Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  He told me to get up! He said they were going to kill us both if I didn’t get up.

  “Liar.” She laughed and turned her back to him, dark hair falling over her gaunt frame as she faded away. “Liar.”

  Underneath the faint echo of voices, Kaitar thought he could hear the low droning of Toros sliding over the desert and boring into his mind.

  “Kaitar?”

  Uncomprehending, he stared at the Sulari woman.

  “You should rest, too.” Leigh’s voice held no note of sympathy—only cold, logical practicality. “Even a Shyiine cannot keep going forever without water or rest.”

  Kaitar’s mind wrenched from the haunted pit of his memories with sluggish reluctance. How long had he been standing there? Had five minutes passed? An hour? “Tomorrow. When we stop in the morning and make a shelter, I’ll rest.”

  She frowned at him, and he was struck at how young Leigh looked. At how young she was; only a girl, and the Junker no more than a stupid boy. He was three times their age—older than Orin—and though he did not look it, he felt it.

  “I’ve gone on longer than this before, Leigh,” he said, the words tasting as bitter as they sounded. “If there is one good thing I learned from the Sulari, it was how to keep going, even when I’m tired.”

  The night breeze swept over them, cold. Romano pulled his knees to his chest, huddled under the too-small yalei, looking miserable as a cactus sparrow in the frost. “What about a fire? Can we start a little fire? Just for an hour? We could get some branches. You know how to start a fire by hand, right Kaitar?”

  “I do, but it would take a long time, and we need to go again soon.” Kaitar squatted in front of the Junker, eyeing him closely. He’d never paid much attention to Romano Vargas before—he’d had little reason to speak to Junkers—but now he pitied the man. “Your boy . . . you know I caught him feeding my mule salt cubes once?”

  Romano managed a faint smile. “I’m not surprised. He’s always feeding Aerby table scraps.”

  “He seems like a good kid.” Kaitar stood. “Get up. We need to keep walking. Those threk are behind us, but they won’t attack unless you wander off alone. They like to single out prey, and—”

  “They don’t attack Shyiine,” Leigh said abruptly. Regarding him with a flat expression, she hauled herself to her feet. “I had a friend in Nal’ves who told me that once. I remembered after what you said about Romano and I carrying your scent on ourselves. That first time we saw them, you could have done something.”

  Kaitar hesitated, not wanting to admit some of what she said was true. “Your friend was wrong about one thing, Leigh. They will attack Shyiine if they’re provoked enough. I’ve seen it. So has Mi’et.” Weariness dragged at him, so sudden and complete his knees began to buckle. He swayed, passed it off as an awkward sidestep, and jerked a hand toward the south. “Just stay close. Safer for all of us that way.”

  “I thought we were staying close,” Romano said. “Hell, you won’t even let me go off behind a bush to piss.”

  “You aren’t staying close enough. You have to keep up. Yes, I know you’re tired and your legs hurt and you’re cold and hungry, but you will die, Romano. You will die if you can’t keep up or you lose sight of me. I can’t keep stopping every hour for you.”

  “But if the threk won’t attack when you’re around, why can’t we stop for an hour?” A wheedling note had worked its way into Romano’s voice, making what sympathy Kaitar felt for him evaporate.

  “Shit.” He rubbed the spot where Karraetu had busted his nose, feeling the deep throb. “Each day we’re out here, we’re going to have a little less water. I can’t keep you two alive forever. We’re not close to any springs, and the Harpers’ Well is still three nights away at this pace.”

  “You stay out here for weeks, though,” Romano said. “You and your mule.”

  “I start out with plenty of water, and a mule can cover eighty miles a lot faster than we can on foot. If I were on Molly, I’d already be at that well and not worried about water. I never let myself go more than a day’s ride from some water source if I can help it. In an emergency where I’m put afoot, I can live for about three weeks without water, if I have to. You can’t.”

  Leigh’s mouth pursed into a dubious frown. “I’ve heard Shyiine can go longer than humans, but that estimate seems extravagant.”

  “You’ve heard, yes. You’ve heard and I’ve lived it.”

  “You went three weeks without water? You’re certain it was that long?”

