Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  Her grin conveyed many things. “Well said. With a favorable wind and clear weather, we should be there within a turn, perhaps sooner.”

  “Thank you, captain.”

  He walked forward, to where Sofya entertained several members of the crew. His fear lingered, but he felt lighter.

  Yes, Orzili might find them, but on some level he’d known since escaping Hayncalde’s dungeon that he would face the assassin again before this was over.

  So be it.

  Aiwi watched the ship from a crag high above the city, her limbs trembling. Rage, shame, frustration: she couldn’t have said which afflicted her most. They boiled inside her, searing her heart, robbing her of her ability to hunt, to move, to think. She stared, and she fumed, and she railed at herself for her own helplessness.

  Her shoulder throbbed. The injury would heal quickly; injuries to her kind always did. In the meantime, the mortification of having been dealt a wound by a human rankled, further darkening her mood.

  She was Tirribin. She was a hunter. She couldn’t recall ever feeling this weak.

  She knew the Most Ancient One was to blame as well. She had prevented Aiwi’s escape, presided over her humiliation, meted out her punishment. It was a dangerous thing, though, to bear a grudge against an Arrokad. They were canny, inscrutable. They possessed magicks Aiwi scarcely understood. Safer then to direct her wrath at the humans. The Most Ancient One had prohibited her from striking back at the Walkers and the child, but she could avenge herself on others of their kind. She would take some small satisfaction in that. Soon. Tonight she brooded, too consumed by her emotions to do more.

  In time, she tired of sitting and returned to the city, to the lanes near the wharves, to the hunt. She fed without enthusiasm, and wandered along the waterfront, always keeping that ship within sight. She couldn’t have said why. She didn’t dare strike at them, but neither could she bring herself to ignore the vessel.

  “I smell blood. We lost kin this night, did we not, cousin?”

  Aiwi whirled, hands raised, fingers clawed, a snarl on her lips.

  Another Arrokad stood in the moonlight, harbor water pooling around his feet and running down his body.

  “Do you intend to fight me?” he asked, amusement in his flawless features.

  “Do you intend to be rude?”

  He canted his head, acknowledging the riposte. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you, nor do I wish to be rude. My name is Qiyed.”

  She lowered her hands, straightened out of her crouch. “I’m Aiwi.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Why couldn’t the Most Ancient Ones leave her alone? “And yours.”

  He laughed. “I do not believe you.”

  That coaxed a smile from her. They began to walk together along the water’s edge.

  “Now I’m being rude. I’m sorry. How can I be of service to you, Most Ancient One?”

  “I would know who spilled Belvora blood this night.”

  Her face colored with the realization that she would have to revisit her shame. One did not keep information from Arrokad.

  “Humans,” she said. She pointed. “On that ship.”

  He considered the vessel. Then they resumed walking. “Why?” “The winged ones attacked.”

  “Again, I ask: why?”

  Her cheeks flamed.

  “I sense your unease,” Qiyed said. “I assure you, I ask out of curiosity and nothing more. I have no ties to the humans, and no affection for Belvora. When Ancient blood is spilled, we among the Most Ancient must learn the truth of what happened.”

  “One of your kind already knows.”

  Aiwi regretted the words the moment she gave them voice. Qiyed halted, forcing her to do the same. She didn’t know if she could have gotten through this encounter without revealing Ujie’s role in events, but she sensed that she should have tried.

  “There was an Arrokad here tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he or she give her name?”

  She reflected on their confrontation aboard the vessel, hearing good fortune in the phrasing of his question. The human spoke Ujie’s name in his summons, but the Arrokad never did. Some of her humiliation might remain hidden from this creature and thus others.

  “No, Most Ancient One. She did not.”

  “A female then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Intriguing.” He started walking again. She followed. “Belvora would only attack a ship bearing humans if they sensed magick.” He tossed an expectant glance her way.

  “A Walker, Most Ancient One.” Aiwi wasn’t sure why she played this game with the Arrokad. Something in his manner made her cautious, mistrustful. She feared revealing too much; she didn’t know why.

