by Barb Hendee
At the time she had believed that this meant they were judging her . . . that she did not belong among the people. She was mixed blood; she was not welcome in the lands of the an’Cróan. Then there had been the white female who had come to lead her away. The one whom she later learned was Chap’s mate . . . and the mother of their child, Shade, who had crossed the world to be with Wynn. In Wayfarer’s darkest moment, alone and orphaned, and when she had most needed a guide, Lily had come to her . . . as if somehow knowing of her fear and sorrow.
What did any of it mean? What had happened that morning on the waterfront with Chap?
What had just happened out in the street when in panic she had grabbed his tail?
“Wayfarer, answer me! Are you all right?”
Wayfarer blinked in a shudder and looked up to find Magiere standing over her in worry. She did not know how to answer and only glanced at Chap.
• • •
After leaving Rhysís, Dänvârfij went straight to the Suman ship. She knew the traitor would be distracted for a short while by his charges. She had one last preparation to complete before her quarry made its next move.
Most Aged Father had provided the only sound way to fulfill her purpose concerning the monster and her mate, as well as the traitorous greimasg’äh. But Dänvârfij had devised something more of her own.
Striding up the vessel’s ramp, she watched as human men loaded cargo into the hold. A filthy one with a round belly shouted orders at the others, and she went straight to him.
When he saw her coming, his expression was one of arrogant authority.
“What do you want?” he asked in Numanese, though his accent was thick.
She needed to exude authority as well for this to work, and she stared him straight in the eyes without blinking and with no emotion on her face.
“To speak . . . you . . . alone,” she replied flatly, and then she fell silent, as if expecting compliance.
He appeared taken aback by this. With a tilt of his head and narrowing eyes, he shrugged slightly and gestured to a door in the aftcastle’s front wall. She waited until he stepped off before she followed. His stench was enough that she had to stop herself from covering her nose as she headed down the stairs and below deck.
He glanced back once, perhaps suspicious, and then led the way to the last door on the right. She followed and found herself in a small, cluttered cabin that—if possible—smelled worse than he did. He did not shut the door.
“What?” he asked.
She kept her eyes on his and tried not to look at his unkempt, unwashed attire.
“I hunt group . . . of thieves . . . murderers. I think they . . . arranged passage on . . . this ship.”
That one sharpened word—hunt—would be enough to give the impression that she was a bounty hunter, so called among many human cultures. That alone might sharpen his interest if there was money involved.
She was not wrong.
The captain’s beady, dark eyes widened slightly.
“You already see girl . . . and black dog,” she said, and then she gave the best description of Magiere, Léshil, and Brot’ân’duivé that she could in her limited Numanese. “In Numan water—in port of Drist—they attack Suman vessel Bashair. They murder all crew.” She paused, granting this slovenly captain a moment to estimate how much profit might be involved. “My words easy prove. Ship found in dock. Bodies of crew . . . in bay, on shore, under dock . . . found dead. You want, check story. All five stayed at place named Delilah’s.”
There was a risk in blaming her quarry for the deaths aboard the Bashair. This captain would obviously pause, worrying about the safety of his vessel—or rather himself. All that mattered was whether his greed was greater than his fear.
Finally, he stepped around her and closed the cabin door. “What do you want from me?” he asked, showing a row of crooked, stained teeth.
“I cannot arrest until they reach . . . il’Dha’ab Najuum. They murder Suman crew . . . so must catch on Suman ground.”
“Arrest them?” he echoed. Though filthy, he was not stupid.
“When word of crime reach Suman . . . law officers,” she continued, “they offer large reward.”
“And you want me to help you once we land? What’s my share of the reward?”
“All. I want them . . . nothing more.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“They kill my . . . friends,” she said. “I want justice . . . not reward.”
She could see he was tempted but still uncertain. Whether he believed her or not, it was time to finish the ploy by tying his greed to a sense of righteousness. Dänvârfij reached inside her vest and removed a folded piece of pale gold cloth that she had hidden there. She unfolded it for the captain to see, and then refolded it when his mouth went slack.
“You are Shé’ith?” he whispered.
She nodded once. “I am in disguise . . . to pursue my quarry.”
With no further hesitation, the captain straightened. “And the entire reward will be mine?”
“Yes. I travel ahead on other ship and wait in il’Dha’ab Najuum. Do not let passengers think you know. . . . When you arrive, I contact you for . . . assistance.”
“Agreed!”
He did not appear remotely afraid of carrying passengers accused of murdering some other Suman crew. The foundation of the trap had been laid. At first, when Most Aged Father had explained his plan to her, she had wondered about the wisdom of allowing her quarry to be arrested by Suman authorities. She then realized that Magiere and Léshil would be disarmed, most likely separated, and locked up. They would be easy targets for any trained anmaglâhk. No Suman prison would be able to keep her or Rhysís out.
Turning without another word, she left the small cabin, headed up on deck, took a needed breath of clean air, and trotted down the ramp to head for the Falcon at a brisk pace.
