by Rob Scott
With that, David Johnson seemed to shimmer – he looked like he was under attack by a cloud of yellow and green insects. He stepped from the bicycle path into the snow and faded away.
CARPELLO’S WAREHOUSE
Brexan was about to give up for the night. She’d spent two days searching and she was tired and cross, and only the thought of food was keeping her from screaming her frustration aloud – when she spotted Carpello Jax himself, slinking along the side of one of the warehouses she hadn’t yet identified. He stayed in the shadows until he reached a window near the back. Huddling behind a pile of empty boxes, Brexan watched, but it was nearly half an aven before he moved back towards the pier. She ducked down low to the ground until he had turned the corner, then started to trail him, keeping her distance. This time she would be extra careful – no bumping into crates or scolding irritating children – the last thing she needed was a repeat of the Jacrys mission that had ended so ignominiously.
She followed the merchant through the sparse evening crowd, warm despite the cold night. She tried to work out what Carpello been doing back there – from what little she could see he had been eavesdropping at the window, but if that was his own warehouse, that didn’t make any sense at all – unless… the only thing Brexan could imagine frightening the fat man enough to make him run, weeping, in public, was someone trying to kill the rutter. Maybe that’s why Carpello was sneaking about his own warehouse.
She watched him cross the great bridge before she did the same and descended onto the lively northern wharf. He walked away from the waterfront and into a street Brexan recognised as running to the barracks in the old imperial palace. The city was well-lit here, much more brightly than on the industrial southern wharf: if people came to Orindale to enjoy the food, the wine and the Ravenian Sea, they came to the northern pier, where the aromas of different cuisines perfumed the air, lively bellamir music lifted the spirits and young people flocked, looking for love but willing to settle for lust: here there was a nightly celebration of life in the occupied city. If they came to do business, maybe to seek their fortunes in the shipping industry, they came to the southern pier.
Walking carefully to avoid her boots clattering on the cobblestone street – this was an affluent part of the city – she marked the house Carpello let himself into: a tall, well-built and obviously expensive townhouse. The intricate stone masonry and stained-glass windows made it an easy place to find again in the daylight. She took in as much of the street as possible as she muttered, ‘Now, I’ve got you, Carpello, you horsecock, and I am going to carve Versen’s name in your chest.’
She grinned to herself and retraced her steps back to the southern wharf, where she spent the night huddled by the same window Carpello had visited earlier that evening. She dozed from time to time, but heard nothing; by the time the sun rose over the docks she had about decided it was abandoned. Just as she was about to leave to find some food and tecan, she heard the brace on the dock-side door slide back. Someone was coming out.
She dived behind the shelter of the building and hustled down the alley, ducking behind the same boxes she had used to hide from Carpello, but no one passed her, so she ventured out from behind her makeshift blind and moved cautiously onto the waterfront. Even from a distance, she could recognise the gait of the man walking away from her: Jacrys or Lafrent, Prince Malagon’s spy and Lieutenant Bronfio’s murderer always carried himself as though he knew something no one else knew. So Sallax hadn’t killed him.
Brexan was cold and hungry herself, but she dared not move in that direction; Jacrys was sure to spot her; he had proven his skills in that arena. Instead, she decided to break into the warehouse: maybe she could discover what the spy was up to. As she stepped through the door, the black cloud that had been hovering in place over the harbour for the past Moon drifted back over the city, where it appeared to join forces with another, slightly smaller but the same threatening colour. The pair blew east, side-by-side, against the wind, as if they had been summoned.
Brexan moved quickly, scared that Jacrys would return soon. Peering through the window she could see the cavernous structure was empty, but at one end there were some rough doors; offices, maybe. Jacrys had left the main door unlocked. Brexan thought carelessness was not his style; now she was convinced he didn’t intend being away for long. She hurried towards the rooms at the back.
Sallax was in the second room she visited, immediately behind what looked like Carpello’s private office and, temporarily, at least, Jacrys’ living quarters. The big Ronan was sleeping, and even in the dim light thrown by a bedside candle, she could see that he looked much healthier than the last time they met. He had obviously been well fed, his hair had been cut and he had been given a shave. Most importantly, he no longer stank like a midden. Brexan smiled in relief and moved closer.