  She’ll never believe me about anything. And how can I blame her? She grew up hearing stories about Shyiine. About how vicious we are. All that Sulari crap about how we can keep fighting even after our heads have been cut off. About how we’re all liars with forked tongues just waiting to—

  “Slit someone’s throat,” Madev’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “Is that what she thinks?”

  Not now. I can’t do this now. Go away, Madev.

  Kaitar quickened his step. “Yes, it was that long, Leigh.”

  She did not reply, and he was grateful for the silence that followed. Ears straining for any noise that might signify a threat, Kaitar listened to the soft, mysterious sounds of the night. Once, they heard the buzz of a rattlesnake, and Romano’s panting stopped for an instant. Kaitar glanced back and saw the Junker’s eyes—round as marbles—searching the darkness in vain.

  “Where’s it at?”

  “To your left, about ten feet away.” The words formed wisps of frost. “Just stay close, Romano. The snake won’t bother you.”

  They walked on and the buzzing ceased. The two humans renewed their struggles to keep pace while Kaitar fought his own battle to keep his thoughts on the task at hand and his eyes turned to the empty desert.

  I’m done after this. I am. This is my last job, getting these two back to Dogton. Gren . . . nothing I can do about that. If he’s still alive, he’ll have to save himself.

  In his heart, he knew Gren Turren was dead. Had been dead probably before they’d even left Dogton to rescue him. Gren, that deadpan asshole he’d disliked so much for two decades, with his dry sarcasm and his methodical strategies. But he’d been a decent person for all that, and had helped a good many people. Caravaneers, traders, Dogton citizens, lost Sulari squatters wandering away from the wreckage of their hovel—Gren hadn’t turned away any of them.

  “I can’t,” Romano said, shaking from the cold. He leaned over, hands on his knees, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. “Need to rest again. Need a fire.”

  Without missing a step, Kaitar turned on his heels. “You have to keep going. We can’t stop until dawn. If we stop now, you won’t be able to get back up. You’ll freeze there, or the threk will kill you first. We have to hit that well. Leigh.” He jerked his chin at her from over his shoulder. “Help me with him. If we don’t keep moving, we all die.”

  Romano may anyway, but I don’t think Leigh will give up. She’s stronger than he is.

  “No stopping.” Kaitar slid an arm around Romano’s shoulder and heaved. He could smell sweat and grime rising from the Junker, more pungent than the odor of mule, and a good deal more unnerving. He grunted as the heavier man leaned against him, his boot heels sinking into the sand at the extra burden. “Walk, Romano. Shit, look at you. Orin could keep up better than this, and he’s sixty years old.”

  “I’m a mechanic, not an Enforcer,” Romano mumbled.

  Leigh plodded over, hooked an arm around the Junker’s waist and led him a few steps. One of the threk trilled behind them, closer now. The high, warbling sound echoed for a long moment, and then faded to silence.

  They’re hungry. And they know there’s a weak link about to give up.

  Kaitar let his own grip fall away as he watched the humans take a few steps forward, a sort of urgency in the movement. Leigh looked at him, anxious, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  “If they get any closer, Leigh, I’ll draw them off and—”

  “She
’ll attack me first.” It was Mi’et’s voice this time, so clear he almost turned around, expecting the half-breed to be standing right behind him. “If I fall, you’ll have to save yourself.”

  “Kaitar?” Leigh spoke in a hushed whisper. “Are you all right?”

  “Walk. I’ll be just behind you. But if I tell you to stop or move faster, you do it. Don’t argue. They smell the blood on me and they smell the weakness on you. They’ll trail us, but I don’t think they’ll attack. Not tonight. Not with me here.”

  Leigh didn’t slow her pace or let go of Romano’s shoulder as she spoke. “But tomorrow or the day after?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a few hours until dawn. They’ll take shelter during the day, just like we will. And tomorrow night, I’ll think of something if they get too curious.”

  Neither the Junker nor the Enforcer made further comment. Kaitar fixed his gaze on the looming shape of an incline directly ahead. The dunes marking the remnant edge of the southeastern border of the scrubland were small compared to others he’d seen near the Sand Belt; a few hundred miles westward, the Shy’war-Anquai turned into a true wasteland, where only the wind roamed.

  And the Shyiine.

  A chill bit at him, sharper than the night wind.

