Lessek_s Key e-2

by Rob Scott

  ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but once you do it, kill someone, they never leave you alone. Each of them – and I have killed many, Mark, I regret that I have – they never leave you.’ He struggled for the right words. ‘I think that’s why, when I finally took one, right in the ribs, it was a perfect shot. I should have died. If it hadn’t been for Steven, I would have died. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. Does that make sense? And with my second chance, I’m not going to be a killer. I can’t do it anymore.’

  ‘You’ve chosen a bad time to grow a conscience, Garec.’ Mark untangled the blankets and hauled himself to his feet. He looked dreadful. His sweater was stained a deeper red where his neck had bled, and he had a dirty piece of cloth pressed against the wound; a bloody circle marked the centre of the patch like the perfect-score zone on an archery target.

  Mark grabbed Garec’s arm. ‘I am going to kill them, as many as we encounter, until one of them manages to kill me or until I go home to Colorado for ever,’ he said quietly, firmly. ‘Now, you don’t have to do anything, I am not demanding, but I am asking, as one who loved her, that you help me extract a bit of vengeance for her.’

  ‘You will regret it.’

  ‘I already regret it.’ With that Mark managed a smile, and Garec was truly afraid.

  ‘All right then. We’ll begin as soon as we put to shore. You can have my bow.’

  ‘I want to make my own.’

  ‘I’ll teach you how.’

  Brexan Carderic clung to an oak log, her improvised life preserver, and allowed the tide to drag her north through the Ravenian Sea. She had taken to the water after coming upon Malakasian pickets around their watch-fires, burning vivid orange against the steel-grey of the gathering dawn. Turning back to keep from being seen, the former soldier had dragged the lump of wood into the water and began swimming with it, hoping to pick up some sort of current that would take her far enough to avoid detection from the beach.

  The Twinmoon had passed, but Brexan, preoccupied with thoughts of Versen, the scarred Seron and the bloated merchant from Orindale, had no idea how long ago: though both moons still hung in the northern sky, they were obviously on their way south again. Now the twin orbs pulled the waters of the Ravenian Sea along fiercely enough that Brexan had to hold hard to the log. She stopped kicking, saving her strength for the long swim back to shore.

  Once the pickets were far behind her, she steered the log towards the beach, watching as several large warehouses came into view. Feeling confident as the shoreline grew closer, Brexan let go of the log and began swimming towards a patch of swampy rushes bent with the morning tide. It was a mistake. She had underestimated both the distance, and the toll the cold water had taken on her. The log was already out of reach.

  Brexan’s limbs felt heavy, useless; to counter the shivering she started treading water. ‘Stupid, stupid fool,’ she scolded herself, ‘you had to go and make this so much harder than it needed to be, didn’t you?’ She hadn’t eaten in days; only the sheer tenacity of her will had kept her moving so far. She hadn’t exactly determined to live yet, but there was Versen to be avenged. She had no idea how she would clothe and feed herself once she arrived in Orindale… maybe a little prostitution – though she would need to improve her appearance. She couldn’t see people paying good silver for an emaciated, sunken-eyed, starving deserter in rotting clothing and no shoes.

  No, it would have to be theft: she would steal what she needed to get herself aright and after she had avenged Versen – killed, and killed again the fat businessman who had been the cause of her grief – she would try to find Versen’s group, Gilmour and Steven, Mark and the Ronan woman, Brynne. Joining their fight would bring her closer to Versen; that way she might find friendship, even if his death had denied her love.

  But that was for the future: now, she needed to get to shore.

  Brexan focused her fast-dwindling strength on moving east, towards the swampy area south of the wharf. She distracted herself from the encroaching cold by watching Orindale’s waterfront day begin. Military and merchant vessels moved through the harbour in an oddly regimented pattern; on the wooden wharf stevedores hauled nets and worked block-and-tackle cranes. Pilot boats bustled about, while sailing vessels and heavy barges moored up, reefed sheets and either took on or began unloading cargo.

  As she drew slowly closer, she caught sight of a familiar vessel, anchored offshore: the schooner she and Versen had escaped from, the Falkan Dancer. With its sails neatly reefed, its rigging taut and its brass polished, the ship didn’t look like a death ship, a slaver, a traitor’s vessel. With sunshine on her spars and the vestiges of morning fog billowing across the waterline, the schooner seemed almost mystical, a vessel on which to escape with a lover for a Moon’s passage through the northern archipelago or a holiday cruise to Markon Isle, maybe.

