Legacy

by Daniel Pierce

  We reached a rocky outcrop that gave a good view of the campsite in one direction, and a bleak expanse of night-dark wilderness sweeping off toward the distant Shikasud in the opposite. My tech tagged it as a key piece of terrain, because it dominated both the camp and the whole western approach to it. So, apparently, did Flint, who squirted a bit of urine on the rock so she could quickly find it again, too.

  I stopped and looked at Reyna. “What happened a few months ago?”

  She looked at Flint, then crossed her arms and looked at me. “My husband—he . . . he died. He was hunting blackhorn out west. Knew what he was doing, but . . . well, I guess when it comes to blackhorn, your first mistake is your last.”

  I thought about the small mountains of muscle and bad temper that were blackhorn. “Yeah, blackhorn are hard, even if you do know what you’re doing. I’m sorry for your loss, Reyna. I really am.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve moved on. You have to, you know?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s just . . .” she began, then trailed off.

  “Flint bites, but I don’t. Feel free to say what’s on your mind.”

  We started walking again, arcing around to close the circle with the campfire at its center. “I’ve met lots of people since I lost him. None of them were what you could call the really trustworthy types, so I’ve never told anyone about it. Until you, that is.” I felt her gaze on me in the gloom. “You’re the first one I’d call trustworthy, Cus. So that’s why I told you. Actually feels good to tell someone. Anyway, that’s also why I want to thank you. When I do sleep tonight, I expect it will be well . . . for the first time in a long while.”

  The moment hung a little too heavy in the night air, so I decided to lighten it. “Aren’t you forgetting to thank someone else?”

  I felt her gaze become a stare and then she chuckled. “Oh, Flint? I think she already knows all this.”

  “You’re right . . . I expect she does.”

  We reached a patch of patch of goldenrod near where we’d started the circle around the camp. It stood tall and so brightly yellow it seemed to glow in the dark with its own, soft light.

  “Glory season,” I said, though not particularly to Reyna.

  She looked at me. “What?”

  “Glory season. When the goldenrod gets like this, that’s what it’s called. What I call it, anyway. Means we’ve still got some summer left, but not a lot.” I eyed the goldenrod for a bit then made up my mind. “Yeah, we’ll go up water and meet those traders your dad mentioned—you and him, and me and Flint. Do some business with them before glory season ends.”

  As we started back to the fire, she smiled at me, said, “I’m glad,” and that was all.

  In the end, she seemed to fall asleep okay. I was the one who lay there in my bedroll, staring up into the stars and thinking.

  2

  Aldebar had been right. The traders coming down-water did have lots of goods, they were really interested in Hightec, and their prices were too high. After we’d met up with them—a surly trio with a pair of shabby pack-mules—I’d considered letting Flint do some talking for me; it was amazing how much just seeing her teeth could make a greedy man more generous. But I held her back. There was nothing wrong with these men. They were just doing what we all did, trying to get as much as they could for as little as possible. I sure understood that. So I sent Flint off to watch the proceedings from a distance, offered over the capacitor, and got not just salt and jerky, but a good scarf and even a small bag of beet-root sugar, a rare treat. Reyna looked at the scarf then glanced pointedly at the sun, which was beating down like a furnace, and smirked.

  “You somehow managing to be cold, Cus?”

  “No,” I said, folding the scarf and stuffing it into my pack, “but let’s have this conversation again in a couple of months when there’s ice on the water.”

  She shrugged, but her smirk remained. “I just like poking at you. You scowl right back in such a funny way.”

  I said, “Bah,” but couldn’t resist a smirk of my own.

  Before we left the traders, I asked them about the road from here to Watermanse, on the shore of Le’kemeshaw, the big water. They looked at one another with a round of shrugs and said it had been fine coming this way.

  I thanked them and made to move on.

  Aldebar gave me a curious look as I hefted my pack. “Take it you’re heading to Watermanse.”

  “Well, come this far up water, might as well. Do some more trading before heading . . . not really sure where. Take some time in Watermanse to figure that out, too.”

  Aldebar glanced at Reyna. “Well, if you don’t mind—”

  “Already figured we’d be heading there together,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  He smiled and so did Reyna, who also looked a little relieved. Seeing that look on her face made me a little happier, even though Watermanse would probably be where we parted ways.