  “A Walker,” he repeated, clearly interested. “The one responsible for the current misfuture?”

  She couldn’t mask her surprise. Even Arrokad, as powerful as they were, could not sense the threads of time the way Tirribin did. “How do you know of this?”

  He answered with only a smile.

  Rude. She didn’t dare say so.

  “You did not answer my question. Is he the one responsible?” “I believe so.”

  “Is he alone? Or are there other Travelers with him?”

  She should have known he would think to ask this, too. “He’s not alone. He voyages with a second Walker.”

  “Two Walkers. A man and a woman?”

  Aiwi nodded.

  “Which of them injured you?”

  She muttered a human oath within her mind. For all their flaws, humans did know some rather satisfying profanities.

  “A sailor aboard the vessel. I attacked him. He cut me.”

  “That is unusual, is it not? A human managing to wound a Tirribin?”

  “You’re being rude again,” she said, sounding petulant, unable to stop herself.

  “Nevertheless.”

  “I was distracted.” Her tone remained hard. “He was protecting a child.”

  “Ah, yes. Young years: a weakness of your kind.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Why did the other Arrokad not heal your wound? I would have.”

  Enough. She couldn’t hope to keep anything from this Most Ancient One. Better she should tell all and end this encounter. “She was punishing me. For helping the Belvora, and for attacking the Walker, who had entered a bargain with her some turns back. Freely and fairly.”

  “And why were you helping the Belvora?”

  “They promised me the child, who belongs to the Walkers. They wanted all three of them dead, and so we chose to work together. They would take the Travelers and I would have the babe. The humans proved more capable than we anticipated.”

  “Most interesting,” Qiyed muttered. “Most interesting, indeed.” After a few steps, he asked, “Do you know why the Belvora wanted these particular Walkers?”

  “I don’t. They didn’t tell me and I didn’t ask.”

  “It does not matter,” he said, his voice still low. “With what you have told me, I should have no trouble learning the rest.” He favored her with a smile seemingly free of irony. “You have been most helpful, Aiwi of the Tirribin. I am grateful to you.”

  A thrill of magick danced over the wound. The throbbing ceased. She looked down at her shoulder. The slice in her shift had mended. She pulled up the sleeve. Her skin had healed.

  “Thank you.”

  “You earned such consideration. Go in peace, cousin. Do not speak of our conversation with anyone else.” He bared his teeth. “You have my word that I will be equally discreet.”

  “Again, my thanks, Most Ancient One.”

  He turned from her and waded out into the calm waters of the harbor. Aiwi started back toward the city. Before she had gone far, the Most Ancient One spoke her name. She halted and faced him.

  “What was the name of the other Arrokad, Aiwi?”

  Her shoulders dropped fractionally. “Ujie, Most Ancient One.”
<
br />   “Thank you,” he said and left her.

  CHAPTER 26

  17th day of Sipar’s Fading, Year 618

  For more than a ha’turn after Cresten’s encounter with the smugglers, Quinn kept his distance. He often eyed Cresten from across the tavern, but he said not a word to him. Despite Cresten’s desire to take on more jobs, the innkeeper seemed unwilling to place his life at risk again.

  Cresten didn’t push the matter. For now Quinn’s guilt outweighed his need, but that wouldn’t last. He liked having a Spanner in his employ; he wanted to “play with the big boys.” Before long, his misgivings would fade.

  In the meantime, Cresten continued to cut gaaz and practice his Spanning and sword work. Several times, Droë joined him on the strand. Neither of them mentioned the smugglers, or what she had done to help him. Cresten noticed no change in their interaction. He felt safer with her, though, and he no longer worried about her spying on him as he Spanned.