  “And Nah’gatt. And Toros. That’s the real reason you’re afraid of the Sand Belt, isn’t it? It’s not the Shyiine . . . the worst they could do is kill you.”

  Go away, Madev.

  Kaitar turned his attention south and did not look west again for the rest of the night.

  All Cages

  Mi’et opened the jailhouse door and moved aside as Neiro stepped through the entrance.

  “Wait here. I want you by this door in case this Shurin needs to be taken down. He’s too unpredictable.”

  The big half-breed grunted; Neiro took it for an affirmation the command had been heard and would be obeyed. He closed the door, breathing in the musty, stale air as he looked around with mild disgust. It wasn’t the grime that made him hate the jail so much; the Shy’war-Anquai painted everything with that fine, red film. No, the filth barely registered—it was the fact the place reminded him far too much of the cell he’d been held in twenty-three years before. That prison had been larger, to be certain, and very clean. Pristine, in fact. But all cages were alike, Neiro supposed. Small or large, cold white rooms with nothing to look at, or rust-caked bars against mud-brick walls—it made no difference.

  He withdrew the key from its hidden spot in the old desk, fitted it into the brass lock, and pushed his way inside. The odor of piss, dust, and dirty bedding all hit him at once, as oppressive as the gloom. All cages smelled the same, too.

  The Shurin sprawled on his cot, naked except for a book across his lap. He opened his colorless eyes and sat upright, blinking. Repulsion bubbled in Neiro’s belly, so foul it made the rank odors of the cell seem a sweet perfume. Scowling at the sight of that gray-blue skin—bare to the world—he wondered if the Harpers might not be right with their subtle crusade of Enetic genocide.

  The book fell as Sairel rose, but he made no move to retrieve it. “Have you finally come to take me to Verand?”

  “I’ve come to tell you that you’ll be transported back to Old Avaeliis in the spring. I thought you’d like to hear that straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Still letting yourself be jerked around by the will of the Syndicate, then? I’m not entirely surprised.”

  “Not as much as you think, but if they want to haul you back, good riddance.”

  They locked gazes, the hate between them as thick as the pungent odor of the overfull piss bucket.

  “Bring Verand to me,” Sairel said.

  “No.”

  Sairel flashed his long, sharp teeth in a hungry smile, ready to rend flesh and crush bone.

  “Try it. Try it and you’ll see I can bite too, and harder than you, Shurin. It’s over. No more Verand. No more mission. No more Cursors or saving the Enetics. Nyia—”

  “Ah. Nyia,” Sairel chuckled, tapping a clawed finger against his chin. “So it was Nyia again, was it? I remember her. I remember. Tell me, what did dear sister say to little brother this time?” Gripping the iron bars, he pressed his face against them so his nose poked through, the nostrils flaring. “Is she still sticking her fingers into your pie and plucking out every savory plum, Neiro? I’ll bet she is. And I’ll bet it’s got you so knotted up inside you’ll never unravel her rope unless it’s to hang yourself with.”

  Ignoring the instinct twisting in his gut—the one telling him to stay away from the Shurin—Neiro approached the cell; he was Syndicate born and raised, thousands of miles from Avaeliis or not. That cold blood still pumped through his veins, inherited from generations of conquerors and businessmen, ready to do battle. Anticipating it. Relishing the conflict.

  “I’ll tell you what Nyia said.” Pressing his face to the bars until the tip of his nose touched the Shurin’s, his lips parted in the devouring Syndicate grin—wide, controlled, and hungry. “She said that she’ll be here in the spring to take you back. This time, they’ll execute you for escaping the Junk. And the other Enetics here, my Enetics—”

  “They’re not your anything.”

  “And you always thought so little of me, didn’t you? Even after you learned I’ve been keeping them safe from the Cynops and the Harpers. Fishy son of a bitch.” Neiro’s grin did not falter. “It’s over, Sairel. All of it. Verand—”

  “He was your friend.”

  “—is dead. Forever, as you Shurin are so fond of blathering.” He reached through the bars and gave the smooth, cool cheek a hard pat. “Here’s something to perk your spirits, though. I’m keeping Verand’s legacy alive despite what the Cynops wanted and despite the Harpers preaching their inane bullshit. They’re my Enetics.”

