Emissary- Beasts of Burden

by Silas Post

  “I doubt anything like it has ever existed. It is rare and it is holy. I understand the illegality of an item like this, and I fear criminality has dismantled its marketability. Here, that is. Perhaps a buyer lies in larger cities?”

  “Not in the usual course,” he replied. “But a black market endeavor could reap a pleasant reward.”

  “That wouldn’t offend you?” I asked.

  “To violate the edicts of a kingdom gone mad with its own war powers?” he asked. “No, I should say not.”

  “The pendant is yours in exchange for what follows. Two women accompany me about whom you will ask no questions. I will help take back your boat under the cover of night. We will retrieve the girls from the shore outside the city. Then we sail to Okkor’s Isle where you leave us and the tentacled cargo suffering on the deck of your trawler.”

  “Wait, you’ve seen my boat then,” he said. A moment’s confusion crept across his face, but he dispelled it quickly with another sip of rotka. “That creature—”

  “Is a woman, like others I have met and cared for,” I said. “This pendant is worth ten times the price you would charge for her flesh.”

  “I caught her through my own patience and skill,” he said. “She is my cargo to sell.”

  “I will take her from your boat,” I said, “but you will have your livelihood back and a happy sack of gold on top. Otherwise, she remains in Wick’s possession, not yours.”

  “Prince Wick.” Dineel spat on the floor before taking another swig of his rotka. “Prince Wick is a fecking joke!” he yelled. His flagon was still half full of the potent spirit, yet his mind was overflowing with it.

  “Again, friend. Your volume.”

  He raised his stein, sloshing rotka over its rim and down the side. “Prince Wick—”

  The door to the tavern burst open and a man entered as Dineel made his grand pronouncement.

  “—can go and—”

  The man stepped forward, his suit of polished steel armor catching a silvery gleam from the candles and torches that lit the tavern’s tables and walls.

  “—feck a pestilent horse!” Dineel concluded, his voice reaching a triumphant crescendo and his legs propelling upward so that when he slammed his free hand flat against the table he acted from added height, silencing the room with the loud smacking of skin on wood.

  “Can he now?” the man at the door asked, stepping away from the doorframe to allow a handful of other men to enter behind him. They wore the telltale green tunics of the royal army beneath their chainmail.

  A murmur overtook the tavern. The man at the door stared coldly as Dineel’s back stiffened.

  “Prince Wick,” Dineel said, turning to face his liege. “I… I…”

  “What is your name?” the prince asked.

  “Dineel. Dineel Bevor.”

  “Of course,” Wick said. “Yours is a name I learned earlier this day. You are the owner of the fishing vessel laden down with today’s catch despite my clear orders to discard your cargo and relinquish that which the crown has claimed.”

  “Yes, your highness,” Dineel said.

  Wick stepped toward the center of the tavern and drew his sword. Like his brother Taron’s, it was an impressive blade with a central vein of black that ran from its tip to its hilt. Unlike Taron’s, it was four inches wide, and likely all the heavier due to the metal that doubled its girth.

  “You see,” Dineel said, his eyes fixed on the sword’s sharp point. “I was en route further south but I pulled into port because a storm riled the water’s waves further out. Can’t be too careful, a man like me with no crew to help him steer.”

  He paused, but Wick did not speak. His eyes bore into Dineel’s as Wick’s grip on his greatsword tightened.

  “The royal pronouncement is valid,” Dineel said. “Of course it is, but perhaps it should not be applied to me in this particular instance. I was never meant to land in Telapa.”

  “But you are here now,” Prince Wick said. “Your ship is mine to do with as I please.”

  Before Dineel could open his mouth to protest further, Prince Wick stabbed him through the chest. The blade emerged through Dineel’s back where it pointed at my nose from across our shared table.

  The black vein that ran the length of that weapon gleamed as rivulets of fresh blood ran down the metal. It shimmered with a sinister heat, radiating a mirage of rippling darkness that churned my stomach and riled a hidden fury in me the longer I looked at it.

