The Captain smiles. “I knew a girl like her once,” he says, glancing back at Lucinda. Time passes like he’s unpacking, examining, and repacking old memories. He doesn’t add anything to the conversation except a worn and hopeless expression that disappears quickly.
“Santé also says you paid your taxes to a traveling collector?”
“Ector wasn’t safe for my family.”
“But you’re coming back?”
“Unfinished business.”
“Does it involve taxes?”
“No.”
“Well, whenever that’s done, would you be interested in a commission? The Grey Mules could use a man with your talents.”
I don’t tell him I’ve spent most of my life running from the Tax Watch. He probably suspects it already. Nor do I tell him how the lesser collectors have made my life miserable. “Your offer is interesting,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “but I spend too much time away from my kids as it is.”
The Captain sighs. “Santé said as much. He did mention the vacancies to you, though?”
“He did,” I say. “Several times. The one you want is Lucinda.”
I don’t mention that I know she isn’t interested, either. Better to have them hounding her than me.
“We don’t often . . .” He trails off. “Santé might want her, but I’m particularly interested in someone who can get in and out of tight spots. Do you do freelance work?”
Again I weigh my words carefully. It’s delicate business, this. Law and order and I don’t necessarily get along, not where I’m going. Either this is a setup or he’s got a particular job in mind, and not an easy one from the sound of it, not with the way he’s throwing my reputation around.
He thinks my delay means I’m tempted and tries to sweeten the deal. “In addition to regular pay, the Tax Watch offers low-interest extensions,” he says. “As a man of property, you might find this useful.”
A year ago that would have been a very tempting offer, but I’d still have turned it down. Don’t ever give the Tax Watch any more leverage on you than they already have. Some of Ector’s acquisitioners have been broken by getting too friendly with the Tax Watch.
“You’ve probably heard about my difficulties with the assassins’ guild?” I say carefully. “Until that’s resolved, I’m afraid I’d be more of a liability.”
“Perhaps not,” he says. But he doesn’t press the issue. It’s not an argument that he can take lightly.
The river turns again and the highway comes back into view. I see a rider, bent low over his horse, black cloak flowing in the wind. The horse is fresh, pulling it’s bit and pricking its ears forward, but the rider is spent, posture sagging. He grips the reins with one hand and forces himself straighter in the saddle. After a moment he reaches into his coat and stuffs a handful of what appears to be dried leaves into his mouth.
The Captain points. “We came abreast this rider about an hour before dawn. Saw him in the early watch lights of Derrindock. This stretch of the river has twists and turns, but the road is straight, so he’s kept pace. We’ll leave him behind after the next bit, but it’s interesting. Man’s got purpose to ride like that.”
“Revenge?” I suggest.
“A man doesn’t ride like that for revenge.” The Captain turns to look me in the eye. “But he will out of fear. Or maybe hope. I should know.” The Captain glances out at the rider one more time, and then turns to go. “Good night and good morning, Mr. Steeps.”
He drops something on the deck as he walks away. It falls away from his wad of collection notices like an accident but I know a drop when I see one. I pretend not to notice it.
The wind blows.
The paper tumbles across the deck toward me. There’s something odd about the way it moves. The air around it smells like traps and magii. And dog fur.
I put my foot on it and see that it’s an address. Enough of the lettering is exposed for reading, so I read it without picking it up. It’s a place I wouldn’t be caught dead entering.
I lift my foot and watch the unnatural wind carry the scrap overboard and into the river. There’s something else about this boat that the captain is hiding, and I aim to find out.
EIGHT
I find the young magii nestled in the belly of the ship, well below the waterline. The hold is packed with straw, weapons, and foodstuffs, but they’ve still managed to make a nest of tax notices, decades old, of all things. They both grin at me as I slip through the hatch and into this little lair, their leather Tax Watch vests, one brown and one black, lit by an orange lantern light.