His body was bound across the chest and one shoulder with clean strips of heavy fabric – Jacrys had obviously treated the partisan’s injuries. She had thought him in disguise, bent over as if he were a wounded beggar, but seeing him bound up like this, she wondered if he had broken something coming over the Blackstones. Brexan marvelled at the strength of will that kept some people going. She wondered if she would have given up, but remembering her broken cheek and cracked ribs, decided to give herself more credit… perhaps she and Sallax were not so different after all. Suddenly she wanted very badly to take him away from Jacrys and this cold, damp warehouse. The tapestries on the walls and woven carpets on the floor did little to take the edge off the bitter cold; the Redstone would be far better for Sallax’s convalescence – not to mention getting him out of Jacrys’ grip. She had enough silver to stay on there at least another Twinmoon and in that time, she would nurse the big man back to health.
Her own transformation was complete: she had become a freedom fighter, just like Sallax, and Versen.
Sallax woke as she was severing the cords holding him down.
‘The girl,’ he started in a murmur, ‘the girl knew Sallax.’
‘Yes, Sallax,’ she replied softly. His injuries were obviously more than just physical. ‘I know you.’
‘The girl,’ he said again, watching her work.
Brexan sat on the edge of the bed, sheathed the knife and asked, ‘Do you want to come with me, Sallax? I have a warm room, with good food and soft blankets. You’ll be comfortable there.’
Sallax appeared anxious, uncertain how to respond.
Brexan glanced towards the chamber doorway. Nervous now, she tried not to show it in her voice. That might upset him. ‘We need to decide pretty quickly, though. All right? Will you come with me?’
‘The girl knew Sallax.’ He grimaced, as if sitting up would be a great struggle and then smiled when he realised nothing was holding him down.
‘I do know you, Sallax. I heard all about you from Versen. He spoke about you, all the time.’ He was too thin, but she would see to that. The venison stew at the Redstone would fatten him up. She would help him regain a sense of who he was, and how he had come to be in Orindale. Brexan didn’t know what could have turned Sallax’s mind to such paste – maybe he had encountered one of the wraiths Gabriel O’Reilly had described and instead of killing him, they had addled his mind.
‘Versen?’ Sallax reached for her. Brexan started to back away, thought better of it and leaned forward to take his hands.
‘Yes, Versen. I knew- I know Versen. He and I are close friends.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. This was no time to start crying; she had to get him up and out of this warehouse before Jacrys returned.
‘You know where Versen is?’
Her shoulders heaved, and she smeared away tears. ‘Yes, I know where Versen is.’
Sallax groaned as he lifted himself from the bed and swung his legs over the side. As he placed his bare feet on the carpet he began looking around the room for clothes. ‘It’s cold,’ he muttered.
‘You’re right. It’s too cold to take you all the way up there like that. You�
�ll make it without boots, though – I can get you new boots when you are up and about. Wait here. I’ll see what I can find in the other rooms.’
Brexan hustled into the spy’s room; there was no point in going about on tiptoes; Jacrys was still out buying breakfast. She spotted a bag left open beside the fireplace. Inside, she found a tunic, a finely woven shirt of quality wool with a delicate pattern stitched around the collar and across each wrist. ‘Fop,’ she said, her lip curling, and put it back. She found a wool blanket on the cot Jacrys had moved in front of the fireplace. ‘Sleeping in here with a blanket and fire blazing while Sallax freezes in the other room, motherless rutter,’ she scolded. The more she discovered about the spy, the less she liked him.
‘I wish you would leave my mother out of it,’ a soft voice said. ‘As for being a fop, what can I say? One has one’s vices. Some, like our good friend in the other room, enjoy fighting for a cause. Our benefactor, the good Carpello, well, he gets his pleasure from a young girl from time to time. Me? I like fine clothing.’ Jacrys stood in the doorway that separated Carpello’s office from the vast emptiness of the warehouse. He held two loaves of warm bread, a block of strong cheese, two sausages and a flagon of what smelled like tecan.