As she boarded, the captain there smiled, and she nodded to him in turn before descending below to join her team. Opening the door of the first cabin, she peered inside to find Fréthfâre resting on one bunk while Én’nish and Rhysís sat side by side—both working.
Each held a tawny leather vestment with swirling steel garnishes from which they scrubbed away blood. One pale gold sash lay on the bunk beside them, and swords lay at their feet.
“You were careless,” Én’nish complained.
“I had to move quickly,” Dänvârfij replied.
She did not have to explain herself to anyone here, all of whom had—to one degree or another—sought to ignore Most Aged Father’s instructions. And Dänvârfij looked once more upon the folded pale gold sash still in her hand.
She tucked the piece of cloth back inside her vest in case it should be needed once more.
None of them left the cabin that day, and in the midafternoon, the Falcon sailed south.
• • •
The following morning, still locked inside the room at the inn, Magiere had to bite the inside of her mouth as Brot’an took over all aspects of their short journey to the harbor. She didn’t blame him for being overly cautious, considering what had happened—almost happened—the day before. But his manner was coldly insulting, and Magiere wondered how long it would take before either Leesil or Chap—or maybe both—had finally had enough.
“Does everyone know what to do?” Brot’an asked for the fifth time as he pulled up his hood.
Even Wayfarer sighed tiredly as Magiere answered, “I think we are all sure enough, so Leesil and Wayfarer should head out.”
If the port was still watched by the two remaining able-bodied anmaglâhk, then four people and a dog walking together would gain their attention instantly. And it seemed those butchers already knew which ship to watch. Brot’an had reasoned that the only strategy was to break into smaller groups. They would stay within sight of one another and
move quickly without running when they all reached the fourth pier by separate routes. Once they were all on board, it was unlikely that only two anmaglâhk would move against them.
Magiere agreed, but the aging assassin looked tense, and that made her tense.
Leesil and Wayfarer would go first, heavily cloaked and holding hands like a couple.
Magiere would take Chap next and lead him on his rope.
Brot’an would follow last, keeping everyone in sight, until it was time to quickly catch up.
“All right,” he said to Leesil. “Go.”
Clearly hating even the idea of following Brot’an’s orders, Leesil glared at him. He hefted their travel chest onto one shoulder, took Wayfarer’s hand, and left.
Magiere picked up the rope’s end. Its other end was tied around Chap’s neck, and once again he was covered in soot—which may have been pointless since the anmaglâhk had already seen him like this, but they’d certainly spot a silver-gray majay-hì more easily. She counted to ten and left the inn, making two turns and coming out onto the mainway filled with people rushing or strolling about their days. Chap kept enough of a pace that Leesil and Wayfarer were still in sight.
—Brot’an is . . . insufferable—
Magiere sighed, not even disagreeing, and whispered to Chap, “Let’s just get this over with.”
The trip to the port felt longer than it was for the tension. But soon they were headed up the fourth pier with most of the distance closed by the time Leesil and Wayfarer walked up the ramp onto the Djinn.
Magiere glanced back, and Brot’an was no more than eight strides behind her.
“How uneventful,” Leesil said dryly as she and Chap reached the deck.
Then she looked around at the medium-sized cargo vessel upon which they would make the long run to il’Dha’ab Najuum with no stops. It was a bit shabby, and a greasy-looking Suman with a protruding belly came right at them.
“This is Captain Amjad,” Wayfarer said politely.
Magiere heard the girl swallow hard with a brief choke, and she smelled . . .
It took no more than one blink to figure out where that stench came from.
However, something beyond revulsion touched Magiere next. The captain’s eyes fixed briefly on Brot’an, then Leesil, and finally on herself. He looked her over as if he knew her, though she’d never seen him before now.
“You made it,” he said bluntly. “Don’t bother complaining about the food or the cabins. No one will listen.”
He turned abruptly and headed toward the prow.
“Charming,” Leesil said, raising one feathery eyebrow, and then he sighed as he glanced out to sea. “I won’t be keeping my food down anyway.”
Magiere was worried about more than Leesil’s ongoing seasickness. Something here felt wrong.
“I am sorry,” Wayfarer said. “This was our only choice.”
Altering her expression, Magiere patted the girl’s back. “You did well in finding us anything at all.”
Still, as the crew prepared to set sail, something nagged at Magiere . . . as if she and her companions should leave this ship right there and then.
Chapter Eight
Sailing down the coast on The Thorn, Wynn couldn’t arrange another private moment with Osha until they neared the port of Oléron. It didn’t happen the way she expected.
Early one evening, after Chane rose from dormancy and went up on deck, Wynn was alone with Shade in their cabin. She took time to herself to jot notes in a journal, though she no longer recorded anything too critical. The dangerous, important things she dictated to Shade or shared by showing the dog her recalled memories. Shade, as a majay-hì and more, locked those secrets away inside herself beyond anyone’s reach.
Wynn stuffed the journal away in her pack and stood up to stretch. “Come, Shade.”
Out in the passage, she led the way to the stairs and up on deck to check on her other companions. Pausing in the aftcastle doorway, she was surprised to find Chane and Nikolas sitting side by side on two barrels, with mugs of tea beside each of them. They were intently perusing a text that Chane had brought along, likely one that Kyne had forced on him for his studies.