At first I think they’re brothers, twins, but when she smiles all the boyishness disappears. She has luminous eyes while his are more subdued, matching the color of his brown vest. They’re from the east, I realize, with racial traits I haven’t seen before and mistook for family similarity: pointy noses and high, gaunt cheekbones. They can’t be more than seventeen summers, and on the malnourished side. But then, perhaps magii have better things to do than eat. I can feel the intermittent hum of magic around me as they probe at the seams of the world.
Aside from the buzzing, the rower’s hold is almost comfy. Nestled between the barrels, backpacks, and weapons, I could almost feel at home, almost get sleepy, except for the buzzing. And the cockroaches. They seem to cover everything, skittering about, fluttering their wings occasionally.
The magii are tormenting them, chasing them about with little scraps of paper drifting on an imaginary wind. It takes me a second to figure out that they’re actually herding the cockroaches toward a checkerboard of small black-and-white stone tiles set up fastidiously on a small crate. The tiles are flat and square, and as soon as a cockroach perches on one, the square jumps up as if alive, its hapless passenger trying desperately to maintain its balance. Almost as quickly, the stone falls back to its place. The hum of magic lessens momentarily as the magii laugh in unison, and then the process begins anew.
White stone. Black stone.
Brown vest. Black vest.
They’re taking turns. They look at each other as if having a conversation, and then they both give a jerky, little nod before one of them relaxes into a floating trance and the other’s fingers twitch as if molding soft clay. I can see now what Kiri was hinting at. They are working in unison, one listening to the earth and opening its doors while the other shapes the world around them.
Unlike with Yessy and No-No, the girl leads more often. Two times of three it’s her hair that flattens against her head, while the boy floats face up in an invisible pond, gathering the bones of the world. It’s also clear that these two like this arrangement, clinging to each other as they play the game.
The game is not going well for the cockroaches, though. Each lift brings a tile closer to the low ceiling, until at last one of the hapless bugs is crushed. The shaper magii giggles and the other moans.
After a moment and a nod, the game begins again.
#
“Santé’s got magii in the hold,” I say, settling in next to Lucinda when the fife sounds the second time. “He’s training them to fight cockroaches.”
She grunts at me, not smiling as she grabs her oar with stiff arms, braces herself with stiff legs, and pulls. She doesn’t care about the cockroaches, tiles, or magii nest because the river miles have taken their toll.
I stop talking, since I’ve had twice the break she’s had, and conversation may rub the wrong way. Her hands are double-wrapped now, sword-form calluses insufficient to the task. I heave-to, trying to make a difference for her, and soon remember why she prefers grunting to talking.
The fife sounds again, and we drink and sleep.
The fife sounds again, and we bleed and sweat.
In the late afternoon I can see the city wall on the horizon. The familiar smells of early spring in Ector are all there: gentle fires, fresh-cut forage grasses, and a hint of early-bloom blue magnolia. My heart leaps and then falls silent. This is home. It’s cobbled streets, slate and shake
rooftops, familiar smells, and dart games. It’s Carmen biting off a thread to finish a dress. It’s kids playing in the chilly fountain. But it’s also death. Death wrapped in the trappings of familiarity.
The closer we get to Ector, the slower we go, and in all my haste I am still glad for it. For the first time I notice how the little townships cluster around the city like flies on a carcass. Santé and the Captain hit every little village dock, stopping the rower so squads can get off in each township. Santé calls it a “mass appraisal.”
“That’s not how the Tax Watch usually operates,” I say.
“What would you know about our operations?” he says. He gives me a meaty stare, his stubbled face carving the air to ribbons. Then he grunts. “Local staff’s been a little sluggish, else we’d still be in the north.”
I can see how the influx of the Greys might accelerate the process. Santé’s been passing out assignments in the galley for the last hour from behind a mound of bug-splattered paper, and though Lucinda and I haven’t been invited again, we can see the no nonsense efficiency with which they prepare packs, papers, and weapons.