  Dineel Bevor yelled out in pain and the prince pulled his sword free just as quickly. He grabbed Dineel by the shirt to hold him aloft, wiped the blood from both sides of the blade in a smear of dark red upon Dineel’s shoulder, then sheathed the oversized blade in his scabbard and let go.

  Wick’s victim was dead on the floor a second after.

  His brother Taron would have played with Dineel first, perhaps pretending to forgive or even befriend him, then dramatically reverse his sentiment and feign regret over the fate he had in mind for his royal subject. Wick had none of the pomp or theatrics.

  “Pile his cargo and burn it,” the prince said, looking back at his men. “That is, after you have drank your fill. We have work to do, but I am not unreasonable.”

  When Prince Wick glanced back at his men, I swiped Redelia’s pendant from the table and prayed silently that the royal hadn’t noticed the glowing aura that revealed its divine nature.

  The sound of that gem scraping the table’s surface drew Wick’s attention. He leaned close and peered into my eyes. He traced the outline of my face with his gaze, frowning when he inspected my beard. “Have I seen you before?”

  “I am confident not,” I said. “Unless the name Humbert Carver strikes a chord?”

  Wick squinted and sucked at his teeth.

  “No,” I said. “I have never been in your presence, Prince, nor have I visited Telapa before. I have been on the road some time and word of this war and the boats the kingdom commands is all news I have just learned this past hour.

  “Might I inquire,” I ventured, emboldened by the scent of alcohol even if not by its taste, “what use the royal army has for Telapa’s merchant cargo?”

  “The cargo is inconsequential,” he replied. “It is the cargo ships we claim. One must pick up before one can drop off.”

  He lifted the stein of Dineel’s rotka toward the other bar-goers, which the tavern’s patrons matched by lifting their own flagons. He took a long sip without wincing at the vile flavor or sickening burn of fermented cod viscera, yet when he placed the flagon on the table’s surface he gave me a serious look and spared only a few words. “This,” he said, “is miserable.”

  “I shall clear it away,” I promised. “The table is yours, your highness.”

  The tavern’s other men and women returned to their drinks, crowded now by the number of Wick’s men that poured into the front door seeking libations to brighten their night and lighten their load. I rose from the table, abandoned it to the prince, and disappeared into the density of the tavern’s crowd with a half-flagon of rotka and a heart filled with dread.

  7

  The narrow streets of Telapa has a spacious feel at night, with so many shuttered windows and locked doors holding the city’s denizens tight and leaving the dirt-paved paths for me to walk alone. Only the occasional Telapan guard strolled past, but with my face obscured by beard and shadow, I worried less about being noticed than I did about my own mounting failure.

  The metal gates that had welcomed me through the city’s walls were fastened shut now, imposing an early curfew I had not anticipated. Except for the open sea to the west, whose stringent waves crashed louder now than before, I was boxed in while Rikki and Jarah were boxed out.

  And yet, where people lived under rules they cared to avoid, someone had charted this dilemma before. There must be a way in or out of the city, even if it remained unknown to me. What I needed was a local mind of resourceful bent, a man or woman accustomed to finding the ways hidden amon
g the means.

  Better yet, I needed a child.

  With a newfound hope adding spring to my heels, I walked with haste toward the plaza at the intersection of the city’s longest roads.

  I could not flaunt the pendant that attracted the child-thief’s attention earlier that day; it was illicit and would attract the wrong attention. The tiny pickpocket might not know better, attracted by the jewel’s alluring gleam without foreknowledge of his inability to pawn the item afterward.

  I secured a bench for myself in the central plaza on the far side from the parchment sketch of Victor Coin and its proffered reward.

  Swirling a mouthful of rotka was a nauseating affair, but one I endured to drench my breath in the distinctive scent of inebriation. Sprawling lazily across my bench with the amulet chain dangling from my pocket and a near-empty flagon resting in my half-limp hand, I squinted my eyes to give the appearance of a man firmly under the spell of stiff drink.

  There was risk in this. Public intoxication and vagrancy were offenses to the public order, and my lingering for too long a time could land me in a jail cell for the night. Still, it was a risk worth taking.

