by Darian Smith
“Of course,” the old cobbler scribbled the address on a scrap of paper.
Brannon turned to the boy. “A moment ago, you said some of the customers are more satisfied than others. What did you mean by that?”
The boy turned red and looked to his boss.
“It's just something we used to tease Eaglin about,” the old man said. “He was a decent-looking lad. Some of the women customers would ask for him specifically. Lady Belania's husband even came to check with us once because she bought so many shoes. It was harmless flirting—nothing in it.”
Brannon and Draeson exchanged a glance.
“Perhaps you'd better give us Lady Belania's address as well,” said Brannon. “People might not often commit murder over shoes, but they do over infidelity.”
CHAPTER NINE
The coach sped through the streets of Alapra, clattering over the cobblestones like the rattle of a thousand soldiers' armor as they charged into battle. It hurtled around a corner and the occupants were thrown into a left lean. Brannon kept himself upright but Darnec's shoulder pressed into Draeson's. The mage's little dragon tattoo had shifted up to his neck with its head peeking out of his collar just below his ear and it hissed at Darnec until the coach straightened and they settled back into place.
“You have a contingent with you at the docks, right?” Brannon's words were directed at Darnec but his eyes watched the city go by through the glass. “When we reach them, I want you to send a man to each of the addresses we got from the cobbler and stand guard. Just keep an eye on things and make sure nothing is disturbed or strange. As soon as we're done escorting this gold shipment, I'm going to want to check out the dead man's home and interview this Lady Belania and her husband.”
“Yes, Sir Brannon.” Darnec shifted uncomfortably, trying to pull as much of himself away from Draeson and his living tattoo as possible. “I'll get on it right away.”
“Also . . .” Brannon turned to meet the young man's eyes and pointed out the window. “Why are we driving so fast?”
Darnec flushed. “I paid the driver extra to go quickly. Natilia, the Harbor Master, said there's something odd about the way the ship is approaching. I was told to fetch you and the wizard as fast as possible.”
“I'm a mage,” Draeson growled. “A wizard is something completely different. Odd how? Did it hop like a rabbit? Fly a pirate flag? What?”
“I don't know,” Darnec said. “A message came from Valda. They didn't stop there and the boat was . . . odd.” He shrugged. “I don't know much about boats.”
“Not much use then, are you?” The mage turned away.
“Draeson!” Brannon scolded, but the mage ignored him.
Moments later, the docks came into view. Several long wooden piers jutted out like grasping fingers into the canal that served as Alapra's main trading route. A handful of boats were already gripped in those fingers, docked like signet rings on some of the piers. One pier, however, was empty; its access way blocked by a regiment of soldiers in the armor of the King's Guard. They parted to make way for the coach, and the driver pulled it to a stop in their midst.
“Well, it hasn't arrived yet so we're here in plenty of time,” Brannon said, climbing out onto the dock. He glanced at the soldiers. “Stay in formation. No one gets through until we have the ship unloaded. Darnec has some orders for you and Draeson will be with me. Are the wagons ready?”
One of the men stepped forward. “Yes sir. Three covered wagons, as requested.”
“Good.” Brannon nodded. “That should be enough.” He frowned. “We're here to prevent a robbery, people. Any threat will be approaching from the city. Why's everyone facing the river?”
The guardsman pointed. “They haven't furled any sails yet. They're coming in mighty fast.”
Brannon turned to look.
It was a fair way off still, but some things were clear: a midsized river boat charged toward the docks, sails hoisted and full and with no sign of oars, water churning around its bow like frothy petticoats.
Brannon lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and peered again. He took a few steps along the pier.
Draeson followed him. “That's our boat, isn't it? The one with the shipment?”
Brannon nodded. “Yeah.”
“Shouldn't it be slowing down by now?”
“Yeah.”
The boat came closer. Much closer. Brannon could make out more of the details now. There were no sailors in the rigging or on the deck. No one at all. It was as if the crew had simply aimed at the docks and abandoned ship.
