Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  Neiro motioned Viyr and Orin from where they stood at the edge of the platform. “Viyr, send a proposal to Nyia about this later tonight. Orin, go find Moad. He’s late.”

  Without a word, Orin turned and stomped down the iron stairway, his heavy tread shaking the entire platform.

  “Needs repair,” Frell muttered ominously.

  Neiro watched the old Enforcer march toward Dogton’s gates before regarding the fields again. There, people moved in and out of the rows, collecting a harvest of corn, beans, peppers, squash, and Senbehi wheat. They bent, picked, filled their bushel baskets and sacks before piling them onto one of several wagons dotted around the field. One wagon crawled by the platform on its way back to Dogton, the driver flicking his quirt at the patient mules. It took a few hundred acres to pry enough food out of the desert for a town that would have fit inside an Avaeliis city block. Hot, dirty work, but necessary for survival—a concept the Cynops would never understand.

  Neiro cleared his throat, tired of thinking about irrigation and water mandates. “Frell, we don’t have to play coy about this.”

  The Junker Steward crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Don’t take your meaning on that, Neiro.”

  “You didn’t drag me out all this way from my office to bitch about the repairs needed to the systems. You’re here about more than what was said at the Coalition meeting. Spit it out. We’re big boys, you and I.”

  Frell’s mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. “I don’t like you much, Neiro, but I guess you know that and don’t give a s’rat’s ass about it.”

  “No,” Neiro admitted. “I don’t care.”

  “Good. It’ll make this easier to say, then. Ham Elgin wants to know two things. First, he wants to know what Avaeliis is planning on doing with the Enetics here, if anything. He’s heard rumor the Cynops are pushing to subdue the Shyiine in the Sand Belt. He ain’t happy about what few details he’s managed to get. All that foolishness was supposed to have ended years ago.”

  So the Junkers do have spies in Avaeliis. Does the Syndicate know? They must.

  “Go on, what’s the second thing Elgin wants to know?” Neiro squared his shoulders, trying to squirm away from the itching sweat as much as Frell’s accusations.

  “The prisoner you’ve had here for two years—that Shurin.” Frell waved an arm in the direction of Dogton, half a mile away. “Avaeliis has failed to transport him back. It’s inhumane to lock a man in a cell that long without some sort of trial. Besides, he should be on trial back at the Foundry for his part in the Cursor project, and for trying to stop—”

  “He’s already stood trial for that back in Avaeliis, years ago. He was sentenced to life in the Junk. Ah, excuse me, the Old Avaeliis complex. He escaped, and we caught him here, near the Grin. Until the Syndicate sends a transport for him, he’s fed and would be given medical care if he needed it. That’s more than he’d get in the Junk.”

  “He didn’t stand trial at the Foundry, though. And it doesn’t change the fact Avaeliis hasn’t yet sent a transport for him. If they won’t take responsibility by spring, the Union is prepared to petition. And, if need be, cut support to Dogton until the Shurin is either given into our custody or shipped back to Old Avaeliis to serve his sentence.”

  Neiro’s heart thudded against his ribs until he felt they might break. A flush—one not caused by the heat— crept up his neck and cheeks. “You’re threatening to pull support over something that’s completely out of my hands?” He gnawed each word, mashing them to pulp before spitting them at Dramen Frell. “Do you think I want that prisoner here, around a Draid Mechinae? Around him? Even with Sairel’s Shelfing disabled, do you know how risky it is? I’ve petitioned Avaeliis a dozen times and they’re still sitting on their hands about it. They will until the Cynops are good and ready to do something.”

  “Then I propose the Union and Dogton work together to urge them to act soon,” Frell replied, unblinking. The Junker would not be cowed, Neiro realized. His entire skull throbbed as though it were being crushed by a vice.

  “If I may speak?”

  Neiro glanced at Viyr; he’d forgotten the Mechinae standing just behind him. “Yes, Viyr, what is it?”

  And if you say it’s the blood pressure, I’ll toss both you and Frell in the mud.