  Nearly an hour passed, with only a single guard nudging me with his nightstick. I mumbled a promise to leave before midnight. That seemed to satisfy the man. He shuffled away after that, his orange tunic disappearing around the other side of King Corrow’s metallic likeness, and then I was again alone.

  Each roach that skittered across the dirt gave me a false hope that a different little visitor might approach, but I maintained this act all the while. My trenchant need for a final success and worry that it might not come were enough to prevent my drooped eyelids from sealing into slumber.

  Finally, a rustle. A bush behind the bench held movement and noise, though slight. A blurred form appeared before me, crouched low and reaching its tiny hand toward the chain that draped from my pocket.

  As his fingers prepared to curl around that metal filament I snatched his wrist and leapt from my bench, tossing the flagon and its contents into the bushes while I lifted the boy well off his feet by the loose fabric at the front of his shirt.

  “Let me go!” he whispered, failing to pry my fingers from his dirty clothes.

  “You tried to rob me while I slept,” I said.

  “Not so loud,” the boy said, his voice still low for a boy so panicked. “Pa won’t fetch me from the guards again if I get caught so quick.”

  “Your father sets you to steal and scurry like a rat snatching crumbs for his dinner?”

  “He’s not my father.” The boy kicked at me but the tips of his worn shoes barely grazed my chest. “He’s my master. Please.” He started to cry then, a pitiable combination of quick squeaks and long disjointed rasps of sharp breath.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  He shook his head while his cheeks moistened with fresh tears.

  “Mine is Victor,” I said. “I don’t want trouble for you, lad. I want your help. I need to sneak into the city two people who wait outside its southern wall. Surely a fledgling thief like you has knowledge of tunnels beneath the city’s wall or a guard who might be easily plied to open the gates and close his eyes.”

  “I don’t,” he said. His voice still squeaked and rasped as he cried and tried to squirm free.

  “There’s a silver shilling in it for you.”

  He stopped kicking at my mention of payment, sniffling as his tears halted their progression down his face and his breathing calmed.

  “Show me,” he said.

  “Shrewd boy,” I said, still holding him aloft by the front of his shirt. With two coins at my disposal, I risked the more valuable on this exchange, plucking the silver shilling from my pant pocket and leaving the copper farthing behind. I held payment close enough for the boy to see, but far enough that he couldn’t snatch it away.

  “The whole shilling?” he asked. “It’s not a trick?”

  “You poor child,” I said. “I don’t know what deception you’ve fallen prey to in the past, but I assure you none will come from me. You could come with us, my ladies and me. There might be a better life for you outside the city walls. An honest life. A childhood.”

  A faraway look fogged his eyes for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I can’t go. If Pa catches a runaway, there’s never much left of them when he’s done. I’ll take the shilling though.”

  “It will be yours to keep.”

  “There might be a way,” he said. “You’ll have to follow me, and quiet. The guards don’t much like me, and they sure won’t like any adult I’m with.”

  “I trust your pecuniary motivation enough to pursue your direction thusly.”

  “You what?” he asked.

  “I’ll do as you say,” I said.

  “Oh. I’m Wolly.”

  “Thank you, Wolly. Lead the way.”

  The boy clung to the shadows, speeding along the edge of the buildings that faced the road and slipping down alleys after. He seemed to sense which cross streets would bear guards down their length, slowing to a casual stroll when he came within their view and then racing off again on a winding path through the port city.

  The result was an hour-long trek that took a circuitous path, but it was one that drew not a single wary glance our way. We stopped at a stone wall on the city’s south end, well away from the sealed metal gate and the guards that stood sentinel beside it.

  “Shilling?” Wolly asked.

  “You haven’t done your part,” I said.

  His fingers traced the mortar surrounding the large gray stones that formed the wall ahead. One of those rocks shifted under his hand, then he jostled it loose. The stone was roughly the size of his head, as were the next three he pulled from the wall, opening a minor gap that looked onto the untamed grasses outside the city.