Brannon's stomach dropped. “Blood and Tears, it's going to ram us.” He turned to shout at the gathered soldiers. “Everyone, move back! The ship's going to crash.”
They scattered at his words. Their training kept them in rough formation but the gaps between them grew as they moved further from the water, spreading themselves thin to try to maintain the blockade between the pier and the rest of the city.
Brannon watched the boat come closer. The creak of timbers and snap of sails were eerie over the water without an accompanying shout of sailors working to rein them in. “Draeson . . .”
“I'm on it.” The mage ran to the edge of the pier, his arms stretched out over the water. The air around him crackled and chunks of blue-green coalesced from his hands and fell into the river, there they spread out and merged into an expanding sheet of ice.
The ice and the ship charged toward each other, like antlered stags challenging for territory. Brannon held his breath. He'd seen Draeson's ice hold a boat this size before . . . but that boat had been virtually stationary and sinking, not travelling at full speed with the wind behind it.
More chunks fell from the mage's hand. His dragon tattoo moved to curl around his wrist and breathed thick fog to push the ice chunks forward, expanding the frozen sheet across the river.
Brannon glanced behind him. A crowd was gathering despite the soldiers' attempts to keep them away. If the boat crashed at this speed, people were going to die.
A booming crack sounded as the hull of the boat hit the ice and smashed it. “Ahpra's Tears,” Draeson gasped. “It's not going to hold. There's no time to make it thick enough.”
“Then do something else!” Brannon said. “You lifted me into the air with magic once. Do that!”
“You are not a boat!” Draeson growled. But the ice stopped and his hands shifted position, fingers spread wide and curled at the tips, thrust with all his might towards the ship. His youthful face strained with exertion. Sweat beaded on his brow.
The boat continued, smashing the sheet of ice into a pulpy mix of hail and snow, but it slowed.
Not enough. It crept closer and closer to the pier.
“It's going to hit,” Brannon shouted. “Push harder!”
“Even I have limits, boy,” Draeson said between gritted teeth.
The boat connected about halfway down the pier and the entire structure shuddered with the impact, causing Brannon to stumble as he tried to stay upright. Planks shattered like glass, splinters exploding into the air and raining down around them. The broken edges of the wood shrieked as they scraped along the hull of the still-moving boat, before being splintered in turn as the vessel's width forced more and more of itself into the gap it'd made.
“The sails,” Draeson gasped. “The wind's too strong. Cut the sails!”
Sailors from other ships were screaming now, erupting like hornets from a kicked nest and fearful that their livelihoods were in danger. If the runaway boat broke free now, it would smash through the rest of the docks causing untold amounts of damage.
Brannon took a deep breath. “Right then. The sails.” He ran along the shuddering wooden pier toward the struggling boat. Nearly half of it had forced its way completely through the pier now. Once the midpoint of the boat passed through the wrecked pier, the smashed hole would be wider than the rest of the boat and only Draeson's dwindling magic would hold it back.
The water level of the river was
up and the boat rode high upon it. The railings were a good man-height above the pier and there was no time to bring in a ramp. If he was going to get on board, Brannon would have to jump.
He eyed the edge of the deck and put every bit of energy into his sprint, trying to give himself as much momentum as he could. The hull loomed ahead of him like some great leviathan rising up out of the water. He felt the planks beneath his feet shiver and crack. Before they could give way entirely, he leapt.
His hands gripped the edge of the deck and his body slammed into the exposed hull. He could feel the vibrations of the boat against his skin as it struggled, caught between the force of the wind and the force of Draeson's magic. The wood was warm and smooth and his fingers, damp with sweat, slipped ever so slightly. He clung on, caught his breath, then lunged upward as hard as he could.
He got his arms, then chest, over the edge of the deck and under the railing, with just his lower body dangling over the side. The ship lurched forward, finally breaking free of the smashed pier, and the jolt swung Brannon's legs back. He heaved forward as hard as he could, swinging himself up onto the boat. A sharp pain jolted through him as he clipped his knee on the side of the deck, but he ignored it.