“No,” Nikolas said, pointing at the current page. “This symbol is quite different. If you break down the strokes of its construction according to the methods of the Begaine Syllabary, the Numanese word here is ‘confusion.’”
“Why not use the previous symbol?” Chane asked.
“Because that one reads ‘puzzlement.’ Strokes and marks in a symbol for a word are meant for sounding out that particular word . . . and the term meanings are not what the syllabary is about.”
Wynn’s gaze fixed on Chane’s red-brown hair hanging forward to almost block one eye. Seeing him slightly hunched over that book swept her back to when she’d first met him.
She’d been helping Domin Tilswith, her mentor at the time, in starting a tiny new guild branch in Bela. The branch was the first of its kind in the Farlands of the eastern continent. They’d been given an old decommissioned barracks no longer used by the city guard. Chane often came at night to drink mint tea and pore over historical texts brought over half the world to that place. Sometimes he’d seemed starved for intelligent or at least educated companionship, and Wynn had been secretly flattered by a handsome young nobleman spending so many evenings with her.
At that time Wynn had no idea who—what—Chane Andraso was.
Vneshené Zomrelé . . . “Noble Dead” . . . vämpír . . . vampire . . . undead.
That felt like a lifetime ago, though their pasts could never be erased. Not his for his victims and enemies; not hers for what she had done since returning to the guild.
Neither Nikolas nor Chane appeared to have noticed her.
Though the young sage still had dark circles under his eyes, for once, while assisting Chane, he didn’t look so bleak and lost.
Chane might be an undead, once a predator of the living. He could wield a sword as if it were part of his hand, and he dabbled in minor conjury of the elements as well, but at his core he was a scholar. No matter what he did—had done—Wynn knew this, and she could never forget it.
Then she noticed that Osha was nowhere to be seen. She pulled back, forcing Shade to retreat down the steps. At Shade’s huffing grumble, Wynn didn’t stop to explain. She headed down to the lower passage and the farther door of Osha and Nikolas’s shared cabin. After a brief hesitation, she knocked.
“Osha?”
“Here,” he called in an’Cróan Elvish.
She cracked the door, peeked inside, and asked, “Are you all right?”
Osha was sitting on the cabin floor with his legs folded and his back against the left-side bunk. Tonight his white-blond hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a leather thong. The effect made his tan elven face appear more triangular than usual. But he didn’t look at her at first.
On the floor before him was a candle. By the way its wick smoked, sending a thin trail curling into the air, it had just been snuffed. Osha finally looked up, as if he had been watching that candle, and he nodded to her.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “The young sage looked better tonight, so I left him on his own . . . allowing some privacy for both of us.”
“Oh, of course,” Wynn said, backing out.
“Not privacy from you,” he added.
It was short, startling, direct, and so unlike the Osha she remembered.
Still uncertain, she stepped in, holding the door until Shade followed and flopped on the cabin floor near the right-side bunk.
“Sit,” Osha told her, gesturing to the other bunk across the room by Shade.
Wynn tensed slightly as she settled there facing Osha. This small cabin again reminded her of when she and he had sailed down the eastern coast of the far continent and away from his people’s l
ands. They’d often sat upon the floor to talk. It had seemed so normal then, unlike now.
For a silent moment, Osha stared at the trail of smoke from the candle’s wick. He suddenly thrust out one finger, appearing to split the trail in two and dissipate it. He sat there, hand still held out with his finger extended as the smoke finally thinned and was gone.
Wynn again saw the burn scars on his hand and wrists.
From where he left off in his tale, she might have made guesses about where those scars had come from—and she didn’t want to guess. She wanted the rest of his story, but she couldn’t quite find the way to ask.
“You wish to hear more,” he said bluntly.
He was not at all like the Osha that she had known, but that part of him was still in there somewhere—it had to be. She nodded.
A flash of something passed across Osha’s features. Had it been sadness, perhaps the thought that she was here only to learn his secrets? Then it was gone, as if he didn’t care what brought her to him.
“There I was,” he said, “standing before the portal of the Burning Ones. . . .”
• • •
The white metal doors separated, swinging outward to grind across the cavern’s level stone. A wall of heated air rushed out to strike Osha’s face and body as the cavern’s temperature rose sharply under a stench like burnt coal.
He choked as hot air filled his lungs.
From the last and only time he had been here, he had known this was coming. He stood there, waiting for his body to adjust. After a few more breaths, drawing hot air was still painful but bearable, and he looked through the open doors, raising his torch high.
Beyond stretched a wide passage, and the deeper he looked, the darker it became. There were glistening points of light on its craggy walls, likely from minerals in the stone, for the heat was too much for any moisture. Slipping his blade back into the sheath up his sleeve, he still lingered. Should he strip off his cloak and leave it behind? No, that might be taken below as a sign of disrespect for the covenant between the Anmaglâhk and the Chein’âs. He should be fully and properly attired as a member of the caste.
