Whitney watched the Wearer of White get to work.
Did he just tell me to make a move on a Panpingese blood mage?
He thought he might have been dreaming considering the way he’d treated her on their last adventure.
“Yep, he’s definitely gone soft.”
Whitney sighed. It couldn’t be a dream because only the real world could smell so awful. He regarded the stubborn Shieldsman one more time, then turned to continue down the shog-covered sewers toward the wharf.
He couldn’t tell Torsten what to look for because he honestly had no idea how he was supposed to distract an entire army. Genius usually struck for him in the heat of the moment, so he decided to turn off his brain and allow instinct to take over.
Before long he was standing at a large, barred opening at the bay. The smell of salty air greeted him along with a freezing gust of wind. It smelled like freedom, but he knew it couldn’t be. Even if he’d decided to bail on Torsten and take his chances with Kazimir, Sora was still somewhere within the city, and he refused to leave without his apprentice.
He took inventory of the area. From the opening, he could see the wharf, lined with trader’s ships. They swayed to and fro as a heady wind blew, battering the docks with small waves of water cold enough to stop a man’s heart. Lonely chunks of ice floated, broken by the churning bay.
The Shesaitju rowboats littered the sandy coast south of the wharf. And further down, massive galleons made of black wood, with bowing, triangular sails floated menacingly. Some still had catapults on their decks, stuck in launch position. A herd of zhulong traipsed around in the mud where they were moored under the watch of stablemen.
Whitney squeezed through the bars and pulled his body up so he could see atop the wharf. He moved slowly, quietly, unable to escape the sinking feeling that the moment his head popped up he’d be target practice again. Only now, at least, he had the cover of night.
Several Shesaitju warriors stood guard along the coast, but since none of the hiding Winde Port citizens would dare attempt an escape, they weren’t paying much attention. Many of them were engaged in some kind of game under the green light of a cluster of nigh’jel lanterns. It involved a large sheet of zhulong skin and throwing spears.
Merchant ships and personal vessels lined the wharf, packed in tight like a deck of cards due to the grounding of ships. He watched them rock back and forth, the ropes holding them going loose and taut in rhythm with nature’s song. An idea popped into his head as he watched them. It was insane, but thinking twice was a thief’s worst enemy.
He pulled himself up onto the wharf and slinked down the edge. The heavy winds coming from the west made such a racket of water and creaking wood that nobody would ever hear him. However, if any one of the hundred Shesaitju soldiers posted decided to look in his direction, they’d no doubt see a scruffy thief climbing aboard one of the ships under the light of the moons.
He chose the largest vessel, a western galley big enough to transport a herd of cattle and with sails the size of the Darkings mansion. Tall deck walls kept Whitney mostly hidden as he crouched and ran toward the bow. His plan was as simple as it was crazy, but he hoped it would be effective.
“Pssst.”
Whitney whipped around, saw no one. He heard it again and spun in the direction it had come. A stout but muscular dwarf with a dark, patchy beard popped up from a corner behind a spool of rope.
“Tum Tum!” Whitney nearly exclaimed before he caught himself. “What are you doing?”
“Got stuck between a rock and a hard place, I did,” he replied. “Yiggin gray men have been keepin watch all afternoon. And after what they did to me bar, I ain’t for takin no chances.”
“You mean the Winder’s Dwarf is...”
“Infested.” Tum Tum pointed across the way to his bar. The front windows were bashed in, and Shesaitju were everywhere. They had full run of the place, but not one of them drank. The Black Sandsmen did so hate enjoying life.
All that wasted ale...Whitney frowned. “These Black Sandsmen are intent on ruining everything, aren’t they?”
“Aye. They barged in askin if the dwarf who owned the place would support the fall of the Glass. O’course, I told em to stop botherin me customers and blades started takin away all the Glassmen. What good be a tavern without downtrodden men to drink at em?”
“Oh, Tum Tum, silly dwarf. You always say ‘yes.’ War makes even the best men drinkers and peacetime… well, that’s even worse.”
