“I need the name of a barge.”
“That narrows our conversation considerably. And to think I was worried that you might be too vague,” Hopwell said. He rolled his eyes and drank again, beginning to dismiss Dirge without another thought.
“The man with the burns, who came from the desert. That barge.”
Hopwell grew still and placed the bottle on his cluttered desk with exaggerated care. When he spoke, there was no hint of liquor in his tone, only the sharp edge of someone in a position of authority. “Did you have any contact with that barge?”
“I? No. I merely heard of his condition and thought to”—
“Find what could make a man wax feverish while speaking of treasures unknown? Let me share something with you, friend. Everyone knows of hidden treasure. Every. Single. Person. When they die, all the rumors and fables come pouring out of them like rain, filling the people around their deathbed with false hope that maybe they are the ones to finally locate something from hallowed antiquity, something that can take them away from this life. It’s a never-ending cycle, like the flood, or the winds—even my bottles. Never-ending, and always the same, despite the rumors or stories being set in different locales.”
“I didn’t say . . .” Dirge began but stopped when Hopwell held up a hand of warning.
“You needn’t explain your motives. I already know them, and I don’t care. But I will tell you of the barge, and even where they had likely been, because that crew cost the guild thousands by the time we had them all sewn into cloaks and sent downriver. The entire crew died, it just took a while, and I was forced to burn that barge where it sat, on the lee side of an island just south of here. The entire cargo of spices, too, a damned shame.”
“Burn it? Why?” Dirge knew of only one reason to fire a barge.
“Plague, or something like it. The men lost their skin like falling leaves, and the women—I don’t want to think about what happened to them.” He drank again, but with a deliberate pace of someone trying to erase a memory. “The Juniper, and they picked the—the condition, let’s say—up somewhere no one knows or remembers. They’re secretive, just like everyone in this guild.” He pulled at the bottle, then added, “Make that the world. We’re all bursting with secrets, but some of them get us killed.”
“Could they have been on the river?” Dirge found it hard to believe something that lethal would not be laying waste to the fleet even as they spoke. The river was big, but traffic was heavy. Disease would spread. It always did.
“I would know, and so would you. They went inland somewhere, far enough to find a place that killed them all. The only thing we know is that there are two ways to get there, and the crew of the Juniper chose the wrong one. Toward the end, it was all they could talk about, fevered bits of regret. Two paths. One death. And what a death it was,” he said.
“Were they a hard crew?” Dirge asked. He was a soldier of sorts, and he knew something of human nature. An idea began to form in his mind, but he kept his face neutral while letting his eyes roam about the decrepit office.
To his surprise, Hopwell gave the question honest consideration. “No. They were opportunistic, but not tough. A part-time crew who let the current do their work, never looking beyond the easy way. Their barge was always on the cusp of sinking from some problem or another, and they rarely kept a whole crew together longer than one season. I couldn’t rely on them, and neither could the guild.”
Dirge nodded slowly, rising to his feet and extending a hand in what he hoped was a gesture of civility. “You’ve been a true help, friend. I’ll expect that you won’t mind ignoring my absence from duty for the near future, at least until I can take care of my poor, dear mother. She’s taken ill up north, and I must go to her side, as any son would do.”
Hopwell’s wet cough was pure derision. “You’ll do no such thing, lad. Even if the story rang true—”
Dirge tapped a small cask with his foot and pried it out from under a bench near the desk Hopwell lazed at. “Funny thing about spices. The containers are always stamped so that dealers can trace their more successful shipments for future consideration. Where do you think this cask came from, friend?” He bent to lift the small, round barrel, filled with an unseen spice and light enough to heft without trouble.
“Put that down, idiot. It’s delicate, and I’ll not have you—”
Dirge let his brows go high in surprise, then made a noise of disapproval. “The Juniper? But how can this be? If you fired the barge due to plague, then surely this must be a”—he searched for the term, then smiled— “clerical error on your part. A most profitable error, to be sure, but a mild oversight. I’m certain a few choice words to the council would clear things up without too much trouble. Here, let me help. I’ll be happy to—”
“Put it down.”
“I’m sorry?” Dirge asked, the picture of innocence.
“Put. It. Down.” Hopwell’s voice was a tired growl.
“Alright.” The cask landed softly, pushed back into its nest with a booted foot. “Help me understand something beyond your petty thievery, then.”
“Ask it,” Hopwell grunted.
“If the ship was consumed with plague, then how is it that you—an experienced member of the guild, mind you—could allow poisoned cargo to linger?”
Hopwell’s sigh was long on defeat. “Not all of it was bad. Just the cargo near the berths, where the crew slept. The rest was fine, though I couldn’t convince anyone to go aboard other than myself. I kept what I could and really did fire the rest.”
“How much did you save?” Dirge asked.
“Sixteen out of a hundred and forty, and that’s the last one. Take it, you cunning bastard, and be gone from my sight. You’ve one cycle of the moons to find your treasure, and after that, you’re a criminal.”
Dirge tipped his head in thanks. “You’ve earned it,” he said, tapping the cask with a toe. “And I’ll need a horse.”
