On occasion, the river beasts found halfkin nothing short of deadly as their pods were known to hunt for sport, bones, or trophies. In their own way, the River Children ruled the water, just as the Cablers ruled the routes up and down six thousand klicks of churning river. Gessin sighed, watching the barge intently as another section collapsed in a shower of sparks. He thought he heard a scream but couldn’t be certain—and in truth, he didn’t care.
It was part of his gift. He could bring death without regret, ending lives without a twinge of emotion. When he looked down to Creel, the halfkin was pointing away, toward the city.
“It would be best if you leave before there are crowds. You do not want to be seen near such things, given your reputation.” Creel winked, a nictitating membrane flickering across his eyes with quicksilver speed.
Gessin’s harsh laugh rang over the expanse of dark water. He trusted no one, let alone the squeaking masses of halfkin and their twisted sense of honor. Whether they had put huskworms in the hull was irrelevant because Gessin was decisive, too, and no fewer than four barges were now crawling with the vicious parasites. Unlike many humans, Gessin was a fearless swimmer, at least during the day. Earlier, he’d taken a guess as to which barge would be used for the wedding, placing worms along every seam in the hull, the rails, even the broad keel, worn smooth by the punishing current.
Then, he’d infected the nearby barges as well because an expert killer is nothing if not thorough. Let the River Children play at their agreements. He would never leave a contract to someone else when he could do the work himself. The lies he told the Children were insurance and nothing more, a practice that assured him of success every time he went forth to do his dark work.
Somewhere, a night gull shrieked, angry as they ever were. Other than the snapping sails of a bold sailor plying the waters off cable, there was little sound save the intrusive collapse of the distant barge, now roaring with fire and throwing off heat in angry waves. It had been an enormous, gaudy thing, three stories high and leaking light, laughter, and the scents of food and wine. Tied to a long pier, the barge had been an aging courtesan fending off time.
Daylight was unkind to the frayed edges of the vessel, though he couldn’t say the same for the bride to be, or at least she had been prior to the explosive fire.
The first pang of regret cut at his resolve, but Gessin tamped it down with a twitch of his facial muscles. Her quality was obvious to anyone. Young, with skin like milk, she glowed with the kind of beauty that women of the Snow Kingdom seemed to hold as their birthright. She was every inch a North’r, with dark red hair and eyes that mirrored an autumnal sky in its vast glories, and thus unused to the presence of water parasites and their ceaseless hunger. He wondered if her bridal gown had taken her to the bottom yet. Then his thoughts returned, as always, to the money.
Gessin stood in anticipation of his favorite moment in life. Being paid.
“I leave you now,” he said, receiving no argument from the halfkin. Without a sound, Creel slipped beneath the waves as Gessin moved away from the light and heat of his handiwork, caring little for the sporadic screams that still echoed across the water. A symphony of crackling pops heralded the collapse of yet another deck as the barge began to fold inward, its timbers now a glowing pile like a forgotten campfire. He stepped lightly from the shore to a path of stone, the lights of a distant winehall pulling him forward with the irresistible power of greed.
In three steps, he slipped back into the night as people began to throng the shore, their distant shouts barely audible as Ren and Corra, the future king and queen of everyone in the River Valley, eased beneath the waves, scorched by coals of heated fury. To Gessin’s delight, the two royals weren’t alone in the current. The river was crowded with corpses.
“Time to get paid,” he murmured, a thrill of anticipation charging his feet into a pattering trot. This was the moment he craved, not the kill. Any fool could kill. Only an artist could feel the heft of a fat purse, then walk away in anonymous wealth.
In the night air, he recalled memories of his mentor, Farlen, now long since bones and dust, and his warning that a lack of street sense would lead to his own demise. Gessin couldn’t agree more, given that it was he who sunk a dagger into Farlen’s back as he toasted their first successful job together.
Gessin never missed an opportunity, even if it was the unprotected back of a man who had treated him like a son. Granted, sons didn’t usually kill their fathers, but that was a detail he could overlook since it opened up a vista of work in the area once people understood just how cold Gessin could be.