“I know, I know. But I was drunk when they asked,” he chortled.
“Of course, you were,” Whitney said. “Well, since you’re here, wanna help me win the war and get your place back?”
“Me fightin days are long gone, me Lord,” Tum Tum replied. “Ain’t for sayin I can’t be tossin some fists round, but I’d be doubtin we could handle hunerds of them gray men.”
“I’ve got a plan, and we shouldn’t even have to ball our fists.” He leaned in to whisper. “I’m working with the King’s Shield again.”
“By the sharp axe of Meungor!”
“Keep your voice down,” Whitney scolded. “Now, gather up all that rope and tie it around the mast.”
“What’s the plan?”
“You’ll see.”
Whitney looked out over the rails at the city he used to love. Suppertime along the wharf was usually the most fun place one could be in all of Pantego. It wasn’t just Winder’s Wharf, but bar after bar, packed with people ready to spend. There were some of the finest restaurants, including the Winde Traders Guild at the end of the row. Now, anywhere that wasn’t swarming with Shesaitju invaders was empty. Not a drink being poured.
Unable to bear the sight anymore, Whitney turned to look down the wharf. The ships were tightly packed between pilings and floating walkways ramping down from the wharf. From the vessel they were on, there were ten more docked down to the sandy shores where the zhulong and Shesaitju rowboats occupied. Enough to make a racket even the gods might hear.
“Done yet?” Whitney asked after some time had passed.
“Me legs ain’t as long as yers be,” Tum Tum groaned in response. “Hold yer saddle…” Then, a few minutes later, “There, done.”
“Okay. You sit tight and stay low.”
“Ain’t no other way I can be.” Tum Tum laughed, and his belly rolled.
Whitney placed a finger against his lips to shush him.
“When I give the signal, raise the sails, then get your ass to the sewers, or inside. Anywhere but the docks.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
Whitney sighed in relief. Tum Tum was no thief, but he’d helped Whitney try and woo a fair share of pretty women in the Winder’s Dwarf over the years. Enough time to know that when Whitney offered a signal, it was best to wait and see what that might be.
Torsten could learn a thing or two.
The spool Tum Tum had used for a hiding place was nearly all they would need for this ship. Whitney took the free end, tied it to a bucket, and threw it to the ship docked in the next slip. He winced, expecting to hear clanging metal that might alert the guards, but the wind was causing such a ruckus, even he couldn’t hear it.
“Wish me luck,” Whitney said to the dwarf.
“With what?”
Whitney ignored him and leaped from deck to deck. He found the bucket, removed the rope, and tied the end around the ship’s mast. Then, he found another spare rope and affixed it to the mast as well before using the same bucket to fling it to the next ship. He continued on down the line of ten ships to the one nearest the southern coastline where the zhulong grazed.
Just as Celeste and Loutis reached their climax in the night sky, he tied his last knot. Sweat poured down his forehead despite the cold. All that jumping and crouching... thieving was a younger man’s game. Not even three decades, he was already on the decline.
He peered over the railing and saw a couple of gray-skins doing rounds down the length of the wharf. He waited for them to pass,
then slung the end of the rope not affixed to the mast over the side of the ship. He slid down it onto a floating walkway and shimmied toward the wharf. Miraculously, the Shesaitju were still unaware of his presence, and he hoped to keep it that way. When his feet hit the wharf, they were already running.
He hopped down to the muddy shores and toward the zhulong herd. In the darkness, the Shesaitju were easy to spot with their green, glowing nigh’jels. There were a few care-keepers scattered about, but Whitney made sure to steer clear of them.
“All right,” he said out loud to no one. “They’re just big pigs. Nothing to worry about—just big pigs with spiked tails and massive tusks.”
As he got closer, he realized they were far bigger than he remembered. He was actually quaking now, his knees weak. Sweat still poured off him, threatening to freeze on his face.
“Shogging exile, Whitney,” he cursed. “Get a yigging grip.”
He sidled up to an exceptionally large male—he could tell by the length of its tusks—and patted its side. Its head turned, eyeballs the size of Whitney’s fist, maybe bigger. It leaned down to sniff Whitney’s pants, shog-stained from the sewers.