  “I believe if such an ultimatum were worded succinctly, but with the proper air of gravity, the Cynops and Syndicate would act on your advice. If this were to come ahead of any petition from the Foundry itself, the Syndicate would be less likely to see it as an actual threat and more likely to regard it as—”

  “Getting one up on the Foundry by ferreting out their intent,” Frell finished. He grinned, his strong teeth flashing under his bristling upper lip. “That they might, Zippy. If our petition comes first, they’d see it as a threat and balk like a damned mule. It takes a Cynops to figure out a Cynops.” The Steward gave the Mechinae a hard slap on the shoulder.

  Get your hands off Viyr, you fucking weasel. You Junkers are half-responsible for what happened.

  Viyr blinked and smiled pleasantly. “I am happy to be of assistance, though I’m not certain I quite understand the comment about Cynops, Dramen Frell.”

  “Don’t let it trouble your head, Viyr.” Frell’s smile vanished as he studied the water-fields. “Neiro, it’s not at all the wish or intent to cut support here if we can avoid it, but you know Union policy when it comes to the humane treatment of any person under the jurisdiction of our allies.”

  Neiro took a deep breath, unclenched his fists, and forced his snarl into a smile. “Yes, that would be quite a blow to both Dogton and the Foundry, I imagine. We’ll work it out, one way or the other. Now . . .” Frell shot him a dark look, which he ignored. “About the Enetics. My Enetics are Dogton citizens. They work as Enforcers and scouts here. Whatever is going out across the Sand Belt does not concern them or Dogton. I have no part in any of that. I’m here to provide stability and create a working economy for the civilized races and people of the Shy’war-Anquai, not to wage war or conduct research.”

  “The Avaeliis Syndicate have records of all your Shyiine and Druen here. Sokepta, too. You might not be conducting research, but that doesn’t mean the Syndicate aren’t keeping a close eye on your Enetics right under your nose.”

  “Nothing goes on in the Shy’war-Anquai they’re not aware of. They have records of every Dogton citizen in Avaeliis. They have records on every citizen regardless of race.” The grin on his face felt as dry as sunbaked mud. It hurt, but he refused to let it drop. “As an Avaeliis province, they want a census every year. They also want me to report on how well our cell technology is holding up out here, complete with charts and graphs for efficiency. They want to know how much water we’re using per person each month. They want to know what our crop yield is. In short, Frell, they want to know everything, right down to what color I piss.”

  Go back to the Foundry and spit that at your little spies.

  “I hope it’s nothing more than simple record keeping.” Frell rubbed his palm against his shirt and held it out. “The Union would hate to lose any allies here in the Shy’war-Anquai, though I got a hunch we may not be allied with Glasstown in the near future.”

  Neiro took the offered hand, gripping it so hard he felt sure Frell’s fingers would snap. The Junker returned the shake with his own painful squeeze. They locked gazes, staring at one another—two bristling dogs over a bone, tails wagging, teeth bared to the root.

  “Yes, I have a feeling Avaeliis may decide to replace Evrik Niles soon, if he doesn’t start cooperating.” Neiro’s fingers began to redden from the pressure, but he did not release his grip. “The Cynops do not take kindly to any hiccups in their plans. We’re so remote out here it seems as though they’ve forgotten we even exist, but they haven’t.”

  “No,” Frell replied, his voice solemn. “They don’t ever forget a damned thing, do they?”

  “Never.”

  Their fingers unlocked, bruised a
nd numb. The Junker tilted his head toward Dogton. “Here comes Moad. I’ll leave you to it, Neiro. Watch yourself dealing with that one. He’d have the whole desert for his parish if you let him.”

  You want that too, Frell. And so do I. Big dogs, the three of us, and not one of us willing to give up an inch of ground.

  “He’s a cunning man,” Neiro said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think he were of one of the old Syndicate families.”

  Frell smirked at that as he made his way down the platform. He stopped long enough to inspect a bolt along the railing, then sauntered toward the gates. As he passed Moad, he nodded.

  Moad returned the nod. “Hello, Dramen.”

  The man trailing the Harper—a trim figure of about forty—only smiled placidly. An ornate, pearl-handled revolver inlaid with a silver Harper’s cross hung at his belt, but otherwise his garb was solemn, undecorated black. He gave Neiro the distinct impression of a crow escorting a peacock.

  So, Moad brought his Soulmaker guard. That’s the tone for today, then. Veiled threats.