She drew her knife as she turned; this time there was no point pretending she was anything but an enemy. ‘I’m glad you brought in breakfast. I got hungry looking for you.’
‘Under orders from General Oaklen again, I assume?’ The spy placed his food on a broad walnut desk. ‘Is he still determined for you to retrieve that stone?’
Brexan smirked. Jacrys still had no idea the stone was lost in another world an eternity away.
‘What’s funny?’ Jacrys asked, drawing the dirk from his belt.
‘Nothing, Jacrys, or Lafrent, or whoever you are today, nothing except that you are going to have to travel much further than you could even imagine if you want to get that stone.’ She began circling, hoping she could be quick and ruthless as she had been fighting the Seron in the meadow on the Ronan border. There was no way out, except past Jacrys. She unfastened her cloak and let it drop to the floor.
‘I’m sorry to say that when I am finished with you today, my dear, there will not be much left for old General Oaklen to-’
She cut him off. ‘Oaklen didn’t send me, you arrogant dryhump.’
‘Oh, really?’ Jacrys didn’t appear to care. ‘Working on your own – a Ronan girl with a passion for freedom? A freedom even your grandparents never knew?’
‘I was one of Bronfio’s platoon. I saw you murder him.’
‘And I suppose you followed me all the way here to get revenge. Oh, but that is precious, my dear. You? A trained killer? Don’t make me chuckle. You should have died with the rest of that wretched platoon in Riverend Palace.’ He handled the dirk as if it were an extension of his own hand.
Brexan watched him, and tried to keep from looking frightened; he was obviously better than she with a short blade. The only chance she had was to defeat him mentally; beating him physically would need a stroke of exceptional luck.
‘Do you hope I’ll believe you are Prince Malagon’s top field agent?’ she asked, sneering. ‘Look at you – you’re a mess. I wonder if the prince knows you’re holding one of the Resistance’s top men as your private prisoner in a warehouse less than a quarter of an aven’s amble from where he himself is in residence… and you, living in a warehouse yourself? You are on your own, Jacrys, just like me. So stop trying to sell me a new ploughhorse; I’m full to here with your blather.’
Jacrys lunged, as Brexan had expected, and she calmly parried his attack and moved back, content to let Carpello’s desk stand between them for a moment.
‘Not bad, my dear.’ Jacrys circled again. He wasn’t breathing heavily; Brexan tried to mask her own, heavier, breathing. ‘Most of my opponents don’t survive even this long. Sad, isn’t it, that fighting with a short blade has become such a lost art. Too many have gone over to great heavy weapons, rapiers, and-’
Jacrys took the blow behind one ear and crumpled soundlessly to the floor beside the desk. Stepping over the spy’s legs, Sallax delivered another hefty blow to his temple. The spy’s body twitched several times before he lay still.
‘Is he dead?’ Brexan asked, retrieving the fancy tunic from the bag and helping Sallax into it.
Sallax shrugged and tossed his makeshift club – a table-leg, Brexan thought, towards the fireplace. She was pleased – and grateful – to see that he had not lost his skill.
She packed the breakfast Jacrys had so thoughtfully provided into another of the spy’s shirts and picked up the flagon. As she stepped over the spy’s body, she said, ‘You know, Jacrys, you are so right: fighting with a short blade is a lost art – just as well cracking someone’s skull with a piece of bedroom furniture just never seems to go out of style.’
She looked up at Sallax, who stared back at her, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had probably killed a Malakasian officer. ‘You’ll have to go without boots for now,’ she said, ‘his are too small for you, but I’ll get you some as soon as we get to the Redstone. Here, wrap that blanket round you too; it’s cold out there. Can you make it?’
‘Versen?’ Sallax asked.
‘Yes, I have news of Versen.’ Brexan uncorked the flagon with her teeth and took a drink. It was tecan, warm and tasty. She took another swallow, passed it to Sallax, who did likewise, and took him by the arm. ‘Come,’ she said calmly, ‘let’s get going.’