  With what he had earned from Quinn and Poelu, and what remained of the coin Chancellor Samorij had given him, he had more money than he could spend. He hid his purse in the straw of his pallet, where he hoped Lam wouldn’t think to look. He hadn’t yet decided what he would do with his treys and quads, but he knew they were the key to whatever future he chose to pursue. He had reconciled himself to never seeing Lenna again; he wouldn’t remain in Trevynisle for her. But where should he go?

  The question kept him awake some nights, the thrill of possibility holding sleep at bay. He wasn’t so foolish as to think himself rich. In time, though, if he was smart…

  Quinn finally approached him on a stormy night in Sipar’s Fading, as Cresten ate roasted fowl and stewed greens in the tavern. He was bone weary after another long day in the shallows, and he didn’t realize the innkeeper had walked to his table until the man asked to join him.

  At Cresten’s gesture, Quinn sat. He narrowed his eyes, staring at Cresten’s healing wound.

  “Can’t hardly see a mark. I don’t think you’ll even have a scar.”

  “Guess that means girls won’t think I’m handsome.”

  Quinn hesitated, then smiled, as if just remembering their exchange with Claya. “You’ll do all right, I think.” He glanced at Cresten’s platter. “You want more?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The old man nodded, his gaze roaming the common room. Cresten sipped his watered wine.

  “I was wonderin’,” Quinn said, “if you meant what you told me that night. That you was still willin’ to work for me.”

  “I’m willing, under the right circumstances.”

  Quinn frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “I want seven treys, five quads next time, and every time after.”

  “You said before you were satisfied with five.”

  Cresten shrugged. “I changed my mind. There seems to be plenty of gold about. I’m guessing you can afford an extra two and five.”

  “That so?”

  He lifted his shoulder again. “If I’m wrong, you don’t have to hire me. I’m sure there are plenty of other Spanners out there, willing to risk their lives with smugglers.”

  Quinn’s brow bunched. “How’d you know they was smugglers?”

  Too late, he remembered that the white-haired woman at the shop had said this in confidence.

  “It wasn’t hard to figure,” he said, after the briefest of pauses. “You never told me what was in the parcel, and those men on the ship weren’t like any sailors I’ve known.”

  Quinn’s look soured, but he didn’t argue. He eyed Cresten, then let out a sigh. “Seven and five is fair. No more, though. I might have raised your pay after a time. You’re gettin’ that raise now, you catch?”

  “All right.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “What’s the job this time?”

  The innkeeper grinned. “You enjoy it, don’t you? The danger, I mean.”

  Why deny it? He would have worked for Quinn even without more pay. “I do.”

  “Well, don’t take chances you don’t have to. It’s your life, but it’s my coin. And Paegar’s.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Meet me in the back courtyard when you’re done eating. I’ll tell you more there.”

  He stood and walked away, not bothering to wait for Cresten’s reply. Cresten bolted down the rest of his meal, drained his cup, and left the table. He stopped in his chamber to make certain his sextant and purse were safe, and then made his way to the courtyard. Quinn joined him there.

  This newest job, planned for the following night, was similar to the last one. Cresten would act as courier for Paegar, some smugglers, and another merchant.

  The next morning, when Cresten walked to the gaaz beds, he carried with him a change of clothes and a knife given to him by Quinn. He hid these in the same place he had used the previous time, cut bricks under a bright sun for the entire day, and plodded back to the inn, exhausted beyond words. More storms darkened the sky as he walked. By the time he reached the tavern, a torrent had soaked him.

  After his evening meal, he retrieved his sextant and left the inn for the rise. Quinn offered to accompany him, but Cresten demurred.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said.

  Droë appeared mere moments after he reached the strand. His vision still swam from his passage through the gap, and he barely had time to pull on his breeches.

  “You Spanned here,” she said.

  “I have work to do tonight.”

  She regarded him, grave as a ghost. “The same as last time? With those men?”

  “Different men, but yes, the same.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You don’t have to.” He spoke with surety, but hoped she would anyway. He didn’t want Quinn watching his every move, but he welcomed the Tirribin’s protection.