Soon there aren’t enough rowers to keep up the pace. We go to half crews, and then the boat just glides along in the current, steadied by men on the steering paddles and pushed forward by the awkward wind. The magii are sitting together in the crow’s nest, peering in opposite directions. In the late afternoon light I get a better look at them as they both stand up to peer over the same side of their basket, staring down at the gangplank where one man stops to adjust his pack.
I groan as the plank lurches upward. The man wobbles in the air, rising quickly before pitching over into the river. There is giggling from the crow’s nest as men on the deck fish the unlucky man out, hauling him back into the boat with a deck rope. He mutters something about the Santé’s damned pets while the crew sets the plank again. He barely makes it halfway across before the plank jerks from the deck again and pitches him headfirst into the water. This time he has the sense to climb out of the water on the dockside.
I turn my attention back to my own concerns as the boat begins to move again. After hours of flying past the countryside, we crawl along the river like a beetle on a leaf.
I’m not complaining. My hands are blistered, my ribs aching from the last shift. No one is in any condition to row anymore. The men have been ordered an hour’s rest before disembarking. They fall to obeying this order with great aplomb.
Why this hurry? I wonder as we approach the main dock. The Mules move slow and steady, as inexorable as their proverbial mascot. While taxes are usually collected and shipped a good three months earlier, Ector has been late before. To my knowledge, it never merited a flood of Grey Mules.
Santé eyes me quietly as the men depart in twos and threes. “They’ll be watching the entrances for you, Mr. Steeps.”
I nod. I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I’ll never even get close to Carmen if they nab me in the first watch. “I have a plan.”
Lucinda grits her teeth as we slow for another stop. She’s felt uncomfortable about enclosed spaces since stowing away in my luggage for a day. “Please tell me we’re not going home in barrels.”
“Well, there are some barrels involved.”
I glance at Santé and he grins. His smile is a stony, rugged thing. Not truly inviting, but not without warmth either. “I wouldn’t advise it,” he says. “The customs men in Ector check barrels. Too much trouble with the wool smugglers.”
Santé doesn’t know what my “unfinished business” is, but he suspects it involves Nightshades. I’m a wanted man in Eastmarch, and not for anything illegal.
“You’re docking in Lower, right?” I say, pressing forward with my plan.
Santé nods.
“Perfect. Run a line under the boat,” I say. “Drop it over the port and starboard sides at the front and walk it back to the mid. Then tie it off, leaving a bit of slack. Dump our barrels over the river-side rail like you’re emptying out bad water or something. We can pass under the boat and to the underside of the dock using the line. There’s a sewer entrance under the dock there. The dockmen and I weren’t great friends.”
Lucinda nods. She remembers Frank.
Santé doesn’t blink, taking the information in. “The sewer entrances are supposed to be grated.”
I shrug. I hate letting the Tax Watch proper in on one of my best secrets, especially since he’s the very type of person I like to avoid, and all cuddled up with customs men and auditors. But after this, I’m leaving Ector for good, so they can guard it all they want. “That’s why I’m telling you about this one,” I say. “Think of it as a public service. How often do your people inspect them?”
Santé nods. “Good point.” He whistles to one of his men. “Bring a rope, Wickles. Let’s put a belt on this pony.”
#
Pan’s beard, the water’s cold. It’s so cold that I want to hold my breath forever. My flesh ripples at the shock of it and my body tries to stop moving. My fingers are instantly numb. That’s the problem with being small. Core temperatures never hold. I’m practically naked, my personal effects and Lucinda’s rolled tightly in two oil-leather bags. I bought the bags and a soon-to-be-needed soap cake from Santé, and I had him tie both bags to my back. It would be too much for me to carry for long, but Lucinda just needs to cross the gap between boat and pylons on the other side of the boat and then pull me across. She’ll take her pack after that.
I open my eyes underwater, curiosity getting the best me. Late afternoon light crashes green through the surface of the river, illuminating the two feet of water above my head. I see the silhouette of the ship above me and the overlapping wood of its hull planks. In front of me, a few fish hold their position in the current, staring at us, dancing aside as we progress along our lifeline under the boat. Barrelheads, maybe?