After moments under the night sky, the stars began to fade as burning lamps took their toll on the dark. A muffled sound of debauchery leaked from two stories of teetering lumber, the windows hazed with filth and age. In the light breeze, a battered sign hung tired on damp ropes, the painted fish now a mere outline after years in the punishing Salt Kingdom weather. The Lazy Carp. A waste of words in Gessin’s mind. All carp were lazy, even the hungriest. He knew a little about fish but everything about being a predator and decided that he was no carp.
* * *
After throwing the door open, he eeled through the winehall crowd, eyes blinking from the acrid stink of smoke and sour wine as a wave of heat flared his cheeks into pink rebellion. Shouts in every language he knew fell around him like a summer storm, the cacophony of insults and revelry too jumbled to discern between joy and danger. It was Gessin’s place of business, and he swiftly found his employer sitting alone at a rear table, pale hands wrapped around a full mug of red swill that might have been considered wine in poorer times.
“It is done,” she said without looking up.
“It is.”
Her lips were full, but they hardly moved as she spoke. A blue hood covered dark hair and a pale face, pockmarked with odd scars on the left. A fever or just bad luck, yet she lived on, still beautiful in the way of dangerous things.
“The groom?” she asked in a muffled rasp. One brow lifted with interest, the most human thing she had done since he sat down. Ren had been a knight of some repute, having earned his name in the War of the Third Delta. Precious little that name would help as he sank to the depths.
“Dead. All dead.”
The hood moved in a nod, and her hand lifted to push an errant lock of hair back under the fabric. “How?”
“Huskworms in the hull, then fire everywhere else. Three more barges going down tonight, but they don’t matter. I couldn’t take the chance of being wrong. They all looked alike underwater,” he admitted.
“A thorough man. I approve.” The hint of a smile, then a small sip of wine. Her hand flickered, and thirty platinum coins appeared near his. He hadn’t even seen her move, let alone palm that much metal.
“Thank you,” he said. The coin trick left him anxious to be free of her presence, but he knew she would dismiss him when the conversation was complete.
“Look at the coins.”
He did. On them was the face of a king from when the world was young, edges bright and letters in a script that meant nothing to him. Old money. The sight of it made his blood boil with lust. He had only one love, and that was money. It was his greatest joy and most open weakness, a flaw writ large on his face as he toyed with the musical, clinking discs flashing brilliant in his palm.
“When will you spend them?” she asked. Not if. When. She knew his flaw. It made him feel even more exposed.
“I might go—”
“No, you won’t.” Her voice cracked with authority, even in a whisper.
“I won’t?”
“No. Not until the bodies are sewn into shrouds and I hear the cries of everyone along that stinking riverbank. There must be such a tumult that the people are weeping for what can never happen. The drowned princess. The dead prince. All of that royal blood cut out of the kingdoms like a rotten limb, their lips blue and skin white as the two moons. Only then will you spend the coin, Gessin. Do you know why?” She toyed wit
h the mug, hands supple and dangerous.
He gasped for words, at a loss as to the best answer for this quiet, malignant person. He’d been on the edge of death before. It was here again, so he remained silent, freeing himself of the chance word that would get him killed before he could go for his knife.
“You’re smart to be quiet for a moment, Gessin. You’ve an old head on young shoulders when it comes to understanding the way of the world. If the bodies are not seen, then the marriage continues, if only in the minds of the people.” She tapped his hand, and her skin was cool, like a lizard. “Those coins are my assurance that such a thing cannot happen. Will not happen. Yes?” There was a lilt to her question, as if she was lecturing a child. His anger flared and cooled in meteoric arc of rare good sense. Pride and honor were the traits of the dead and the foolish. Only money was eternal, so he stowed whatever lingering emotion he carried and focused on the coins in his hand. Their heft was enough to make him smile at her, and for once, it was genuine.