  “Now?” he asked.

  His eyes held worry and mistrust. I could not abuse his effort any further so I handed him the shilling and watched him return to the small hole he opened in the wall. Then, abruptly, he dove through it.

  A half-second of bewilderment later, I reached out to grab the boy and prevent his escape, gripping the waist of his trousers and slamming my shoulder against the wall ahead, my arm fully extending through the narrow opening he left behind.

  “Let go!” he yelled.

  “I gave you a shilling, boy!” I yelled. He started to cry again as he struggled, sending high-pitched squeaks into the quiet night and breathing in sharp, noisy rasps to refill his lungs.

  “I trusted you, Wolly,” I said, letting go of his pants and letting the boy stumble forward before his protestations could attract a nighttime guard. He scurried ahead in the grass until he caught his balance, stood at full height, and sprinted through tall grasses that nearly hid him completely.

  I cursed under my breath and felt around the aperture he opened. Those were the only loose stones, just wide enough for his young shoulders to fit, but room too little for me to exit through, let alone for the hulking frame of Jarah to use for an entrance.

  I poked my head through and looked around. “Jarah!” I whispered her name, but she was already on her way. Rikki emerged second, bolting toward me on all fours and parting the sea of grass around her.

  “Victor!” Rikki whispered when she came close. “Did you sell the pendant? Secure us passage to Jarah’s homeland?”

  “Neither,” I said. “But I did discover my status as a wanted man with a price on his back. I paid a boy my last shilling to sneak you girls into the city, but my trust was abused.”

  “A setback all around,” Jarah said, stepping to Rikki’s side. “I could throw Rikki over the wall, but she would be seen, and perhaps hurt by the fall, and of course I would be left alone for the guards to find.”

  “We have time to take the wall slow and quiet,” I said. “We’re out of options now but to climb it and hope to attract as little attention as fate allows.”

  Rikki stared at the high wall and its smooth, masonry, lacki
ng the degree of ledge and divot Redelia’s temple boasted. “I…” Rikki started. “No, we’re not climbing this. Absolutely no.” Her tail lashed the grasses behind her.

  “Peace,” I said. “We’ll sit and think together. If there is another way, calm and time may yet unearth it.”

  Rikki bleated at me and furrowed her brow. “I’m tired of waiting while the moon mocks my patience.” She folded her arms and marched away from us both.

  “Where is she going?” I asked.

  “To cool off?” Jarah replied. “We thought tonight would bring reunion, but perhaps we’ll need to sleep on a bed of wild grass while you keep working your way through the city. I suppose if you could pass us some sticky buns through this gap, it might soothe her frustrations somewhat.”

  “Jarah,” I said.

  “I know,” she replied. “Bakeries are not accustomed to late hours and your pockets are shallow on funds, but—”

  “Jarah,” I said again. “You should move.”

  She puzzled at me for a moment, then turned back. Rikki was a short distance away, charging headlong on all fours toward us. Her tail whipped back and forth, forcing the grass at either side of her to snap sharply as she trampled flat a path ahead.

  Jarah jumped back and I did the same, both of us on opposite sides of the wall but on the same side of necessity.

  When Rikki’s impenetrable horns contacted the wall’s base, the stones flew apart from the mortar that held them. Broken hunks of gray rock burst forward ahead of her, skittering along the dirt path and kicking up a cloud of brown dust. She continued to run at me, carried forth by sheer inertia, though her hooves did scrape at the ground to slow her arrival. At the last second, she leapt and tackled me so that we rolled together to a stop.

  Her lips were on mine in an instant. “That’s better,” she said, standing and pulling me up. “Except for the beard part. I want to nuzzle your cheek but my nose is sensitive and prone to tickle.”

  Jarah broke a few loosened stones away to enlarge the aperture enough to climb through. We were all in the city now — one problem solved. The destructive noise of our entrance, however, had served to spark a new dilemma. The deafening gong of a bell tower echoed nearby, and other defensive towers throughout the city started to ring their own, calling forth a disharmony that warned of crime if not downright invasion.