He pulled himself to his feet and limped across the deck, drawing his sword as he went. He swung the blade at the first rope he saw, splitting it with a satisfying hiss. Then the next. And the next.
The sound of flapping canvas let him know he had succeeded. The sails were loose and useless.
He stumbled to the anchor crank and released it, the splash below another reassuring relief.
The boat stopped. The remaining docks were safe.
Except . . . looking around, he doubted anything about this boat was safe. The deck was littered with the corpses of sailors.
The crew had not abandoned ship. They were dead.
CHAPTER TEN
The soldiers raised a gangplank up to the boat, but Brannon, standing on the deck, refused to let them board. They milled around what was left of the pier like confused children, uncertain what to do.
Brannon was confused himself. He understood death from battle or illness, but this was something different. There was no blood on any of the sailors' bodies and no obvious sign of disease. That left another, more disturbing option. One Brannon had no intention of allowing anyone else to risk unnecessarily.
“Taran?” He caught a glimpse of the cowled figure of the priest in the crowd. It felt like an eternity since he'd sent for the young man. “Let Brother Taran through! I want him and Magus Draeson up here. No one else.”
As he waited for them to climb the ramp, Brannon looked around the deck again. Several sailors lay dead at their posts—one at the wheel, another beneath the rigging, a few others scattered about. There was little sign of any attack, and no obvious wounds. They were simply dead.
“Let's not do that again.” Draeson reached deck and leaned heavily on the railing.
“Are you okay?” Brannon asked him.
“Yeah, but it's not as easy as it looks to stop a boat, you know.”
Brannon chuckled. “You forget, I saw you hold back the entire river during the war.”
Draeson snorted. “During the war, I had help and preparation time. It's a little different. Now, what have we here? Are they dead?”
Brannon nodded.
“Oh dear.” Brother Taran's quiet voice was typically understated as he joined them on the boat. “That's not right.”
Brannon sighed. “No, it isn't. I haven't been below yet, but I'm guessing we'll find more of the same. I haven't heard anything.” No one living would have stayed quiet after the crash. He waved his hand in a vague sort of gesture around them. “Is it . . . safe to touch anything?”
Taran blinked at him. “Oh, you think they were poisoned?”
“It's generally why I call you into a situation,” Brannon said. “They weren't stabbed and I doubt they all had simultaneous heart attacks so that leaves magic or poison.”
Taran tugged a pair of waxed leather gloves out of his tunic pocket and pulled them on up to his elbows. “Well, it could be something they ingested. There are poisons that absorb through the skin, but that would rely on everyone touching the same object, so I don't think that will be it. The best way to poison a group at the same time would be an airborne toxin and that will have dispersed by now. We should be fine to touch things safely.”
Brannon exchanged a glance with Draeson. “You're wearing gloves, though.”
Taran shrugged. “Well, sure. You can't be too careful.” The priest knelt next to the nearest body and rolled it over, peering at the man's face. He pulled back the eyelids and looked at the eyes. “No discoloration of lips or sclera.”
Draeson frowned. “Sclera?”
“The whites of the eyes,” Brannon told him. “It's a physician's term.”
“Or a poisoner's,” Taran said. “Anyone educated.”
“I'm sure,” Brannon said. “Is there anything you can tell me about what did this?”
Taran shook his head. “Not yet. I'll take some samples.”
“Okay. Draeson and I will look around below deck.”
The inside of the ship was dark and the timber creaked as it rocked gently in the water, shockingly loud in the absence of other sounds. Brannon found a lantern on a hook and lit it. A few large cabins contained bunks to provide shared sleeping spaces. They entered one of them and looked around. Several of the bunks contained bodies beneath blankets, still and cold.