“You’ll have it. Take one from the paddock onshore and be gone. Take this sketch; it’s the best I can do in terms of direction, and even then you might not like the answers, if there are any to be found.” Hopwell stood, unsteady from drink and something else. “I hope you find nothing.”
Dirge thought about that before leaving, his face dark with worry as he folded the map into a pocket without looking. Being lashed to avarice was a sickness that would not end well, but he was resigned to his own nature. “If I’m honest, I feel the same.”
Corra and Ainault
“How tall are they?” Corra asked. She held an open book, the page covered in a scrawled map, part fact and part fantasy.
“The Clockstones?” Ainault’s voice was distant. He was brewing tea, at the farthest reach of the library. A small kettle whistled on their black iron stove, adding a stream of mist to the sultry air. They had been sparring all morning, taking a break to read, drink, and eat. It was a routine that served them well, as Corra proved to be equally enamored with blade tactics and books alike.
“Are there any other mountains?”
He walked toward her, careful not to spill her steaming cup. “None that bear mentioning, at least not in our world.” He sipped at his own tea, wincing. “The mountains are a graveyard, first and foremost.”
“You’ve been?” It was nearly two thousand klicks to the foothills, let alone the peaks. She knew Ainault was a traveler but never suspected he had been to the edge of the known world. Few people had, and even fewer returned.
“Twice, both east and west. The western range is slightly higher, but the eastern peaks are more treacherous. Their faces are almost sheer, unstable, and covered in a gritty snow that makes every move into a potential avalanche, and more broody Razorbeaks than I ever care to see again. A foul, benighted place littered with the bones of everyone who tried to climb them, and some who didn’t.” He frowned at the memory, before lowering his lips to the tea.
“This map seems—”
“Incomplete? It is, and dangero
usly so. The only thing certain about the Clockstones is that they go high enough to make people wind sick, and they’re the last bastion of a world that ceased existing long ago, Corra. They keep us safe.” He thought for an instant before adding, “And they keep us contained. From what, I don’t know, but we’ve been asking that question since the time of a single moon, when the tides were predictable, and the river was young.”
“The tides have never been predictable,” she said, lifting her chin toward the outside. “We avoid their capriciousness because of our heights, but as to the people downriver? I wouldn’t care to live my life wondering if the water will come through the door each night.”
“It’s the rains. Six thousand klicks of river, and rain all along. The channel is huge, but even the river has limits. That’s why the deltas are in a constant state of war. They know not where land will be from one year to next, and that means conflict.”
“We have conflict.” Corra’s face shadowed with pain, and Ainault knew she was thinking of her king. Her parents. The life she left behind in the river, among the flames.
“We do, my queen, but it won’t always be that way. You can end it if you understand what to do.”
“I’ll never understand that, Ainault. I know the blade, and the bow. I can use those damnable rifles, even though they fire when they want to, it seems, and not when it counts. I know how to hurt things,” Corra said.
“And how to love,” he corrected.
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he knew he had gone too far. She waved off his entreaty, choosing to stand, eyes lifted to the glittering ceiling as rose and green light played over the angles of her face.
“I’ve known him since I was five. He tied knots in my hair and filled my shoes with stones, and I held him down and drew a mustache on him with my father’s pen. The ink got on his tongue and I called him Freckles for a month, and then one day he was taller than me, and we were at the academy and our games didn’t seem so funny anymore. Mother would watch us, and I never understood why until the day he asked for my heart, even though it was already his.”
“She watched because she knew love when she saw it, Corra. We all did.”
“I know that now, but back then we were just children. We’re still children, or we would be if he—if he—”
“I wish I could take your pain away, my queen, but I cannot, and I will not,” Ainault said. He knelt before her, holding her hands with a father’s touch.
“That’s a cruel thing to say right now.”
“Not cruel, my lady. Necessary.”
“You must hurt me to teach me? I thought the only sadists were at the academy.” She glared at him, eyes full of challenge.
“No, Corra. The pain is yours, and only you can decide how to grieve, or use the hurt to fuel your journey. I can understand some of what you feel, but—”
“How?” Her question was a lash, the sound heavy with derisive aggression.
“Because I lost my king and queen, and I am watching the weight of the world fall onto their daughter, who I’ve loved since she was a babe. So yes, lady, I understand some of what you feel because there is a pit in my soul that will never be filled. While you may find this hard to believe, I grieve for Ren, too. He was to be my king. He was yours, he was ours, and we were going to be a good and just land with the two of you to help us. Now, I am a tired soldier with aching knees, with a surly student who might be riding to her death among the sand beasts, and facing a witch who wants nothing more than the end of the world.”
Corra knelt, then folded her legs to sit, eyes fixed on Ainault’s honest face. “I’m sorry.”
“You were forgiven when the word left your mouth. I would do anything to save you, my queen, but I won’t let you wallow in grief, not when we need you more than ever.”
Outside, the snow pinged against the glass, a rattling song of the north they both knew by heart. When she spoke, her voice was low, the words urgent.
“I’ll have cavalry from the Mergansi?”
