Maybe someone disembarking from a ship would need a land-based conveyance. Not that he noticed any ships entering the harbor, not with those large and well-armed vessels stretched across the passage out to sea. It was a blockade. It had to be. But whose? The government’s? Or did those ships belong to the same rebels or criminals—Yanko had no idea how to think of them—who had taken over the salt mine?
He slid his hand along the control orb to choose a road that looked like it might lead through the city and to the docks. The traffic made him uneasy, with bicycles, pedestrians, and lizards harnessed to carts clogging the streets. There were carriages as well, the magical energy from them plucking at Yanko’s senses. Back home, such craft were rare. Usually, only moksu families and soldiers on important missions traveled in Made vehicles. They were not easy to come by and some, like this one, were passed down from generation to generation. The whole way here, they had only passed one.
“Up ahead, Yanko. Do you see that?” Lakeo plopped down onto the seat and pointed through the front window. “On that lot up there. They’re selling lizards, donkeys, and wagons. I bet you could get rid of this carriage there too.”
Yanko tried not to feel bitter that she was so eager for him to “get rid of” a machine that had been a part of his family since before his birth, and he tried even harder not to be annoyed, knowing that she only wanted the money so she could book passage to the Kyatt Islands. He hadn’t shared all the details of his quest yet, but he had admitted to his destination. She had promptly confirmed her services as bodyguard in order to secure passage. It was better than going alone, he supposed, and he had to remind himself that his family’s belongings meant nothing to her. Why should they? She hadn’t been the one stuffed in the cupboards under the seat as a child.
“I see it,” he said and slid his hand over the control sphere.
“Look out, you rich snot,” someone yelled from the side. A pale-skinned man on a donkey with pots banging from its sides veered out of the way to avoid running into Yanko. He shook a fist at the carriage as he maneuvered around it.
“Apparently, your driving skills aren’t as good as your earthquake-making skills,” Lakeo said.
“That man was very rude.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, people are. You’re the only one I know who calls everyone honored such-and-such.”
“The people in my village all do that. Most Nurians do that.”
“Oh, I’m sure they do it to you. But nobody down here is going to know you’re moksu, especially after you sell this box.” Lakeo thumped the wall with her fist. “If I were you, I’d keep it that way. Otherwise, you’ll be a target for every thief, bandit, and mugger who thinks you’ve got money.”
Yanko wasn’t that worried about handling himself amongst thieves, bandits, or muggers—and in what dictionary were those actually different professions?—but he conceded that it might be best not to be recognized. That hadn’t gone well for him during his exam. He wouldn’t use his clan name. Here on the coast, even the common man would have heard of his mother.
Yanko rolled the carriage into the lot. Before he and Lakeo had done more than step out, a bow-legged man with his black hair dyed red ambled up with a clipboard. He was chomping on an cigar that spat a nauseating green smoke into the air.
“Interested in buying?” He extended an arm toward his lizards and goats. Most were old and underfed. The wagons slumped wearily in the late afternoon sun, the paint peeling off the sides.
“Interested in selling,” Yanko said.
“Yeah? This your pop’s carriage? You got permission to sell it?”
Yanko bristled at the idea that he wasn’t old enough to own something like this, even if it was the truth. “It’s mine. I don’t need permission to sell it.”
Lakeo’s eyebrows twitched, but fortunately she didn’t say anything.
The man hopped inside without asking and poked at the power supply and the engine. Yanko shifted about, watching the street behind them while he waited. Even if they hadn’t seen sign of pursuit since leaving the village, he knew it had to be out there somewhere.
From the corner of the lot, he could see a few of the ships in the harbor. Numerous ones were in dock or anchored not far out, more than had been there a week earlier. Because they were trapped there, presumably. He wondered how feasible it was for a small, fast ship to sneak through a blockade at night. He would feel much better about their eluding their pursuers if they could ship out tonight. With luck, the party that had invaded his house—that had burned his house—wouldn’t know Zirabo was sending him to Kyatt. Once Yanko escaped land, they shouldn’t be able to track him.