“Hey, boy, think you could help me with something?” Whitney stammered. “Yeah, attaboy.”
Whitney grabbed the reins hanging from a bit in its mouth and gave them a soft tug. The beast thrashed its head in protest, causing Whitney to back away, arms in the air. The zhulong followed him, stuck out its short, coarse tongue, and licked his calf.
“More pig than dragon, eh?” Whitney said.
He strode a few meters, then turned and noticed the zhulong following him, its massive snout huffing.
The patrolling warriors were on the opposite side of the wharf, so the time was right to get to work.
“Stay,” he said to the zhulong. It didn’t listen. As he went to climb back up, it hooked him with a tusk to get at his pants.
“How come only ugly beasts want to get in my pants?” he groaned. It made a deep rumbling noise. “Okay! You’re not ugly. I’m sorry.” He weaseled out of its clutches, then reached down and tore off a strip off his sodden pants. He tried to imagine they were only wet with water as he raised the cloth.
The beast grabbed it from him and started chewing.
“Good boy.” Whitney shrugged and made his way back beside the nearest ship. He found the loose end of the rope he’d slid down and carried it to the zhulong. It was still busy chomping on his pants when he knotted it to its saddle.
Just then, he heard shouting. A Shesaitju warrior fell off the side of the ship Tum Tum was supposed to be hiding on, splashing into the ice-cold water. A contingent of warriors sprung into action and headed for the ship. Before Whitney could even make a move, he saw the towering sails go up, accompanied by a cacophony of Saitjuese cursing.
“Tum Tum!” Whitney shouted.
He had to think fast. He ripped the stained piece of fabric from the zhulong’s mouth and tossed it down the beach. The zhulong’s giant nostrils flared with rage, and Whitney had to summon all the courage he had to give it a slap on the hindquarters like he was playing. He closed his eyes, half-expecting to be gored, but the mighty beast turned and ran toward the cloth.
Mission accomplished.
It tugged on the rope, which was bound to the mast of the nearest ship, which was connected to the one adjacent, and so on until the compromised galley.
The sails Tum Tum had raised caught the strong westerly winds, and with the zhulong also pulling with its substantial strength, the row of ships tipped, slamming into one another. There was a series of cracks, loud as thunder, and the zhulong herd went frantic. The rope on Whitney’s friend snapped free, whipping across and taking out Whitney’s legs.
They stampeded toward the city, throwing sharp, hooked tusks as they charged. Whitney had to roll back and forth to avoid being trampled. Giant, clawed paws smashed into the mud all around him, and when he finally was able to look up, he saw a mass of Shesaitju along the docks, half staring, aghast, at the toppled ships and others trying to calm the zhulong.
Whitney kept waiting to hear shouting about a dwarf but heard nothing. He dug himself deeper into the mud to hide. All he could do was hope Tum Tum had abandoned ship and hid before it was too late. Used to the deep cold of the northern mountains, dwarves were resilient, maybe enough to survive that water for a few minutes.
What was certain, however, was that Whitney’s distraction had worked. His service to the Crown was complete, with exceptional success if he had to say so. Now it was up to Torsten to handle his end so they can get started trying to find Sora and the monster who held her.
XXIII
THE MYSTIC
Shavi didn’t have to give Sora any clothes after she dried off. Her chamber in the prefect's estate was already full of them. The old handmaiden quietly finished cleaning and straightening her hair, told her to rest while she could, and left the room—but not without first asking countless times if Sora needed anything. She was warm and welcoming like a mother should be... not that Sora knew much about mothers. Wetzel was called many things back in Troborough, matronly not numbered with them.
Sora watched her leave, then dug through a wardrobe for something appropriate to wear. As she did, she couldn’t help but wonder who the countless clothes belonged to and what had happened to her.
It wasn’t hard to discern the answer. Winde Port’s prefect was gone, probably a head on the city walls. There wasn’t a soul with pink skin or round eyes from the heart of the Glass Kingdom to be found. No servants, or wives, or children.