  But Brexan knew better, and warmth spread through her as she growled, ‘I am going to gut you, you rutter.’

  The swim ashore suddenly felt manageable, but even so, it was a long time before she reached the protective cover of the rushes and collapsed in the foetid mud. Just a few paces up the eroded bank Brexan spotted what looked like a dry patch of ferns rimmed by a thick circlet of brambly ground cover, looking soft and safe: a place to rest for an eternity. But Brexan didn’t have the strength to heave even her tiny frame up the muddy slope; instead, she used the rushes to pull herself out of the water, peered around to be certain no one had seen her, and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  She woke to feel the prickle of cedar twigs alongside her face; twitching her nose, Brexan recoiled at the smell and sat up with a start. The sun had dried the exposed layers of her clothing, but she was lying on wet homespun and several handfuls of marsh mud had turned her hair into a stinking clay sculpture. Brexan braced herself with one hand and winced.

  ‘Oh, pissing demons, that hurt,’ she swore as she found several cedar thorns lodged in her palm. She pulled them out, looked around, and realised to her surprise that she had somehow moved up the muddy slope and into the fern bed. ‘How did I get up here?’ She searched the forest, then looked down the short hill to the marshy area where she had come ashore.

  ‘I guess I must have-’ she started, then stopped. There was a rustling below; and she saw a shadow, furtive and quick, moving to the shelter of a nearby evergreen bush.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Brexan called as she sprang to her feet, trying not to groan as over-used muscles protested. She reached for the knife she had last used to kill the scarred Seron, but it wasn’t there. She looked about on the ground, but she couldn’t see it there either.

  She turned back to the stranger and, emboldened by fear and anger, shouted, ‘Come out here, right now. I appreciate the lift out of the mud, but I am in no mood to deal with this nonsense.’

  Shaking, Brexan forced her hands into her tunic belt, hoping to steady her fingers. ‘Come out, now!’

  A low growl emanated from the bushes and Brexan felt her stomach turn. She thought for a moment of fleeing, trying for the Ravenian Sea: few pursuers would follow her there. Instead, she thought of Versen, felt for the warm strength of his hand in hers. She almost reached for him, before recalling that she was on her own these days. She took a determined step towards the bush, picking up a tree branch as she moved. It was too long and too bulky to be much use, but it might keep her anonymous assailant from tackling her to the ground.

  ‘Are you one of Malagon’s men?’ she called again.

  A second growl preceded another rustling of leaves and Brexan watched in horror as a hideous man took shape before her, stooped at the waist and covered head to heels in a torn and stained cloak. The stranger didn’t make eye contact at first. Instead, brandishing Brexan’s knife, he looked all around, assessing both her and the surrounding forest. His face was contorted by pain or rage – Brexan couldn’t decide which – and his clothes, splattered with mud and blood, were apparently rotting off his body. Bits of food of some sort congealed a
t the corners of his mouth; his fingernails were blackened and broken.

  His stoop appeared to be the result of a back injury or a damaged shoulder, for though he pulled himself upright for a few moments, towering over Brexan, he soon returned to his crouch with a grunt of relief.

  Brexan leaned forward, too terrified to move any closer, but still determined to get a clear view of the foul-smelling stranger. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked, timidly, her voice cracking in fear.

  He looked into her face, just for a passing moment – but it was enough.

  ‘Sallax?’ Brexan whispered. ‘Sallax Farro? Is that you?’

  A look of genuine surprise passed across his face, then, slipping Brexan’s knife inside his cloak, he was gone.

  ‘Wait,’ Brexan shouted, ‘come back here! You have my knife! Sallax!’ Putting fear to one side, she chased after him, pulling up short when she passed by the bush where he had been hiding. She was immediately assailed by an amalgam of smells left in the former partisan leader’s wake: sweat and swamp mud, tangy rotten meat and spoiled milk hit Brexan’s empty stomach and sent her reeling. The former soldier almost fainted, overbalancing into a soft fern-covered depression.