  The Harper stopped to swipe dust from his immaculate blue shirt. A sunbeam caught the diamond-and-gold pinkie ring on his left hand, making it shine like a beacon. Moad turned, saying something in a quiet voice to his companion. The other man laughed, but the sound was as empty as his gray eyes.

  “Viyr.” Neiro beckoned the Mechinae closer. Viyr came forward and stood next to him, silent as the two men approached the platform. Those neon-blue eyes had already locked onto the Soulmaker—Opert Reeth—and Neiro felt a flush of something like affection spread through him.

  Of course I don’t have to tell Viyr to keep close and watch for any sign of hostility. He’s already doing it. Look at them stare at each other!

  The flimsy structure vibrated as Phineas Moad ascended the stairway. The Harper greeted him merrily as he reached the top. “Neiro! You’re looking well. But I will declare, this is an awful place to try to have any sort of discussion. It’s sinful hot . . . I’d forgotten how bad it gets up this way.” Moad extended his hand; his square, strong fingers barely touched Neiro’s before they were pulled back again.

  Neiro nodded. “Yes, it’s terrible this time of year, but our harvest will be a good one, as you can see.” Consciously aware of the wet spots showing through his shirt, he swept an arm in the direction of the water-fields. By contrast, Moad seemed as dry and fragrant as if he’d rolled in powder.

  “Frell wanted to speak about needed upgrades to the irrigation system,” Neiro went on. “So I thought it best to show him firsthand.”

  “He’s a good man,” Moad replied gravely. “Speaking of good men, you know my personal guard, Opert Reeth?”

  Reeth stepped forward, extending a hand. The gloved fingers uncurled like the legs of a big, black spider. “Hello, Mr. Precaius. It’s been some time since I was here in Dogton. I can see it’s doing very well. Larger than I remember.”

  Neiro squashed his revulsion and took the Soulmaker’s hand, shaking it lightly. “It has been a while, Reeth. Ten years, I think? We’re doing well enough here, though I hope our Coalition will continue to spread that prosperity to the other border towns. Of course, you both know Viyr.”

  Moad didn’t look at the Mechinae as he nodded. “Yes, I recall it.”

  Reeth fixed his stare on Viyr and said nothing.

  How you Harpers can consider him an abomination while pretending a man like Opert Reeth is “holy” is the height of divine hypocrisy.

  Neiro leaned against the railing. “Moad, you got the Coalition notes earlier in the VDA message I sent?”

  “I did. I am very sorry about being late. The weather near the Citadel held me up. You get dust storms up here but down there, Neiro, it’s the rainy season. Dire to travel in. My escort would have gotten stuck in mud three feet deep if they’d have tried to take the rover through the storm.”

  “Quite all right. I told the others I’d relay any messages or concerns the Harpers had. Which brings us right down to it, I suppose.”

  Moad nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose it does, yes. We’ve got some disturbing news down at the Citadel about trouble near Bywater. Neiro, I was hoping I’d be here to perform a wedding as well as talk Coalition business. And here I find out your lovely bride—one of our own blessed sisters—has gone missing on the Harpers’ Trail.” The twinkling blue eyes narrowed, turning hard. “Where is Rosie?”

  Probably flying over the desert in some vulture’s belly right now.

  Neiro swallowed a weary sigh. Moad had laid a clever trap and thrown the bitch right out in the open, spread-eagle. Rosie was dead, and the Harpers knew it. They had their own network of spies, just as the Junkers did. There would be no use trying to twist the words and formulate a palatable lie. The headache tightened down his neck until every muscle felt like a knot along his spine. He wanted to be done with meetings, wanted to be out of the sun, and wanted to piss. None of that would happen until he could wring some new deal out of Phineas Moad.

  “Rosie is dead, I’m sorry to say. My scout found her near Bywater Gully. My Enforcer is still missing, as is most of the cargo you sent along. But I do have hopes it will be recovered. I’ve got Kaitar and an Enforcer on their way to Pirahj to—”

  “You hired Scrappers?” Moad interrupted, bushy brows arched. “I thought Printz was here for the duration of this week for all the Coalition talks.”