The mournful cry of a coyote came from one end of the road that ran parallel to the waterfront, surprising Yanko. Wild animals in the city? Odd. Maybe they were to be loaded and taken to some other port. He took a few steps to the side so he could gauge where the cry had come from. Numerous cages stood next to an arena with benches around it. Everything from canines to great felines to the more dangerous lizards prowled behind the bars. The setup looked like a permanent installation rather than a group of cages waiting to be loaded onto some ship. A zoo or attraction of some sort, he supposed.
Yanko was about to turn his attention back to the lizard salesman, who was kicking at the wheels and grumbling about the age of the carriage, but he spotted a tall, broad-shouldered figure striding down one of the docks with a barrel over his shoulder, a figure he thought he recognized. The man towered over the Nurians he passed, even though he kept his head down, his face toward the dock, as if he were some common laborer.
“It couldn’t be,” Yanko whispered. “It’s a port city. There must be lots of foreigners.”
But lots of Turgonians? They weren’t welcome here. A few mixed bloods and daring merchants might come through, but seeing one wasn’t typical, even in a port city.
The man dropped off his barrel at the front of a skiff that had been ferrying goods back and forth to one of the ships, then he turned around and headed back toward the warehouses adjacent to the shoreline. Yanko willed him to look up, needing to see the face to be certain.
Another man walked past the Turgonian, this one not as tall or broad, but that didn’t keep him from intentionally bumping the bigger man’s shoulder. He said something, throwing a challenging glare at his target, but the Turgonian didn’t react. He kept walking. If that was the man Yanko thought it might be, the belligerent Nurian had been risking his life with that shoulder bump. The Turgonian reached the head of the dock and picked up another barrel, lifting it over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, despite the fact that he had a few gray hairs at his temple. In that moment, he finally lifted his face enough that Yanko could verify that he only had one eye, an ugly knot of scar tissue being all that remained of the left one.
“It is Dak,” he whispered, that being the only name the Turgonian had given him.
Prince Zirabo had implied Dak was a diplomat or someone of political importance and that his father had made a mistake throwing him into the salt mine, but Yanko had never learned more than that. Dak had certainly never shared anything about himself. They had spent hours and hours sparring together—which had usually involved Yanko being pummeled mercilessly, then smashed into the ground—before Dak had even revealed that he spoke and understood Nurian.
After he loaded the second barrel, a nervous-looking Nurian man carrying a sack of wheat came up to him and whispered something. A hundred meters away, Yanko had no chance at hearing it, but Dak responded, and the conversation went on for a long minute before the two parted ways. The last time Yanko had seen Dak trading whispers with someone, he had been plotting to escape the mines with a band of Turgonians, some of whom had been in there for murder. That had been more than six months ago. Why was he still on Nurian soil, and what was he up to now?
Lakeo elbowed Yanko. “You’re not going to get a good deal if you don’t come over here and defend your box. That sleazy salesman is coming up with
all manner of deficiencies and knocking zekris off the price he’s willing to pay every second.”
Not wanting to take his eyes off Dak, Yanko said, “Will you barter with him for me? You’re scarier than I am.” He waved to her muscled arms. “I need to talk to that man down there. I’ll be right back.”
“What man? There are a hundred people on the docks.”
Already trotting away, Yanko waved back and said, “I’ll explain later.”
With hundreds of people on the dock and hundreds of thousands in the city, if Yanko lost track of Dak, he might never find him again. Given that he had no idea what trouble the Turgonian might be starting, that could be a good thing. But no, Dak owed him a favor. Dak had said so himself, right before knocking Yanko out and disappearing into the night with his band of Turgonians.
As Yanko reached the head of the dock, he started to second-guess himself. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe that bit about a favor had been a lie, a distraction so that he could crack Yanko on the back of the head without resistance. But he kept walking. Dak was loading a crate onto the skiff now and exchanging a few words with one of the oarsmen, one that had the olive skin and larger build of a Turgonian. They kept their conversation short, and Dak turned toward the head of the dock again.