  “I don’t mind.” She bared needle teeth. A hint of rot sharpened the air around them. “I might even get another meal out of it.” She laughed, high and crystalline.

  Cresten tried not to shudder.

  She accompanied him to the wharf, remaining hidden while he treated with the smugglers. Then she walked with him into the heart of the city, where he delivered his parcel.

  They returned to the waterfront, and Droë held Quinn’s gold while Cresten paid the smugglers. From there, they walked back to the strand so he could Span back to the rise, Moar’s five rounds held under his tongue. The entire transaction took less than a full bell. No one threatened him, or tried to harm him. Quinn paid him and let him know more jobs would be coming.

  The innkeeper proved true to his word. Three days later, he met with different smugglers and bore their goods to yet another merchant, this one not far from the wharves. All went as it should, but as Droë walked with him back to the strand and his hidden sextant, she broke their customary silence.

  “I saw your friend last night.”

  “My friend?”

  “Lenna.”

  He stumbled, nearly fell.

  “Is she all right? Did she mention me?”

  “She’s healthy, for a human. Her years are more confused than I remember. She’s been Walking a good deal, honing her craft. She’s leaving.”

  Cresten halted in the middle of a narrow lane. “Leaving?”

  “That’s why she called for me. I didn’t want to enter the palace, and I think she was afraid to ask me to come, but she wanted to speak with me once more.”

  Leaving. Lenna is leaving.

  He had resigned himself to not seeing her or speaking with her. But to know she would no longer be at the palace…

  “Where is she going?”

  “Herjes.”

  At first he thought the Tirribin must be mistaken. Windhome’s lone Walker – its first Walker in years – and they were sending her to Herjes? Not Milnos or Vleros? Not Aiyanth or Daerjen or Oaqamar?

  Thinking about it more, however, he saw logic in the assignment. Herjes wasn’t a great power, nor was it prone to fre
quent wars, like the Bow and Shield. But trade in spices, firearms, and wines had brought the isle considerable wealth, it was strategically located near Aiyanth, Milnos, and Westisle, and its young leader was said to be ambitious. What better way to raise his isle’s status than to outbid other powers for the services of a Windhome Walker?

  “Is she excited?” he asked, his voice flat.

  “I think she’s frightened, but yes, excited, too.”

  They resumed walking, neither of them speaking. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Droë’s gaze.

  “I told her I had seen you.”

  He eyed her sidelong. “And?”

  “She wanted to know how you are and what you’ve been doing.” “You didn’t–”

  “I told her you cut gaaz and make money working for a tavern keeper. That was all I said.”

  Cresten couldn’t say if he was relieved or disappointed. His existence, described that way, sounded boring, pathetic even. If the Tirribin had said, He treats with smugglers, Lenna might have feared for him, and disapproved. She might also have been impressed.

  “She told me to tell you that she’s sorry for all that happened, and that she misses you.”

  “Truly? She said that?”

  Droë nodded, still studying him. “Do you think that means she loves you?”

  More than anything, he wanted to say yes. It would have been a lie, though, to her, and to himself. “No. It means she’s sorry and she misses me. Nothing more.”

  They covered the remaining distance to the shoreline in silence. Cresten’s stomach had soured, and he feared the Span to the rise would sicken him.

  She’s leaving. She’s going to Herjes. You’ll never see her again. She’ll find someone, marry, have a family, a life. You won’t be a part of it.

  More than ever, he wanted to leave Trevynisle. Not to follow her, but simply to be gone, to forget her.

  Seven treys, five quads. It will take years to earn the coin you need.

  “I’ve made you sad,” Droë said, halting near the spot where he had left his clothes.

  “Leaving the palace made me sad. This is…” He shrugged, made a small, meaningless gesture. “I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

  Droë smiled at that and blurred away.

  Cresten undressed slowly, folding his clothes with undue care, and set the rounds under his tongue. He aimed his sextant, thumbed the release, and hurtled into the gap, his senses so dulled that this once he didn’t mind the journey or think it overly long.