Brannon knew death well enough to recognize it, but he checked for a pulse anyway. There was none. He checked the lips and eyes for discoloration as Taran had done. Two of the dead sailors had a bloody froth in their mouths. He sat back on his heels, wondering. Did that mean something? Perhaps they'd been infected a longer time than the sailors on deck before they succumbed. Perhaps less.
Someone on the crew had apparently possessed an artistic disposition as the walls were painted with images of adventures at sea—despite Brannon's strong suspicion that this particular boat had likely never left the River Tilal. It showed a kraken entranced by a sailor's lute, the island of the purple-skinned Djin surrounded by Risen defenders, and the goddess Ahpra, her tears falling through a storm cloud to replenish the river and thus the ocean. They were good—Brannon had seen much worse painted on the walls and ceilings of inns in Alapra. He wondered which of the dead men and women had been the one to create the images. It was sad to think that talent was now lost to the world.
Draeson touched Brannon's shoulder. “The gold should be in the cargo hold,” he said. “We should check there next.”
“The other cabins first,” Brannon said. “Just in case.”
“You know what you'll find,” Draeson said.
Brannon pushed past him and moved to the next cabin. A woman with short cropped auburn hair lay on the floor, a spilled drink beside her. Brannon crouched down and touched her neck—no pulse, cold.
“They had to have all died at pretty much the same time,” Draeson said from the doorway. “Or someone would have raised the alarm.”
“True,” Brannon agreed. “But how? Could this be done by magic?”
Draeson shrugged. “Maybe. Give me an idea of the actual damage to the body and I'll be able to give you a better answer.”
Brannon nodded. “We'll take them back to the hospital and I'll do a thorough autopsy.” A speck of red caught his attention and he looked closer at the dead woman's neck. There was a tiny red mark, like a pinprick. “What's that?” He stood and hurried to a young man slumped half out of his bunk. He too was dead and had a pinprick, this time on the arm. He pointed it out to Draeson. “Check the others. This could be something. I'll let Taran know.”
He stepped out into the corridor in time to see Taran drop through the hatch and pause to take a gulp of something from a flask.
The priest caught Brannon's look and hurriedly tucked the flask away in a pocket.
“You'll need your full wits for this
case,” Brannon said.
Taran blinked at him, then blushed. “Oh! No, it's not alcohol. It's um . . . a tonic. It's medicinal.”
Brannon frowned. “Are you unwell? Do you want me to look you over?”
“No no. I'm fine.” The young priest shook his head.
Brannon watched him a moment longer. “Get Master Jordell to do it, if you'd prefer.”
“I will if I need to.” Taran nodded. “What did you find?”
Brannon gestured toward the cabins. “More bodies. At least some of them have a small mark on their skin. I'm wondering if it could have been a poison-coated needle of some kind.”
“I saw a similar marking on the ones on the deck. There are some poisons that can be delivered that way.”
Brannon sighed. “Ahpra's Tears. How did someone get close enough to stick every single crew member with a pin and no one did anything about it?”
Taran shrugged.
Draeson joined them. “Nobody's alive,” he said. “We need to check on the gold. Let's get to the cargo hold.”
The hatch to the hold had two dead men guarding it, both with the pinprick on their skin and bloody froth in their mouths. Brannon paused to light another lantern before entering the hold itself. The light stretched out, spreading around the tarred wooden beams of the boat. Three more bodies—sailors or guards—lay on the floor. The gold they’d been guarding was gone.
Brannon swore softly but without any real surprise. The boat had been hollowed out like an abandoned crab shell and sent floating down the river with its dead guardians, as a message for those who waited. There was no way whoever had done this would have gone to the trouble of killing the entire crew and not taken the gold. This had clearly been the plan all along. The question was, planned by whom?
“Aldan isn't going to like this,” Draeson said.
Brannon sighed. “No kidding. How did they even know about this shipment? The schedules are supposed to be top secret.”
“Spies,” Draeson said. “The Nilarians have always been good at snooping. Just ask your friend the ambassador.”