I’ve got better things to think about. Like how I can barely hold the rope and I’ve only gotten halfway under the boat. The shadows deepen as a cloud passes. I inch along, hand over hand, legs trailing downstream, icy fingers threatening to lose grip at the slightest tug. I take comfort in the fact that I’m also roped to Lucinda.
My lungs ache.
We don’t pause at all on the other side of the boat. Lucinda aims for the upstream pillar and launches herself, staying under water. For a moment the rope plays out between us, and then she’s across. I can’t be sure, buried as we are, but the double-tug on the rope is our signal. I let go of the boat-rope and get pulled forward until I collide with her. She’s got her legs wrapped around the center pylon, her white shift floating around her like a pair of angel’s wings.
The docks in Fortrus have post-gems, or what Magnus calls barnacles. They grow on everything that touches the salty water of the northern ocean, but the river posts in Ector are gentle and covered with slimy underwater moss. She might get a splinter, or a bruise, but that’ll be the worst of it.
I wrap my arms around the pylon in a tangle of limbs, rope, and moss and try to surface quietly. We both gasp for air, thanking Santé’s men for stomping around on the docks above and masking the sound of us catching our breath.
“So c-cold,” Lucinda whispers.
I don’t say anything for fear of letting my teeth rattle. I can barely point the way.
The dock is long and the beams are tall, because this is one of the high-water docks. We work our way from pylon to pylon, and more than once I consider turning myself in. Instead, Lucinda pulls me forward.
Even with stiff limbs and fingers, the grate is a snap. I don’t even have to bang the submerged pins loose, because the grate is already gone, rusted loose and sunk since I last used it. I reach deep into the river with my legs, searching for it, but feel only strange currents tugging at my feet.
Lucinda doesn’t complain. It’s harder to complain than it is to grit your teeth against the cold.
I wriggle through the round hole, holding my breath, forcing my fingers to move, and yank our packages b
ehind me. Lucinda follows. It’s another fourty-meter slosh before we get more than a cheek-space of air, and though the tunnel is back-flooded with river water, it isn’t fresh. The tunnel is full of unspeakables that just slithered down here, pushed along by melting snow and ice.
This is probably the worst time of the year to be here. Not wet enough to wash out the city’s excrement, nor frozen enough to lock the smells away. Until the spring downpour does its job, this will be a foul place.
We pull ourselves along, submerged in the backwash, keeping our eyes and cheeks out of the water.
The exit tunnel stays level for forty yards or so and takes us away from the docks, away from the tramping boots on wood and the shouts of dock crews. It carries us beneath the first row of warehouses and cobbled streets, and becomes more and more silent as we go, buried beneath fifty feet of stone, and earth, and humanity, our faces crammed against the small space in the tunnel not filled with water. Soon the only sound is a distant drip, and the gentle movement of foul water around us.
Lucinda’s breathing dominates the silence, coming quicker than it should.
“Teacup.” Her voice is nervous. I can’t see her in the darkness, but I can imagine the frantic look in her eye. “Teacup? We have to go back. I can’t breathe. I have to get out.”
“If you can’t breathe, how are you talking?”
I feel a counter tug on the rope.
“I’m going back to the river. I . . .”
“Almost there.” My voice is soft, kinder than I feel. A moment later my hand hits the wall of the upshaft and I slide sideways to the pair of iron rings set there.
“Teacup?”
I pull on the rope tying us together, pull my younger, larger companion closer, find her hand in the cold, smelly dark and place it on the ring. “Climb.”
Lucinda doesn’t argue. I can feel her shaking, and not from the cold, but my slimy hand on her arm seems to have centered her. “Where are we?”
“Upshaft. The water stacks up here. The pressure builds until it can push out into the river, even when the river rises six or seven feet above the discharge.”
Shadowcloaks Page 9
