She swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth, her stomach threatening to heave. Her face pressed into her hands, she breathed, quelling the horror. Farther down the channel, the bulbous eyes of a crajek glided near. She turned on her heel, climbed the hummock, and found another place to dig her fire pit.
***
Gannon stretched the kinks out of his back, his wounds healed, and the weight of sorrow replaced with fury’s vigor. He dabbed a mask of mud onto his face and smeared it over his hands, exposed neck, and ankles. A knife in his belt and spear in his hand, he slithered up the side of a hummock after Jafe. Jagur squatted among the roots of a giant caliph, and Raker crept in a crouch around the back of a Cull Tarr camp.
This time they’d take survivors. Gannon had viewed Catling’s slaughter or at least the end of it after the crajeks ate their fill. The sight had made for a quiet evening. That much power excited him, but all or nothing came with insurmountable drawbacks. How would someone test or hone such skill?
Jafe chirped like some strange insect Gannon hoped he’d never meet. During the past week, they’d snuck up on more than one batch of jacks. Men of the sea, the Cull Tarr’s knowledge and skills in the swamp bordered on pathetic. They got lost, mired, and stranded. River rats gnawed through their boats, and they endured snakebites and insect stings, attacks by crajeks, and the occasional deadly spider. For once, Gannon thanked the swamp for its many indescribable horrors.
He crawled up beside the rafter and peered over a log. A boat lay in the channel up to its thwarts in liquid light. Four men and a woman squatted on shore, attempting to light a fire in a world where every twig was damp if not sopping wet. Mud caked their boots and spattered their clothes. A dead crajek lay on its back on the ripped bank, and four live ones floated in the shallow water like bumpy logs with teeth.
“You see the crajek sink?” Jafe whispered.
Gannon squinted at the channel. A creature’s nostrils disappeared below, bubbles popping to the surface.
Jafe chuckled. “When it attacks, we will all be crajeks.”
The Cull Tarr muttered, their sparks refusing to catch. The crajek burst from the water with a speed making Gannon cringe. Powerful jaws snapped on the closest ankle. Panicked Cull Tarr shouted and pulled on the screaming man’s arms as the reptile dragged him toward the channel. The woman stabbed at the creature’s hard skull, the blade merely scoring the rough scale.
Jafe leapt from cover, howling. Gannon bounded up beside him and mimicked the war cry. Jagur advanced, shouting for surrender as Raker strode down the opposite bank toward the enemy, his spear poised for a throw.
The Cull Tarr reared at the new attack. Two let go of the man who tried to kick his ankle free, and the crajek pulled him deeper into the channel. Another creature clamped on the man’s flailing arm and rather than get pulled in, the woman let him go.
Jafe crashed through the ferns, leapt from the top of a mossy log, and crashed into a jack’s chest, the two tumbling into the channel. Jafe heaved from the water, bellowed, and pushed the man under. “Crajek!”
A Cull Tarr jack lunged for his bow. Gannon hurled his spear. It wobbled and hit the dirt shy of his target but thwarted the man’s attempt to retrieve his weapon.
“Kneel!” Jagur shouted from the bank’s ridge. “Drop your knives.”
Three jacks threw down their weapons and fell to their knees. Jafe waded from the water. The last Cull Tarr man scrambled after him and clawed his way to shore, terror spitting from his mouth with the bloody water. He scuttled on his hands and knees and joined the others.
“Tell us something interesting.” Jagur sat on the log as Raker crossed the channel to join them. The four jacks exchanged glances but didn’t speak. Jagur gestured to Gannon. “Feed one to the swamp.”
Gannon and Jafe twitched and tongues miraculously loosened. “The Shiplord speaks for the Founders,” a man said.
Jagur scowled. “Not good enough.” Gannon grabbed one arm, Jafe the other. They dragged the jack to the channel and threw him in.
The man struggled to his feet and clambered back toward shore until he met the butt of Raker’s spear. Trapped calf-deep in the water, the man raised his palms, words pouring from his lips. “The Shiplord is king of Ellegeance. The queen jumped from the tier and—”
“Liar!” Gannon shouted, the words knifing through him. “He killed her.” He drew his blade, keen to slit a Cull Tarr throat.