  “Nothing’s over,” Sairel snarled. Each tooth gleamed wetly as he ran a black tongue over his lips. “There are still Enetics in Avaeliis. Tamed, the Cynops claim. But, ah, they can’t break the Sand Belt, can they? Even with Verand here, trapped by you and your cowardice, they cannot break the Shyiine. They’ll break themselves first to escape being collared. What do you think Verand would say to that?”

  “I have Verand now, and he’s safe here. It works for us. For me.” Neiro could smell the Shurin’s breath; bean curry and that disgusting tea the Enetics sucked down like water.

  “Your sister has Verand, whenever she wants to lay claim to him.” Sairel’s haughty voice lowered to a rasp, raking each syllable. “And she will claim him. You remember what she said, before they sentenced you? I remember, because I heard it myself at that trial when they called me as witness. I’m sure you recall that detail,” he purred. “She said, ‘You owe me everything, Neiro. I saved your life. It could be you being sentenced to Permanence. Remember your debt, little brother.’ Do you recall now?”

  “Stop talking about my sister.” Fury coursed through him, rising like the desert sun to burn everything in its path. “It’s over. And in the spring, you’ll be over, too. Any dream you had of roping Verand back to your futile little rebellion will die with you.” He patted the cheek again. “Forever.”

  Sairel drew back, his mother-of-pearl eyes widening. “You were his friend. Our friend.”

  “Do you give Mi’et such a hard time whenever he comes to feed you or change your slop bucket?”

  “Sometimes,” Sairel answered, the smile contrasting with the loathing in his tone. “Oh. Have you ever told Besh about any of this? He might have a vested interest in that whole ordeal. Send him in to me. Maybe I could talk him into bringing Verand for a visit. But then, Shyiine are stubborn things, aren’t they?”

  I should have him executed. Here and now. Fuck waiting for Nyia and the Syndicate.

  He turned, sick of seeing that awful grin, sick of the smell, sick of the accusation in the Shurin’s eyes. “I suppose this will be the last time we speak until the day comes for you to die. I can’t say I’ll miss you.” Neiro glanced over his shou
lder and presented the Shurin with a mocking salute, tipping his head and putting two fingers to his brow.

  “Leaving already? Did you only come to prove you still don’t have any real balls? Any real purpose?” The Shurin jerked his hips in a lewd gesture, making his cock swing with the movement. "Or were you curious to see what a Shurin has hanging between their legs, hm?"

  “I can have that bit torn off. The Cynops might spare you then.”

  Sairel laughed. “It’s a sad day when a fish has a bigger pair than a human, isn’t it? Go on, then. Crawl back to your little office. Hide Verand and bury your cowardice. Syndicate lapdog.” He paused, the predatory gnash of his teeth quieting to a bemused expression. “Oh, and send Mi’et in again. He forgot to take my bucket out. I hate the smell of old piss. Makes concentrating difficult, and I’m enjoying that field guide about the Estarian Wilds Orin lent me. Quite informative, even if it was written by a Druen.”

  Neiro did not stay to listen to the prattle. The atmosphere, the sound of the Shurin’s voice and—most of all—the thin barbs of truth all made him feel close to losing control. He shoved the door open, slammed it shut, and fumbled with the key. The small, slim length of brass clicked against the lock, grinding so hard it nearly snapped. Neiro flung the key onto the desk, desperate to leave before claustrophobia buried his willpower in that tomb.

  White and cold, with no sound and nothing to look at but your own empty fucking soul . . .

  He stepped into the early morning sunlight. It smashed into him, already hot. The dusty scent of the desert wind cleared the foul odors from his nose. Neiro breathed deeply, his mind whirring down to a normal pulse-and-hum. He started down the short stairway, the three steps as cracked and worn as everything else in Dogton. Mi’et’s shadow split the dust in front of him, wide, long, and black as Toros.

  I should let them all go to the Belt. They’re half the reason the Syndicate want to call off the Coalition. They’ll never admit it, but there it is. They’re still afraid the Enetics will topple them. And maybe they should.

  Neiro rounded on the big half-breed, staring into his impassive face, hating it. “Get in there and take out that piss bucket. Isn’t that what I pay you to do? It’s not so damned difficult to remember, is it?”