  When the nausea wore off, she decided clothing, boots and something substantial to eat were urgent, then she could track Sallax and find out what had happened. The sweet aroma of broken ferns washed away the lingering traces of Sallax and she took a moment to savour the fresh scent, wondering why he appeared to have been so horribly afflicted – and why he seemed to be carrying the contents of a compost heap around in his cloak. Questions for later: he must be in disguise, perhaps working his way into the city via some trash barge along the river.

  Less than two avens later, Brexan was pulling on a pair of polished leather boots and tucking the flared ends of her new leggings in. She used a piece of sack-cloth to dry her hair, though not very successfully, so she decided to spend the remainder of the day eating and drinking, as close to a tavern fire as she could get without melting.

  Outfitting herself had been easier than she had expected; lined with waterfront pubs and shops, the Orindale wharf was such a hive of activity that few people took notice as she made her way along the plank walkway into the city. She had straightened her clothes and cleaned off as much of the mud as possible. And while it would have taken no more than a cursory look to detect the miserable condition of her tunic and hose, no one was interested.

  It hadn’t taken long to find a likely victim: the number of ships moving in and out of Orindale meant finding a seaman, roughly Brexan’s size, was an easy task. The youngster Brexan chose had made his way straight into the nearest tavern, dropped his sea-bag beneath the bar and ordered a bottle of beer, a pot of breakfast stew that had smelled so good Brexan wondered if she might steal that as well, and a loaf of freshly baked bread.

  After he had finished his third bottle of the cheap Falkan brew, Brexan, watching from the corner where she’d slumped in an apparent doze, decided it was time to strike. She made her way confidently through the tavern’s front room, lifted an empty tray from the mantel and collected up a number of empty bottles and mugs. As she slid the full tray onto the bar, she quietly hefted the bag from its place on the floor and moved quickly through the kitchen as if she had every right to be there.

  Without slowing her pace, she hurried out the back, through the alley and back into the forest, where she stripped off the clothes she had stolen in Estrad and ran down to the sea.

  While she scrubbed the dirt from her face and hair, Brexan wept. Any memory of Versen, any lasting impression from his touch, or his lips against her skin, was gone now, scrubbed clean in the bitter salt water. Finally she climbed from the sea, pale and shivering, and donned her stolen clothes, clothes not stained with Seron blood, but also with no trace of Versen’s distinctive scent of woodsmoke and herbs.

  Now Brexan said out loud, firmly, ‘He’s gone. Let him go. You have things to do.’ She slumped as choking sobs took her again. It would be a long time before she could follow her own advice. For now, though, safe in the coastal forest south of Orindale, Brexan let the sadness overwhelm her again.

  *

  Later, Brexan sat near the fire at a tavern several streets back from the waterfront. The front room began to fill as the dinner aven approached, but Brexan barely heard the rise in chatter; it was toneless background noise. Instead, she stared into the fire, the low embers casting a glow across her table that reminded her of Pellia and her family. What would they have thought of Versen? A Ronan, a freedom fighter, he might not have made a good first impression, but the big man’s curious sense of humour and stalwart commitment to his values would have won over her family as they had her.

  Behind her, a musician began strumming a few chords on a bellamir and Brexan woke from her reverie. She gnawed at a gansel bone, more for something to do than hunger. A bowl of stew and bread had preceded a brace of roast gansel legs, washed down with a bottle of good Falkan wine and followed by cheese. It had been too long since she had eaten: feeling stuffed to bursting with hot food and good wine was a feeling she had almost forgotten.

  Whenever the fire died down, she summoned the barman. She was tired of being cold too.

  As she took a long draught from her wine goblet, Brexan felt the warm, dizzy sensation of incipient drunkenness wash over her. Her vision blurred and tunnelled pleasantly as she stretched her feet out towards the fire, warming the soles of the seaman’s boots, padded with handfuls of sack-cloth to fit her small feet. The sailor had been paid three silver pieces for his last voyage: he had made the fortuitous – for Brexan – mistake of tucking the coins into his sea bag. With that much silver, Brexan would be able to live comfortably in Orindale for the next Twinmoon, with coin enough for a room and a new pair of boots from a real cobbler, not just some street vendor with lengths of tanned hide and a sewing needle.