“Gannon!” Jagur ordered, stopping him. Gannon’s hand shook, the desire to kill overpowering. Despair leached through at the raw edges. The commander turned back to the panicky man in the water. “What else?”
“Crajek,” Jafe pointed out.
The jack’s eyes widened. “The Shiplord wants the influencer alive. He’s offering twenty gold coins.”
“How many of my men are held in Ava-Grea?” Jagur asked.
“None.”
“Crajek is coming,” Jafe warned them.
The panicked jack stepped toward shore. “They were sent to Elan-Sia to the slave markets.”
“Let him up,” Jagur snarled.
Raker stepped aside. The man leapt for shore and knelt in the mud.
“A few more questions,” Jagur said. “Are the influencers cooperating with your master?”
The man nodded. “They gave oaths.”
“What happened to the redheaded doyen who wore white?”
“She’s in Elan-Sia.”
Gannon blinked, but Jagur didn’t bat an eye. “Why? Why did the Shiplord want her? Why steal her?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s influencing the new slaves. That’s all we know.”
His hands on his thighs, Jagur swung to Gannon. “What should we do with them?”
Gannon studied his wretched captives, a swill of emotions shredding his insides. Even if the Shiplord hadn’t thrown Lelaine from the tier, he’d killed her. His stink lay all over her death. “We take their weapons and leave them here.”
“We’ll die.” The woman’s wide-eyed gaze darted between them.
“Interesting how that works.” Gannon collected their weapons and suffered not a scrap of remorse as he walked away.
Chapter Twelve
Kadan invited himself to the doyen’s meeting with the shipmaster simply by neglecting to leave the room when she arrived. Ambassador Linc hardly noticed, and though Dalcoran glanced his way, he said nothing. The tier cities roiled in uncertainty, the Shiplord unpredictable by Ellegean standards, rules morphing with each roll of the dawn. As influencer and high ward, Kadan was doubly vulnerable; he had a family and city to protect.
His role in the escape remained a mystery, or he would have hung from the tiers with a score of city guards and unfortunate dignitaries. Airon made his point regarding the cost of defiance. Kadan practiced obedience in Tull Airon’s presence, fed him with artful flattery and intelligence, and employed the placating skills he’d learned as a boy under the thumb of his Uncle Algar, a tyrant. He sat beside Dalcoran, his expression balanced between eager and placid.
Emer Tilkon stood with her feet planted and hands on her hips as if she owned the city, and with the Shiplord returned to Elan-Sia, she did. The sturdy woman in her skintight bodice and split skirt exuded sexuality but of a kind that would leave a man bruised. She eyed him over her hatchet nose, the scar on her upper lip lending her a countenance somewhere between a smile and snarl.
Two Cull Tarr jacks from the docks stood between the four that followed the shipmaster like loyal and lethal shadows. She tightened her eyes and swung toward them. “How many Cull Tarr idiots do we have hunting out there?”
“Over thirty,” the smaller man reported.
“How many still alive?”
The other jack licked his lips. “We don’t know, Shipmaster.”
“They don’t deserve the lives the Founders gave them. Thirty. And we can’t catch three fugitives.” She flicked her wrist at them. “Back to your duties.” The two men backed out, and the four guards t
ook positions by the door.
With a frown for Linc, she sat, crossed her legs, and cracked her knuckles. “Personally, I’d like to get my claws into Gannon and throttle his pretty little neck, but our settlements don’t build themselves. The slave trade requires slaves.”
“We appreciate your time, Shipmaster.” Dalcoran bowed. Brenna sat across a low table from Tilkon, coiled like a spring, and Neven served tea.
Dalcoran massaged his hands. “The Shiplord departed before we finished discussing the particulars of rule. We trust you are empowered to speak on his behalf.”
“I can speak for him if you ask the right questions,” she replied.
“Of course,” Dalcoran accepted a cup of greenleaf. “The Shiplord has our oaths, and we are his servants. As you might imagine, the tier cities’ high wards are anxious for direction. Influencers are prepared to step in to provide guidance and oversight. Our guild is committed to upholding peace and delivering prosperity to all of Ellegeance, a realm now under the Shiplord’s rule.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Tilkon studied her tea. “Is this pure?”