Sora ruffled through more exquisite clothing than she’d ever seen in one place until she found the plainest dress available. It was tree bark brown and barely hugged her figure. There was no finery along the seams of tan, threaded trim. It wasn’t servant attire or anything, but she was tired of playing the role of a fancy royal. She strapped the fat coin purse she and Whitney got from selling the silk trader’s goods to her thigh underneath the folds, then, she found a pair of long, satin gloves to pull up all the way over her forearms to hide her scars.
She turned and saw the luxurious bed waiting for her opposite the bath, begging her to get lost in the impossibly soft sheets. Aquira was already curled up in a ball on one of the pillows. Sora didn’t dare join her. Not even for a moment, knowing that if she hit the cushion, she’d be passed out for hours. And she couldn’t do that.
The sun was falling, its protection against Kazimir with it. Whitney was still somewhere out there, and as soon as the light was gone, he’d be in more trouble.
Maybe he fled, Sora thought. Maybe he left me behind just like when he ran from home.
It was a thought that would have usually pained her, but now, all she did was hope he was as bad a man as he sometimes seemed—worse even. She hoped he’d stolen a ship in the chaos and was already sailing the Boiling Waters on another mad adventure.
Then she remembered Kazimir’s terrible grin and what he’d said about the sacred nature of a blood pact. He’d hunt Whitney to the ends of Pantego if it meant getting her. Yet still, she had no idea why. There had to be countless other Panpingese magic-users hiding around the world. Her people were supposed to share the closest affinity with Elsewhere, whether through blood or otherwise.
No more hiding. I need to find him.
“Aquira, let’s go,” she said. The wyvern raised her head and blinked wearily in her direction. “C’mon girl. He may be a pain, but he’s all I’ve got.” Aquira stood and stretched, arching her spine and looping her tail around to brush her neck frills. A puff of smoke poured from her mouth as she coughed, then she hopped down and followed behind Sora.
It was a short walk down the hall to a huge anteroom, arched windows along the side looking out upon the bay. Dusk was made even darker by a thick layer of clouds and snow flurries.
Sora stopped in the entry when she realized Muskigo wasn’t lying. The hall was filled with homeless Panpingese men, women, and children wrapped in bla
nkets. A few Shesaitju guards stood silently at the entries but kept to their own.
It was an odd sight; the room, so luxurious and lavish, and a people so much the opposite. Velvet covered chairs were parked before intricately marked tables upon which were myriad varieties of food and drink. Maybe the people didn’t have a warm bath or hearth to stay warm, but even a roof overhead was a far cry from how so many of them were living in the ghetto.
She stepped in and immediately recognized two children sleeping on their mother as the ones she’d tossed coins to back in the Panping District. Her hand instinctually fell to the purse beneath her dress, filled with more gold then anybody in this room had seen in a lifetime combined.
“You need something?” the mother asked.
Sora shook her head, not even realizing she had been staring. “No sorry, I recognized your sons,” she said.
“Ah, you must be ‘beautiful angel’ that gived that gold autla.”
“I...uh... yeah. They looked like they could use it.”
“Could have used more.” The woman wore a glare for a few seconds, then her features softened and she said, “Thank you.”
Her skin creased like leather as she smiled, even though she didn’t seem very old. Within her dark, almond-shaped eyes, Sora saw peace. It was strange for anyone to seem peaceful during these times, but as she looked around the room, at the other Panpingese refugees, it was a common attribute.
“That is Tayvada’s wyvern,” the women stated.
Sora glanced down and saw the wyvern calmly sitting at her heels. Her heart sunk, but she nodded. “You knew him?”
“Every Panpingese in Winde Port knowed him. He didn’t go around tossing out gold, but did what he could to feed us.”
Sora eyed the Shesaitju guards to make sure they weren’t listening to her. She was supposed to be Tayvada’s widow after all. “I wish I had a chance to know him better, but Aquira found me in the chaos and won’t leave my side.”
Winds of War Page 26