  “He is. He left that Estarian the Syndicate sent over a few years ago in charge. Jess Karraetu is his name, I think. I hired a squad to go with my own team to clear out Bywater. There will be no more trouble from that quarter, once the Scrappers have settled things. It’s costing me a pretty haul of water and grain.” He shrugged. “But it’s necessary. And Rosie, poor girl, well. Once things are settled I expect we can hold a service for her here.”

  “Yes, we will. Her family back at the Citadel will be very sad.”

  And want some sort of restitution for her. Yes, Moad, I know the game.

  “I’ll send my condolences.” Neiro glanced back at Viyr, still locked in silent contest with the Soulmaker. “Viyr, arrange that, will you?”

  “Of course,” Viyr said without shifting his gaze from Reeth. The Soulmaker had his hands clasped at his waist, forefingers steepled as if he were aiming his big revolver right at the Mechinae.

  I should have put the Neuro-Cyth on him. That might have cowed Opert-fucking-Reeth a bit.

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” Moad said. He bowed his head briefly, then lifted his piercing eyes once more. “But Rosie is with Mary now, saved from all the suffering of this hard world. She was a good woman and would have made you a fine wife. A man needs a wife and children, and now, you’ve got no prospects of either. You must be very disappointed.”

  “I am,” Neiro said. The grief in his voice sounded almost genuine. “I can only hope to find another bride one day.”

  And there it is, you son of a bitch. There’s what you wanted to hear. I still need a damned wife so I can squirt out an heir to the Precaius empire and all I’ve built here, before Nyia gets her claws into it.

  “We have several young ladies who might be pleased to marry an experienced, well-to-do businessman. Especially one with old ties to Avaeliis, but. . .” Moad shook his head dubiously. “I think that after what happened to poor Rosie, it would be too much of a risk for them to travel to a town so remote. They feel safe at the Citadel, and Dogton is a long way from family and friends for a young woman.”

  “Dogton is very secure. I have Enforcers, and no one comes through those gates without checking all weapons and cargo first. Not even my own scouts.”

  “Yes, Dogton is as safe a border town as you’re like to find, I agree.” The Harper adjusted the ring on his pinky. Neiro stared at it; the diamond Harper’s cross—dazzling in the sunlight and pointing right at him—was as much a test as Frell’s handshake had been.

  “But it’s lonely for some of the faithful here, Neiro,” Moad went on. “A young woman u
sed to the comfort of others nearby who share her devotion will find Dogton a very rough town to thrive in.”

  Reeth’s gaze broke from Viyr at last. “Your Enforcers are good souls, but even they can’t provide the security and support fellow Harpers can, Mr. Precaius.” A pious smile graced his lips briefly. “However, there may be some of us willing to relocate with a young bride, should the prospects of keeping our faith intact be favorable.”

  Worse than the damned Junkers. Everyone wants a piece of Dogton and no one understands it’s the Syndicate buying them for it, body and soul.

  Neiro inhaled deeply, smelled the damp mud and water fifteen feet below. The urge to go lay in that cool muck was stronger than ever. More sweat beaded on his flushed forehead, itching. From the corner of his eye, he studied the mullet-headed Harper, who appeared grave and thoughtful. But there, under all that solemnity, Neiro could see the faint gleam in Moad’s blue eyes—greed. The man was as hungry for power as anyone back in the Syndicate chewing their way to the top of the heap.

  If I can wrap my fingers around his ambition and use it like a hammer against Niles and his ilk . . . yes.

  “Viyr, are you keeping minutes of this discussion to send to the Syndicate later?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be sure to include this part then,” Neiro said, voice ringing across the fields. “As governor and manager of Avaeliisian provinces in the Shy’war-Anquai, I would be willing and pleased to allow construction of a sizable chapel in Dogton. With the understanding that this is still, and will continue to be, a province of Avaeliis. We will welcome the Harper faith here, by all means, but keep our own laws and structure of government.” He allowed himself to grin a little. “There’s a fine dance between chaos and stability, Moad. Learn it, and—”

  “I know the words of the Syndicate,” Moad returned the smile, full of merry rancor. “Learn to dance with chaos and stability, and you will profit.”

  “Indeed.” Neiro hid his annoyance at the interruption; he could not afford to let his personal hatred of the man spoil the deal now. “I think you and I could make suitable dance partners. Are those terms ones you are willing to begin negotiations on?”