Neven bowed. “Of course, Shipmaster.”
She left it on the table, threaded her fingers together, and hooked her hands on her knee. “The Shiplord has decided to limit your services to Ava-Grea. He will send tier masters to the cities to guide the high wards.”
Dalcoran leaned forward, his forehead crimped. “Shipmas—”
“Let me tell you how this works, Doyen,” she said. “That way, we won’t waste each other’s time with conversation. First, the Shiplord decides the rules. If he isn’t available, the shipmasters are in charge. Then the ambassadors. Then the tier masters.” She glanced at Linc and he nodded.
Brenna’s mouth opened, and Tilkon gave her a hard stare. “Then the preachers. After that, should you have a question unable to wait, you may ask the jacks, although I would suggest you weigh the merits of resting your future on men who can’t guard a locked cell.”
Tilkon snarled at the men by the door who stared straight ahead and kept their mouths clamped shut. She continued, “After the jacks, you are free to ask any Cull Tarr man, woman, or child you please. They all know the rules better than you.”
She smiled, apparently satisfied with the lack of questions. “The tiers will tithe an amount decided by the Shiplord. You will worship the Founders, the true gods of Ellegeance and follow the law of the Book of Protocols as interpreted by your king. Without exception.”
Brenna’s face twitched, and Tilkon mugged a perplexed face. “You expected to rule? Power and riches? I have a suggestion. Thank the Founders that Tull Airon sees value in your ability to control the masses because it’s the reason you’re alive. Question answered?”
“With great clarity,” Dalcoran spoke for his peers.
“Any comments, High Ward?” Tilkon cast Kadan a sideways glance, got to her feet, and poured herself a cup of water from a flask she unclipped from her belt.
“Mur-Vallis welcomes the Shiplord’s tier master. I look forward to his guidance in following the Book of Protocols.”
Kadan’s study of the Book had raised numerous questions. Without a doubt, it proscribed the chain of command and the authority extended to the Shiplord during hostilities. He assumed the Cull Tarr identified themselves as the “crew” and the Ellegeans as the “civilian colonists” even though up until a hundred years ago they were indistinguishable. In those roles, expectations for conduct differed. If he read it correctly, the vote belonged to the civilians, not the crew. Other aspects were even less clear and muddled by terminology he scarcely understood. Nowhere did it mention slavery. Furthermore and most intriguing, it said nothing at all regarding adherence to a specific faith. The Founders never referred to themselves as gods.
“Is there anything else we can do for you before we return to our duties?” Dalcoran asked.
Tilkon smirked. “Dismiss all novice influencers, anyone unmarked. There are more than enough of you until we say otherwise. The only influencer piquing the Shiplord’s curiosity is the queen’s. Forfeit her, and you will find him immeasurably grateful.”
The doyen’s faces turned to wood, eyes fixed, but they remained silent. Dalcoran met Kadan’s eyes. “We shall surrender her to your guards the moment she’s found.”
“She has a young daughter.” Falco Linc sat forward in his chair. “It’s possible the child possesses the mother’s unique skills.”
His shoulders rigid, Kadan’s gaze swept the doyen. Someone had betrayed Catling’s power to the Cull Tarr. No wonder Airon offered a bounty in gold that would make an ordinary man rich. Vengeance didn’t compel him to seek her with such fervor; it was her value as a weapon.
After all the years of secrets, the pain she’d endured, the threats on her life, and risks they’d taken, a traitor had revealed the unique power in their midst, one of value to the enemy. Worse than that, they’d offered up a three-year-old child. Did Catling know any of it?
Neven’s brow wrinkled, and Brenna, despite all her disdain for Catling’s ability, gritted her teeth so hard the muscles in her jaw bulged. Dalcoran alone appeared composed; not an indictment, but Kadan had to wonder. They’d all sworn oaths to the Shiplord, and Dalcoran always honored his word.
“The child may come in useful.” Tilkon angled her head, observing the reactions in the room with half-lidded eyes. “Where’s the child?”