  We made to set off, but the youngest of the traders stepped away from the mule he’d been packing up and caught my eye. “Yeah, one other thing,” he said. “Hide-merchant, about two days ago, told us about trouble out east. Said to watch out for raiders headed this way.” He scratched under his hat. “Didn’t see no one like a raider on the way here, though, so might be nothin’. Still, thought you’d like to know.”

  I nodded and thanked him. He was right, it might be nothing. Probably was, in fact. More likely someone saw someone they didn’t like and that got passed from mouth to ear, mouth to ear, and grew each time in the telling, the way these things do.

  But might and probably and likely weren’t words to live by, so I’d keep an eye to the east.

  Nothing came at us from the east, though, or from any other direction. We passed a few straggling travelers, but they kept to themselves and so did we. Otherwise, we had the road to ourselves. The weather was fine and hot. Having Aldebar and Reyna along made for some good talks, and even a few songs. Reyna had a good singing voice, but her dad surprised me with the resonant baritone that passed his chapped lips. Much as I liked Flint’s company, she wasn’t much of a conversationalist, so it was nice to have some human companions for a change. In fact, Aldebar was singing—a solemn tune, almost like a dirge, apparently from way up in Canadia, but with a strangely majestic tone, the way he sung it—when we broke a crestline and Le’kemeshaw spilled into view.

  As though on a cue, we all stopped and Aldebar went quiet in mid-note. We’d all seen the big water before, of course, but not showing quite so much splendor as this. At least, I sure hadn’t.

  Past a long, forested slope downhill from where we stood, the world turned to water. It stretched away forever, vanishing into a misty distance where the lake seemed to run forever. Far off, the haze glowed golden under the noon sun. Closer, the restless water turned the same sunlight to a million hard, dazzling sparks that shimmered and rippled and made Aldebar and Reyna shade their eyes against the restless glare. My tech just stepped the brightness down, then painted a reddish gleam over a spot on the shore off to our right. I looked and saw heat down there, and not just reflected sunlight. There were people, and animals, and fires—lots of each. A town, which I knew to be Watermanse.

  I pointed it out to the others. It wasn’t as far as a bird’s flight, but we had a switchback trail to follow down some steep hills—or rather, Aldebar and Reyna did, because Flint and I could head straight downhill. But it was okay, I was in no hurry. I liked Reyna by my side—and besides, Aldebar hadn’t finished his song.

  Watermanse sprawled along a chunk of lakeshore, a good five hundred paces along the water but only two hundred inland, at most. In that space, five hundred people and probably a hundred animals were packed. It was a warren of coarse wooden huts and houses, granaries and smokehouses, and what appeared to be enough boats of all sizes and shapes for each man, woman, and child. Hundreds of paces away we started smelling it—the rich stink of so many bodies, their cooking fires and lanterns, the tar that proofed th
eir buildings against the elements, their garbage, their waste and that of their animals . . . and fish. Lots of fish. Fish were what both kept Watermanse alive and gave it purpose.

  When we reached the watchtower looming over the road, the guards gave us a hard look, then waved us in. No point not to; there wasn’t a wall around the place, so we could have walked in anywhere. Aside from the watchtower and its half-dozen fellows, the only defensive work was a blockhouse in the center of town, the only building entirely made of stone. It could crowd in maybe fifty people, one in ten of those living here. It didn’t matter, though. Probably half of them could handle themselves well in a fight, and you don’t lightly take on two hundred and fifty people determined to defend their homes and families.

  I know I sure wouldn’t, anyway. Legacy or not.

  We pushed our way through the rattle and bustle in the narrow alleys among the buildings. Flint made it a lot easier; people tended to get out of her way. So did other animals, though she did have to bare her teeth and growl aside a mangy dog half her size that wanted to hold its ground, and did . . . for bit, anyway, before slinking off. I saw the occasional face I knew from previous visits. A few people recognized Aldebar, too, tossing him a wave and a word. I kept an eye on the ones that just stared at him and Reyna, in case there were any old grudges or debts or the like who might decide now was the time to collect from him. But anyone not specifically looking at us was looking at Flint, so nothing made me especially nervous.