TRAVER’S NOTCH
‘That coffee smells great,’ Steven said, opening a saddlebag and rooting around for the last of the venison strips. ‘When I was driving from Charleston to Denver, I must have drunk three gallons of the stuff.’
Mark looked up from where he had been carefully pouring hot water through one of the filters Steven had stolen from Howard’s kitchen. ‘I can’t wait. I’ve grown so used to tecan, I’m worried I’ve lost my taste for it.’ On the outskirts of Traver’s Notch, a farm had provided milk, cheese, bread and vegetables to complement their venison. Mark had negotiated for a small metal pot for the brewing of coffee. Now he gripped the thin paper filter awkwardly between two fingers and trickled water slowly through the mound of ground coffee, trying to imitate the timing of their coffee maker at home. ‘It’s not the easiest thing in the world,’ he admitted, ‘but so far, it certainly smells like coffee.’
‘I think it smells like burned dirt,’ Garec said. ‘And you prefer this muck to tecan? Look at the colour of it!’
‘You need learn to have some faith, Garec,’ Steven said. ‘Just wait until you try some with a little milk and a few drops of that sugar extract Gilmour pretends he doesn’t carry in his tunic next to his three hundred pipes.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Garec,’ Mark said, ‘you want it barefoot.’
‘Barefoot?’
‘Exactly,’ Mark nodded, ‘as it comes, direct from the pot, none of that creamy, sugary nonsense, just insert the needle and open the IV.’
Garec looked askance at the foreigner. ‘I think Steven’s way sounds better,’ he said, ‘but neither sounds good!’
Gilmour broke in, ‘That aroma does bring back memories. My last cup must have been outside Gettysburg. Jed Harkness from Maine had a pot that brewed it right beside the fire, the water bubbled up in a little compartment, first clear, then brown and then almost black. It was wonderful…’ He sighed, and pulled his cloak close around his shoulders. It had grown noticeably colder in the days since they had resumed normal travelling, without the aid of what Garec had dubbed the Larion push. The ground was hard this morning and there was frost on the leaves and shrubs. The sky was slate-grey, and a glimmer in the southeast was all the sun they had seen that morning.
‘Don’t admit that, Gilmour,’ Mark said, ‘you’re showing your age.’
‘I am?’ He looked at Steven. ‘You’ve calculated the difference. How old would a two-thousand-Twinmoon grettan like me be in Colorado?’
Steve
n breathed a sigh through his nose. Mark recognised it: his maths sigh, a deep breath that said, there are numbers and figures lining themselves up inside my head, so don’t interrupt.
‘That’s about two hundred and eighty years old, Gilmour.’
‘Holy shit.’ Mark stopped pouring and stared at the former Larion Senator. ‘I have to apologise, Gilmour. The fact that you have any memories from your last visit at all is an impressive feat, never mind that they come from a time when my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother was still in nappies. And I am embarrassed for my world that this little cup of trail coffee is the first you’ll have to drink in a century and a half. I wish I could take you to the diner on I-84 just across the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge. That’s the best coffee in America. I used to run up there when I was on break from school just to get a mug. It took all day.’
‘If we ever get through this, I promise I’ll go with you for a cup.’ Gilmour forced a smile and rubbed his neck bruises absently.
‘Speaking of which,’ Steven changed the subject, ‘we’re about a Twinmoon early to meet Gita and the rest of the Eastern Resistance – when we made plans to meet in Traver’s Notch, we thought you were dead. We figured we might need them to get us across the border.’
‘Had I been dead, you would have needed them,’ Gilmour said. ‘But given our current situation, it’s just as well that she is rallying the remainder of the Falkan forces here, for if we do succeed in vanquishing Nerak, we’ll need a fighting force – however ramshackle they may be – to help with any pockets of occupation personnel who make the decision to stand fast.’
‘I think they would relish that assignment,’ Mark agreed. ‘So how do we get across the border?’
‘Magic, or if we don’t want to be noisy, we creep in after dark, between the pickets,’ Gilmour said. ‘It’ll be the only way – unless you fancy fighting your way through Malakasian soldiers whose sole purpose is to keep me – and Kantu, I suppose – from re-entering Gorsk.’