“Far Wolds,” Linc replied, “in the care of a guardian named Whitt and a Farlander woman.”
“I imagine they wouldn’t be hard to find. Then again, it depends on who we send to fetch her.” She swept to her feet, finished her water, and gestured to Linc. “You’re with me.” The guards opened the door and followed them from the room.
They left behind a shroud of silence. Kadan didn’t dare open his mouth for fear of the anger and accusation he’d spew. He’d send a message to Catling, but he also needed to warn Whitt and couldn’t fathom how to reach him. Sending a cryptic note to Jagur would get him close, provided the commander had found a way back to Guardian.
Chapter Thirteen
“What in Founders’ Hell am I doing?” Gannon muttered the words aloud as Elan-Sia drifted into sight. He stood at the bow of a barge and hissed in a breath through his teeth.
Jagur had embarked on a fool’s quest to rescue Vianne, and Gannon had volunteered to go along—not for Vianne’s sake but for a chance at the Shiplord. In his opinion, Vianne merited every kick in the behind she suffered. The Shiplord, on the other hand, deserved a knife in the eye. The royal city’s twenty tiers loomed, and he began to reconsider his high-minded notions.
“We need a plan.” Jagur tromped up beside him, his bristly beard shaved down to a bumpy rash. Slimmer after his time in the swamps, he wore an older version of river-captain garb. He’d paid for the clothes, river fare, a pipe, and his favorite blend of smoke with reputation alone. For his disguise, Gannon had grown a scruffy patch of beard and sawed off his curls with a knife. That he lacked a mirror was his only consolation.
“Too late to switch roles,” Gannon grumbled in response to the suggestion—not that he preferred the role of slave over slave master.
“Not that part,” Jagur grunted. “And if you’re interested, I don’t plan to sell you.”
“Appreciated.”
“We need to learn how this works first. Let’s say you’re a guardian caught in… Se-Vien. I want an excuse to inquire about my men. Give me a reason to ask them how they control the rebellious ones and don’t be surprised if I belt you.”
Gannon grimaced. “Avoid the teeth and nose if you can.”
The city neared. Despite the refreshing sea breeze, the early weeks of Springseed this far north brought waves of heat from clear, cerulean skies. Single-masted fishing boats and cutters darted between the larger Cull Tarr dragnets and galleasses that tugged on their anchors. Barges transported the season’s first crops in wooden crates, and ferries delivered goods from the distant tiers. They crowde
d the piers, and the encircling dock bustled with disconcerting normality. The wrongness grated against Gannon’s loss, their defeat not eight weeks past, Lelaine’s body barely cold. Every thought of her initiated a resurgence of bitter grief.
At the city’s far end, the huge tri-masted galleass, The Sea God, rocked on the swells, the Shiplord’s floating quarters in Elan-Sia. Beyond it, The Wandering Swan plowed in through the breakwater. Gannon wondered if Tilkon pined for her ship. Hers was one face he’d rather avoid; they’d recognize each other blindfolded in a shuttered room on a moonless night.
The ferry’s captain shouted orders, and the crew manned the oars, steering the vessel into a berth. Jagur slipped a rope around Gannon’s wrists and cinched it convincingly tight. He tied on a modest lead.
The captain worked his way to the bow and handed Jagur a purse. “For Ellegeance.” He clapped Gannon on the shoulder and winced at his bound wrists.
The girding dock looked little different other than the increase in Cull Tarr seafarers and an odd absence of twitchers. Preachers adorned in scarlet and gold expounded on the righteousness of the Shiplord, promising prosperity for parting with one’s purse. Riverfolk hawked fish, and Cull Tarr butchers plucked newly slaughtered fowl, rinsing their fingers of feathers in the current. The white fluff drifted to sea like floating flakes of snow. Jagur tugged on Gannon’s lead.
At the top of the ramp to the first tier, the changes took a darker turn. Six large wooden cages held their human captives at the market’s center. Two Cull Tarr men wearing scarlet sashes stood on a wooden platform studying their merchandise. Market shoppers hurried by, pretending not to notice. Gannon’s nostrils flared, and he cursed, no trouble feigning a bias toward rebelliousness.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 8