“You will, lady. And archers and lances and the ability to move fast over terrain that will kill you should you remain still. What happens in Silence will largely fall to you. I can only shape your anger into something that Sindelaar can use, like a flame put to a point.”
Corra looked away, then stood and selected a book on desert survival, written before she was born. “Show me.”
For the first time in days, Ainault smiled. “Lady, it will be my honor.”
Whisper and Keen
North
“I’m cold,” Whisper said for the thousandth time. Her voice was flat, skin red, and eyes watering as they stepped off the barge without a backward glance. Snow flitted about, indecisive and irritating as the rising sun fought to brighten one patch of sky, then the next. The wind was a constant low keen, mournful and distant.
“I know.” Keen swung the pack onto his shoulders, motioning her forward. Despite the cold, the dock was a hive of activity, with traders and travelers crowding around them in an array of furs and uniforms. “It’s one league to the gate and a warm hearth. We eat well tonight and sleep in a real bed.”
“We had best, or the barbs will be cleaning your ribs out on the river bottom this time tomorrow,” she groused, pulling her hood close.
“I would prefer to avoid their bite. I’ll be most diligent in my pursuit of our rest, but only after we do what we came for.”
“I have to agree.” She shivered, and not from the cold. Carrying the cursed dagger for six thousand klicks left her frayed and exhausted, wondering if the blade would break free of its wrapping to kill yet again.
“We’ll speak to the Castledon, and he will understand. Believe me, the North’r are nothing if not practical,” he said, but there was a note of uncertainty he couldn’t hide from her.
“We’re being watched,” Whisper murmured, her tone flat with alarm.
Keen’s senses pricked up, but he made no move. “Who?”
“Three, behind us. Two women, one man. He’s a big bastard, and the women are—new furs. They don’t move like North’r.”
A flick of his eyes, and he saw them. “The dark haired one watches—not us. You.” He hissed a curse, so soft and vicious as to be lost in the wind. “That fucking blade.”
The trio were careful but moved with an air of competence that made people go around them.
Predators and prey, Keen thought.
“We have to go in,” he said. “We must.”
“Through the crowd. I’ve coin at the ready for the guar—”
Whisper was cut off by the appearance of a woman—the dark haired one, now in front of her, somehow, and less than an arm’s length away. The woman tilted her head, a movement so smooth as to be unsettling.
“You’re wondering who I am—Cherry is my name, no need to be rude, and we’d like to chat.”
“We?” Whisper asked, but Cherry stood, silent.
“Curious thing. A signal, coming from you. Sort of like a bell, really. In your pack,” grated Nolan, right behind Whisper.
Where was Keen? Whisper wondered, fingers of fear crawling her spine.
As if reading Whisper’s thoughts, Keen spoke. “Weapon in my back. Rushed me, and I couldn’t turn in time. He’s damned strong.”
“I am. Very. But not as strong as my friends. You been here long?” Nolan asked.
The question brought Keen up short. People filed around them, either ignorant of the scene or knowing when to look away. Their little group was an island of calm in a steady stream of humanity.
“I, ah. All my life,” Keen admitted.
“And your friend?” This time, it was Avina, her voice cool and distant.
“Same,” Whisper said, a knife dropping into her hand.
“Don’t,” Nolan said. “At least, not here, where people can see me split you in three.”
Whisper stayed her hand. No one spoke.
“The bag?” Nolan prompted.
“Can’t do that,” Whisper said.
>
“Can’t or won’t? Because either way, it’s coming with me.”
Whisper sighed, but Keen went rigid. It was—fear. He was afraid.
“It’s a blade. Given to us by the desert witch. And it’s got more blood on it than you can imagine. Not suitable for anyone. Hell, it’s not safe to have, let alone use,” Keen said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Nolan said, lifting the bag and handing it over to Cherry, who barely moved. “Who’s the desert witch?”
Whisper’s eyes went round. “Who are you?”
Nolan shrugged. “Just a passenger who’s off course. This—witch? She got a name?”
“Rukisa. She was, or is, the queen of Silence,” Keen said.
“Describe her,” Cherry ordered.
“Cruel, pocked skin, beautiful, does magic for fun, goes into the Clockstones and survives. She had a setback, but she’s making a play for—everything, I think. The kingdoms. The river. And especially the cable,” Whisper said.
The witch is a Prelate agent, bet the house on it, Cherry said to Nolan via implant.
Agree. Follow my lead.
Nolan flicked his eyes back toward the barge, which was still rocking on the river. Other boats and barges crowded around it, like ducklings to their hen. “You’re killers, and you work for her—this Rukisa?”
A pause, then Keen said simply, “Yes.”
“Get back on the boat. We’ll take the knife. Any other items like it?” Nolan asked.
“Like it? No. Nor do we wish to see anything of the sort,” Whisper admitted.
“How long does it take to get to the Clockstones?” Avina asked.
“Two weeks by cable, to the Fallen Port, then inland. A month, if you ride hard,” Whisper said.
Nolan nodded slowly. “Thank you for the information. You’re free to go. And if I see you near us in six weeks when Rukisa arrives? I’ll gut both of you with that blade. Clear?”
Lost Kingdom: Book 1 in the Lost Kingdom Series Page 24