  Slowly, a plan began to emerge through the comfortable stupor: she would find lodgings; she needed to do that tonight, but there would be plenty of choice. Tomorrow, boots, her first pair since enlisting in the Malakasian Army… and a skirt, a heavy wool skirt, loomed wool, not the ratty homespun she had been wearing for the past Twinmoon. She would linger over the process, trying whatever caught her fancy, and then buying real women’s clothes, from a high-class city shop. If it took all day, that would be fine. She would shop and she would think of Versen and she would end the day here again, here beside this same fire.

  And tomorrow evening, she would work out how to find Sallax, and the owner of the merchant schooner moored out in the harbour. Sallax she would talk to. The merchant – him, she would disembowel, then cut his heart out.

  Brexan smiled to herself. She had a plan.

  IDAHO SPRINGS

  Steven pulled the cap down over his ears and wrapped his face and neck in the scarf. Bright sunshine and dry mountain air gave the illusion of unseasonable warmth, and to passersby the hat-and-scarf combination might look a bit excessive, but he had to ensure he was not recognised by anyone. The bus had dropped him off, the only passenger exiting in Idaho Springs, on the east side of town, and there was no way to avoid using main roads.

  With nine blocks to go, he crossed a road to avoid a family dressed in matching ski-jackets, then, anticipating a straight shot home through the relatively quiet residential part of town, he nearly ran over Mrs Winter, the elderly woman who owned the pastry shop next to the bank.

  ‘Oh, geez. Sorry, Mrs W,’ Steven said before he could stop himself, grabbing the surprised older woman by the shoulders in a clumsy effort to keep her from falling to the snowy sidewalk.

  Thankfully, Mrs Winter didn’t hear very well. ‘You should watch where you’re going young man,’ she scolded, but Steven was already hurrying away at a run. ‘Young man!’ Mrs Winter cried at his back, ‘young man, that was very rude of you!’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs W,’ Steven murmured to himself as he paused to catch his breath. He looked up the hillside to where Oh My Gawd Road ra
n, hundreds of feet above the floor of Virginia Canyon. It was named for the reaction of most travellers: Oh My Gawd Road was still dirt for much of its length, and there were no barriers along the circuitous route to the old mining town of Central City. He and Mark had cycled it once; Steven remembered fondly Mark groaning his displeasure at the gruelling climb to eleven thousand feet. ‘Just for the record,’ he’d rattled through shallow gulps of thin air, ‘I think this form of travel sucks. Next time, we’re taking the bus or a plane or a frigging space shuttle; I don’t care.’

  Steven smiled at the irony: if only his roommate had known that day the various forms of travel he would be using in the coming months, he might have allowed himself to enjoy the bike trip. Who knew the pair would be travelling across the Fold, whatever that was, on horseback through the coastal forests of Rona to Seer’s Peak, on foot through the Blackstones, and then drifting through Meyers’ Vale on the Capina Fair?.

  He grinned. One day he would drag Mark back up that canyon and into Central City to celebrate with a night at the tables, the city’s main attraction. As his thoughts drifted, he slowed to a distracted walk. Something was tickling at the back of his mind: something was wrong. Travel. What about travel? He turned and stared back up Virginia Street. Mrs Winter was gone, most likely sweeping the snow from the steps in front of her shop by now. Travel. He had travelled; he had come a great distance, though he had no idea how far he was from Eldarn now – a million miles? A few inches?

  That wasn’t it, it wasn’t Eldarn. It was South Carolina: he had come from South Carolina and the trip, without real sleep and only a few stops for gas and food, had been as gruelling a journey as the bike ride through Virginia Canyon last July.

  What was it? Steven unwrapped the scarf from around his face and drew his first unfiltered breath of Idaho Springs air.

  The Larion far portal in his house was closed. Steven stopped dead. He had been so distracted by events at the airport, and hurrying so fast across the United States that he hadn’t thought about where he had arrived: the far portal had to be closed, otherwise he would have come from Eldarn straight to his living room. Someone – and much as he hated the idea, he had to accept it was someone after Hannah, as she was obviously there now – but someone had come into his house and closed the portal. Who would that have been? Her mother, Jennifer? But there had been a pile of unread newspapers on her front lawn; maybe Jennifer Sorenson was in Eldarn too?