“I understand,” he said. He made a note to find Creel again, wondering what the halfkin would want for bodies. Surely the chittering horde could find them, even in the vastness of the river, and with thirty coins of incomparable wealth, he could withstand a bribe if it would save his life. Dead killers held no coin, a fact that Gessin knew from experience, having robbed more than one rival corpse in his time.
“Lady, I—”
“I am no lady, but continue,” she said.
He waited a moment, then inclined his head politely. It seemed to be the right moment for dusting off old manners, and his pause earned a curve of her lips. “How will you know the job is complete?”
Her smile deepened. “I’ll be nearby. Out of sight but well within earshot of the tragedy.”
“Oh.” He paused again, this time from confusion. “Why did you need me to do this thing if you are to be close by?”
With eyes of gold, she looked idly down at her hands. “I grow tired of blood, but I can still kill, if needs must. I am in the south collecting things. Things I need for the future.”
“But, with money like that, can’t you hire the whole of Marwai to make what you need?” His confusion was genuine. To Gessin, money was the answer to all questions.
“We have lost the ability to make things I need, and money cannot recreate the past,” she said.
“I understand,” he said, but he did not.
“Pray you don’t. There is more power in our past than you will ever wish to see in your lifetime, and I will have all of it.” She left him sitting in his cloud of fear, and for the first time in his entire life, Gessin felt young.
Chapter Three
Nolan, The Reluctant King
“I don’t want to be the king of anything,” Nolan said. “I have other concerns.”
“Like fixing your suit? Looks like you took some kind of fall,” Crowe said. “Gravity isn’t bad here. ’Bout nine-tenths of a standard, give or take a touch. You from a heavy world?”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “You’re tall, but far from thin, and you’ve got blonde hair that looks natural, not that weird color you get from tailored genes. So you weren’t a spacer, and you didn’t grow up on a moon or some other place where falling won’t hurt you. You got too many muscles to be shipborn, but you got fair skin and blue eyes, so you’re not one of those tank-grown kids whose parents designed them like code.” Crowe eyed Nolan, then nodded. “The way you’re looking around at the sky tells me you spent some time underground. A dome, maybe?”
“Mining world. Brightline.”
He whistled. “No wonder. Tough place to make a living. That where they can only live in the stripe, or whatever it’s called?”
“That’s the one. We called it the Strip. Burning on one side, freezing on the other. Tidally locked world that always faced one way, toward the star, but loaded with every metal and mineral you can imagine. Not that any of that stuff fell into my family’s hands. We were rockworms, so we lived tight, from train to train,” Nolan said.
“Trains?” Crowe asked, puzzled.
“Ore trains. Once the plasma smelters scalded away the waste, the trains would come in and weigh out your take, then you’d be paid. Then the hucksters came in behind them to take all the money back, selling us gear, booze, whatever you wanted except freedom. I never knew anything different, but this place seems—”
“Too big?”
Nolan smiled. “You get it, yeah. Too big and too open. And not enough pull, maybe.” I stomped my boot, but the ground felt pillow soft under my heel. “I’m used to 1.18 gravs, so it feels like my body is hollow, or like in a dream.”
“You’re awake. My home world was .98 gravs, but then I spent years in space. When I hit dirt here, thought I was gonna float away,” Crowe said, then he frowned. “Still wish I could, most days, especially because they’re long. Year’s long too—about 448 days, give or take.”
“Long ass year. Why d’ya want to float away?” Nolan asked.
“It’s hard being here, knowing what I do, and seeing how this planet lives. Then there’s wondering if I’ll die here. I’ve made my mind up that’s likely, but not for a while if I have my say. We’d better head to the cliffs. Only a few hours of light left, and we don’t want to be out in the open, away from a platform, when it gets dark. Not here, anyway,” Crowe said.
“Weather? Predators?” Nolan asked, moving toward him as he began walking across the mossy ground.
When he looked back, his smile was gone. “Both.”