  We rounded a corner and stepped right into a cloud of some of the most potent fish-stink I’d ever smelled. The source was easy to find—the carcasses of massive salmon, each as long as Flint, were hanging from a stout wooden rack. If Watermanse was famous, it was for these huge fish, which were apparently the mutated descendants of something a lot smaller, from the time before. A chubby woman with hairy arms shouted and waved at us, trying to get us to buy fresh, smoked, or dried. I waved her off but made a note to pick up some of the smoked salmon before I left here. We carried on, weaving our way among rickety stalls and carts and shouts for our attention. I aimed us for—

  “Over there,” Reyna said, pointing. “The Drowning Man. You were heading for the bar, right?”

  I waved away the reek of freshly-tanned leather from a nearby wagon. “Now why would you assume I’d be headed for the bar?”

  “Just seems like the kind of place a sociable guy like you would go.” She grinned, then leaned in to sniff me dramatically. “You smell like a man who knows his way around that kind of place.”

  I smirked. “You’ve been there before?” I clicked my tongue. “A nasty old shithole like that’s no place for a lovely girl like you, and I’ll have you know, I took a dip in the lake no less than—when was the last full moon?”

  Her snort was young and happy. “Fine, we’ll go. There won’t be anyone in the place who can beat me at cards, anyway.”

  I laughed, because I didn’t disbelieve her.

  We reached the bar, one of the stouter buildings in town. It sported a crude sign depicting a man thrashing in water. Inside, the place was quiet. That would change in a few hours, when the boats were back, their catches laid up, the workday done. Only two of the dozen or so tables were occupied, and those by one man, and a man and a woman respectively. They all looked up as we entered, squinting against the light spilling through the door. As we moved to a table near the entrance, the lone man turned to the barkeep, a burly and strikingly hairy man with only one arm.

  “Jacks, you gonna let them bring that fucking thing in here?”

  He meant Flint, of course, who padded into the place behind us. Jacks came around the bar, wary alarm tightening his face. “Oh, no . . . that . . . it’s terrifying!” He turned to the man who’d complained. “I’m too scared, and besides, I only got one arm. How about you go over there and throw them out for me?”

  The man looked from Jacks, to us—especially to Flint, who grinned back at him—back to Jacks. “Uhh . . .”

  Jacks laughed, waved the man aside, and clomped over to us. “Flint!” he said, grabbing her ears and scooching them. Flint replied by slurping at his face. “How’re you doing, beautiful?” He glanced at me. “And how’s this mangy pet of yours holding up? Haven’t seen fit to eat him yet, huh?”

  He let go of Flint’s ears, but she kept trying to lick his face. The man who’d complained watched it all, then shrugged and went back to doing whatever lone guys in bars do.

  Jacks recognized Aldebar and Reyna, too. He gave Reyna an especially broad smile. “Don’t know if you’ve played cards with this lovely young thing yet, Cus . . . but if you do, prepare to lose your shirt. And pants. And probably everything else.”

  When Jacks said pants, Reyna shot me a glance and a smile. Jacks fetched our drinks—wildberry beer for Aldebar and Reyna, corn whiskey for me, and water for Flint. He also brought Flint a meaty hunk of bone and, since he couldn’t just feed one of us, a pot of fish stew with three bowls, and some coarse bread.

  As he clattered it all onto the table, I caught his eye. “So what’s got everyone talking these days, Jacks?”

  He shrugged. It came out lopsided because of his missing arm. All I knew was that he’d lost it in some sort of fishing accident. “Usual. Everyone’s rushing to trade with everyone else, get themselves set for winter.”

  Glory season made the cold and snow seem a hundred years off, but it wasn’t, and everyone knew it.

  He slopped some stew on the table, cursed, and wiped it up with his apron, adding another stain. “Then,” he went on, “there’s some trouble brewing out east, apparently. Talk of raiders coming west. Probably bullshit but . . .” He gave his lopsided shrug again.

  I looked at Aldebar and Reyna, who looked back. There it was again—raiders coming from the east. Some stories had legs like that. But some weren’t just stories.

  “Raiders, eh?” I wanted to see if Jacks knew anything else, but he just shook his head, as though he didn’t even want to contemplate it.