He halted when he spotted Yanko. His stony features hardened instead of relaxing in a friendly manner, and his gaze flicked past Yanko, searching the dock and boardwalk behind him. Did he think an escort would be standing back there? Armed men ready to return him to the mines? After six months? As if the mines even mattered now...
“Greetings,” Yanko said, stopping a few feet away. He kept his tone cheery, but the utter lack of warmth in the Turgonian’s face made that difficult. Part of him wanted to say he had mistaken Dak for someone else, apologize, and slink away. Even if the Turgonian was wearing a baggy shirt today, Yanko knew all about the thick, powerful muscles that lay beneath the garment, not to mention all of the scars from battles survived. Even though Yanko had done decently against him in their last sparring match, he had always known Dak hadn’t truly been trying to kill him. He reminded himself of that now. If the Turgonian hadn’t wanted to kill him then, he shouldn’t want to kill him today. Probably. “Are you speaking Nurian this month or pretending you don’t know it?” Yanko forced a smile. “I haven’t had time to work on my Turgonian, I’m afraid.”
After staring at him coolly for what felt like ten minutes but was probably five seconds, Dak said, “What do you want?”
Yanko lifted his chin in an attempt not to be daunted by the blunt words. It was almost as if Dak didn’t recognize him. Was that possible? Maybe all Nurians looked alike to Turgonians. Yanko had heard the equivalent spoken by his own people about Turgonians. But surely the reminder about the language would have jogged Dak’s memory. Still, he said, “You remember me, right?” just to be certain.
“Yes.” Dak’s tone didn’t imply that he was happy about the fact. “What do you want?” he repeated.
The head oarsman cleared his throat. Yanko glanced over and was surprised to see a slight movement from beneath a tarp folded between a few of the barrels. Was someone hiding under there?
Dak strode toward the head of the dock again, and Yanko might have been trampled, or knocked into the water, if he hadn’t skittered to the side.
“I need your help,” Yanko blurted, jogging to catch up.
“I’m busy.”
“You said you owed me a favor. I’d like to redeem it.”
Dak’s jaw tightened, but he kept walking. Yanko stopped, giving him a moment to think about his words as he picked up another barrel. He would not be surprised if nothing came of this, if Dak ignored the promised favor completely, but he couldn’t help but think what a marvelous bodyguard the big Turgonian would make if he could somehow talk him into coming along. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Lakeo, but an assassin, even a mage hunter, would think twice about attacking Yanko with this wall of muscle standing at his back. He fully acknowledged that asking Dak to deflect the attacks of assassins and travel by sea for two weeks was out of proportion to the original act that had prompted the acknowledgment of a favor due, but it couldn’t hurt to try to get Dak on his side, if only temporarily. The Kyatt Islands were halfway to Turgonia. Who knew? Maybe he was ready to go home and had to travel that way, anyway. Assuming Lakeo got enough from the salesman, Yanko could pay for passage for all three of them. He glanced at the blockade. If there was passage available. The idea of being stuck here for days or weeks while waiting for that to resolve made him grimace. That assassin was sure to catch up with him if he was loitering around in one place. All the more reason to enlist Dak.
Yanko lifted his brows as Dak walked past again, carrying another load. Despite his strength, this one seemed heavier than the others. The tendons at his neck strained, and his back bowed forward as he toted the barrel up the dock.
“What is it?” Dak asked as he passed.
An odd thump came from inside the barrel. Weapons clunking against the side? Or maybe another person being smuggled? Dak’s expression never changed.
“I’m in need of a bodyguard.” It occurred to Yanko that he might leave it at that, try to get the Turgonian’s word before explaining the depth of the commitment he was asking for, but he couldn’t bring himself to try and trick the man into helping. If nothing else, a bodyguard bitter about the job he was doing wouldn’t be that eager to do a good job in his protection role. “For a trip to the Kyatt Islands,” Yanko added. “Maybe farther.” He lowered his voice, aware of other laborers striding up and down the dock to ships tied along the way. “I’ve been given a quest to find something valuable that could help my people.” He stopped before saying more. Whatever Dak was doing here, he was Turgonian and ultimately worked for the other side, a side that surely wouldn’t mind adding a new continent to the collection of colonies it already claimed. Maybe talking to Dak and trying to enlist him was the greatest foolishness. If he came along, he was certain to figure out what they were looking for. No, Yanko could keep that knowledge to himself, do his research in private. He could make this work, he was certain of it. If Dak would agree.