They walked and talked for an hour, the sled sliding easily behind Nolan in the light gravity. Crowe told him of the world and what he’d learned in his years. It amounted to a feudal system, like on old earth before technology made people scatter to the stars. There were petty kings and queens of all kinds, some fair, some grotesque parodies of a ruler whose people lived in fear. Nolan quickly grasped the fact that distance and travel were a serious limitation to government and life in general. Where spacers were used to going planet to planet; here, the tech was so limited that life was a compact reality, with small kingdoms and villages within a few days walking distance. Although there were methods of transit from the stars that still worked, but they were inconsistent and prized to the point of being militarized. There also seemed to be huge gaps in exactly when people came down from the sky. The jump point wasn’t consistent, and years or even decades went without any new additions to the world.
“What about the southern ocean? I saw it coming in. Looks to cover the entire hemisphere,” Nolan said.
“And it does. The north is lakes, ponds, and the like, except for the big bastard of a river. That’s another story entirely, and it carves the entire northern continent into equal halves, more or less,” Crowe said.
“Ever been across?”
Crowe didn’t answer right away but pointed to a small copse of trees to our left. “Good eating, those. Sour, but sweet after the frost. You can dry ’em out and carry ’em with you.”
Nolan dropped the sled and walked to the nearest tree, which resembled an overgrown club moss with round, blush-colored fruit. “Can I eat it?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it, unless you like really sour things, but, yeah. It’s okay,” he said.
Nolan picked the darkest fruit on the head-high bush, tossed it in his mouth, and wobbled on his feet, mouth pulling to one side in a rictus. It was beyond sour. It was everything sour he’d ever eaten put on a single point, and it didn’t let up for a whole minute of coughing, sputtering, and choking until tears streamed down his face.
When he was done jumping around and hacking like he’d inhaled toxic gas, Nolan looked up to see Crowe grinning down.
“Told you,” he said, shrugging.
“You . . . did at that. Must be one heluva frost to turn those sweet,” Nolan croaked, giving the bush a final glare as they walked away.
“Don’t worry, there are other things to eat back at Sunward, but we’re too far out to make it be
fore nightfall. Have to hole up soon,” Crowe said.
“Animals?”
“Among other things, as I mentioned before,” he said cryptically, then sniffed the wind. “Might rain, too. Hard going with that sled over moss that’s soaked, no matter how strong you are. We’ll find a Pitch about thirty minutes’ walk from here. We can collect firewood on the way.”
“Pitch?” Nolan asked. He scanned the horizon and saw . . . nothing for some distance except a few odd trees and rock outcroppings. Coming down the mountain, they’d been walking across a plain that looked less dangerous, albeit bland and uninteresting.
“Something odd about your arrival,” Crowe said casually.
“Other than crash landing?”
“That was a controlled descent with an unplanned disassembly,” Cherry said, and Nolan stifled a laugh.
“The crash landing isn’t weird at all. We all crashed here,” Crowe said. “But you don’t seem too concerned about getting off this planet. I wonder why?”
Nolan shrugged. “The facts aren’t on my side.”
“Do tell.”
“That jump point was off charts. It went somewhere new, or at least somewhere I’ve never seen. I’m not an engineer, and I can’t build a jump-capable ship out of sticks,” Nolan said.
“All true, so far,” Crowe admitted.
“You said you’ve been here for years and you were a sergeant. You know things. That means you’re measuring what to tell me before we get to Sunward, which is where your wife and family are. Oh, and you’re probably in charge of the place, too, but you’ll tell me that when you’re ready,” Nolan said, grinning at Crowe in the failing light.
He smiled back, then rubbed his head slowly with one calloused hand. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as you look—”
“Oh, and I stole the ship I was in because I had no other options. I was a shitty thief, and as far as being a Marque Holder? I wasn’t ready for that level of expertise—or pay, for that matter. You get a Marque, you’re damned good, and an asset to whoever can afford to hire you. Obviously, I wasn’t as good as I thought. So here I am, on a plain covered with moss, wondering what’s going to try to eat me tonight once the star drops over the horizon,” I said.
Lost Kingdom: Book 1 in the Lost Kingdom Series Page 3
