity. I have two pieces here I would have liked to discuss with him.”
“Is that so?” Calder asked. “Have you had them long?”
“Since before the death of the Emperor, may his soul fly free. They’re Dalton Foster originals, you know. Some of the last.”
A sound rang out, like a muffled bell, as Foster hit his head on the inside of the cannon.
Petal buried her face in her hair again, muttering something. Urzaia laughed out loud, and Andel looked down so that the brim of his hat hid his expression. Jerri and Calder exchanged a glance.
It only took a moment, but Naberius couldn’t help but notice. “Have I said something amusing?”
Jerri cut in quickly. “No, sir, no. A private joke among the crew. Our gunner was once an admirer of Dalton Foster’s, that’s all. But his opinion changed, and now we try not to mention that name at all.”
Naberius looked somewhat put out. “I see.” He holstered his pistol once more. “I apologize for bringing it up, then. Your gunner, what is his name?”
“Duster,” Calder said quickly.
Andel snorted a laugh.
Jyrine took over before the Chronicler could ask any more questions. “Now that the introductions have been dealt with, shall we turn to business? You implied that we might see some danger on this journey?”
From her tone, yo
u would have thought she’d said “excitement” instead of “danger.”
Naberius sobered up quickly. Even Tristania set her plate down and rested her hands inside the pockets of her coat.
“I will admit to you, there are political ramifications to our actions,” Naberius said, eyeing each of them in turn. “The Empire has held together remarkably well these past five years, thanks especially to the efforts of the four Regents. But cracks are beginning to form at the seams. Elders stir in the Aion and beyond, along with those who worship them. Izyrians have quickly begun to revert to the old ways, and some of their arenas feature blood-sport once more.”
Urzaia rubbed one of the scars on his cheek. “Is that so?”
“Even worse, there are those in Erin—and elsewhere—who begin to talk of independence. Secession.”
Calder and Jyrine had spoken of the idea before, usually out of dread, but it was Petal who responded this time.
“You mean...little Empires?” she whispered.
“You’re half right. They want small, self-governing states, each of them ruled by separate rulers with separate goals. If it falls to men to govern separately, then war is an inevitability.”
“You know Sadesthenes,” Calder said in approval. The actual quote was, “When men govern according to their own petty concerns, rather than for the good of all mankind, then war becomes an inevitability.” But at least Naberius had paraphrased, which was more than most bothered to do.
Naberius shook his head. “I’m not as familiar as I should be, sadly. But his words remain as true today as when he first spoke them. The Empire is falling apart, as should be expected without someone to hold it together. We need an Emperor once again.”
This time, instead of reacting, his whole crew froze. Even Foster’s scraping against the inside of the cannon stopped. Calder could feel Jyrine’s dark eyes boring holes in his head, but he couldn’t afford to look at her.