Dak grunted and lowered the barrel into the skiff. He didn’t thunk it down but was gentle with placing it next to the others.
The oarsman watched Yanko with wariness and glanced at Dak a couple of times, trying to catch his eye. And suggest that they should get rid of this Nurian kid poking his nose into their lizard cart?
“I’m too busy right now, Yanko.” Dak waved at the oarsman and tilted his head toward the ships in the harbor.
If it hadn’t been part of a dismissal, Yanko would have been pleased to know that Dak remembered his name. But those weren’t the words he wanted to hear.
The oarsman untied the skiff and ordered his colleagues to start rowing. Dak headed for the front of the dock again, his strides long and determined. He clearly wanted to leave Yanko behind and forget this conversation.
But Yanko couldn’t give up yet. Dak would be such a useful asset. He had already proven his skill with a blade, and in leading a group of prisoners out of the mine, he had proven that he was crafty, as well, despite his thuggish face and body. He had traveled the world, too, at least Turgonia and Nuria, so he would know things Yanko didn’t. Like how to get a good deal selling a carriage and where to find a ship that could smuggle a few people to the Kyatt Islands. As Yanko trotted after Dak, he glanced back at the skiff. It was arrowing for a freighter, not a Turgonian ironclad—which would have been blown up if it showed up in a Nurian port—but a wooden sailing ship flying a Kendorian flag.
Dak strode toward a busy warehouse with people and carts all around the loading docks. Yanko might lose him if he didn’t keep up. He jogged up to the bigger man’s side and opened his mouth to try again.
“I can’t,” Dak repeated.
“I see,” Yanko said. “You only redeem favors when it’s convenient for you to do so.” He hadn’t meant to s
ound so stung when he voiced the words—he had already acknowledged that what he was asking was far out of proportion to what he had done for Dak—but they came out that way, regardless, maybe because so much had gone wrong these last few days. Yanko couldn’t help but let the hurt and frustration seep into his voice.
Dak stopped and looked down at him, his expression one of exasperation rather than empathy.
“I need help,” Yanko said, hoping his naked honesty might appeal to the man. “The mines were attacked, my uncle was killed, and I’m the only one left who can help the family, help my people.” He waved back toward the freighter. “I know you help people, even if they’re not usually Nurians.” He didn’t want to do anything so stupid as attempting to blackmail Dak by threatening to find the port authorities and having them search that ship—again, an unwilling bodyguard wouldn’t be a good one—but maybe letting Dak know that he knew his secret would be enough.
“The Kyatt Islands,” Dak finally said, not giving any indication that he was worried about that freighter or what Yanko knew.
“Yes.”
“How are you going to get there? The port is blockaded.”
“I have ways.” Yanko wriggled his fingers to remind Dak he was a powerful wizard. Or at least a young man with a few magical tricks.
“You’re going to offer to heal a fern for one of the captains?”
Yanko flushed, reminded that the only magic Dak had seen him employ had involved bringing a dying fern back to life for Prince Zirabo. Alas, the earth sciences never impressed anyone. Maybe if Yanko conjured a small fireball and sent it sizzling into the water...
But Turgonians reputedly hated all magic, some claiming it didn’t even exist, so he wasn’t sure a demonstration would help his cause.
“Actually I was going to try and find a smuggler to hire,” Yanko said and didn’t mention that he had no idea where one went to find smugglers. He eyed the freighter again, but if they were going to Kendor, they were sailing down around the cape and taking the extremely long way to Turgonia, one that wouldn’t even take them into the same ocean as the Kyatt Islands.
Warrior Mage (Book 1) Page 10