  “Like I said, Cus, probably just bullshit.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge,” a new voice said.

  The voice belonged to the other man in the bar, the one who’d been sitting with the woman. The woman was one of the locals I recognized. Her name was . . . Lorna. She’d dealt in herbal medicines and remedies. On my last visit here, though, she’d mentioned that she was taking a seat on the Watermanse council. I didn’t know the man with her.

  Lorna stood and started toward our table, then she paused and gestured for her companion to follow her. She favored me with a nod. “Custis Mars, good to see you again.”

  “You too, Lorna.” I introduced Aldebar and Reyna. “And you know Flint, of course.”

  “Everyone knows Flint,” she said, but her smile flicked off like a shuttered lantern. She nodded toward the man with her. “This is Reegan Moss. He’s a trader who’s been telling me a scary tale.”

  “Ain’t a tale,” Moss grumbled.

  I gave him a quick size-up. He was lean and wiry, with the weathered look of a man who spent a lot of his time on the road. I invited them both to pull up a bench and sit.

  “Reegan here,” Lorna said, “dropped into my lap just like you seem to have, Custis.”

  “Cus is fine.”

  She nodded, paused as Jacks thumped down drinks for her and Moss, then said, “Anyway, just as me and the council have been wrestling with a problem, Reegan brings me what might be the explanation. And then you show up, Cus—maybe the solution.” She gave that fleeting smile again. “Must be those feverfoil roots I found yesterday. They’re supposed to be good luck.”

  I was intrigued. “What’s this problem you’re talking about?”

  “Missing boats. Three of them—a ketch and two sloops. They set out a week ago, sailed east on Le’kemeshaw, headed for a shoal called the Wallows. Good fishing, but it takes a couple of days to get there, so the bigger boats make the trip. They should’ve been back a couple of days ago.”

  I glanced
at Aldebar, wondering if this twigged anything with him. He just gave back a shrug. “Okay, missing boats. That’s too bad, it really is, but . . . well, could be the weather? Bad winds maybe holding them up? Or maybe the catch was especially good and they’re still fishing?” I didn’t want to suggest they’d been lost, because the crews were no doubt people Lorna knew. But Le’kemeshaw was a big water, with a reputation for turning mean and doing it fast.

  Lorna shook her head. “Some squalls up north and west, but weather’s been fine all week. Good winds, no storms, at least not out east. And boats only hold so much fish, Cus.” She sighed. “We’ve got rules about this. And the rule is a boat’s not back the day it’s supposed to be, its missing.”

  I wasn’t sure why Lorna thought I might be able to help with this. Flint and I were good at what we did, but that didn’t include putting to sea. So I nodded and just told her to go on.

  Reegan Moss was the one who spoke up, though. “When I heard about them missing boats out east, I found Lorna here and told her the things I’d seen. See, I’d just come from that way. Been trading out in the Osterway.”

  I saw Aldebar mirror my scowl. I turned it full-glare on Moss. “Osterway’s a shit-pit full of thieves and thugs. Worse. Why would you want to trade with those assholes?”

  He shrugged. “Thieves and thugs need food, too.”

  “Bunch of fucking slavers,” Aldebar snapped, but Lorna raised a hand.

  “Think we can all agree that Osterway’s awful. Point is, Moss here says some of ‘em are coming west.”

  I looked at him and he nodded. “Saw a big group about seven, eight days ago. Weren’t traders or hunters, either. Not unless they expect the blackhorn to start shooting back, ‘cause they had an awful lot of guns.”

  “Now,” Lorna said, “I don’t know what connection there might be between missing boats and whatever the Osterway might be up to. But it’s all happening out east and”—she puffed out a sigh—“truth be told, it’s got me pretty nervous. Rest of the council, too. We mostly want to find our ships, of course. Seventeen good people out there. Losing people to Le’kemeshaw isn’t a new thing. Fishing out there is dangerous, just a fact of life. But seventeen at once . . .” She took a moment, and we all let her. “Anyway, we need to know. And we also need to know what the Osterway is up to.” She looked at me. “And that’s where you come in, Cus. If anyone could scout east, find out what’s going on . . . with our ships, and the Osterway, it’s you.”