Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  When he returned to the tavern, the innkeeper regarded him, concerned and suspicious.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It all went as it was supposed to.”

  “Then why do you look like you saw a ghost?”

  Cresten shook his head. “I’m tired. That’s all.” He held out his hand.

  Quinn gave him his treys and quads. “No trouble with the smugglers? Or in the city?”

  “It was all fine. I swear. When will you send me out again?”

  “Soon, lad. Very soon.”

  Cresten nodded and retreated to his room, wishing he could sleep for a turn or two, knowing he would be up with the dawn and back under Poelu’s critical eye. His last thought before falling asleep was that at least one of them was getting out of Trevynisle.

  Quinn gave him a fourth job a few days later, and a fifth soon after. Cresten completed both without incident.

  Two nights later, Quinn sent him out again. This time his instructions were slightly different.

  “Paegar wants to see you,” the innkeeper said. He didn’t seem happy about this. “He wants you to come to his door. Says he wants to make sure you’re following instructions.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  Quinn didn’t answer right away, and Cresten wondered if he should have swallowed the question. But the innkeeper surprised him. “I think he wants to hire you direct, instead of through me. He could probably pay you more and still save some coin that way.” Quinn eyed him, awaiting a response.

  “I work for you,” Cresten said. “And even if he pays me more, I’d have to start paying for my room again, wouldn’t I?”

  Quinn smiled. “You’re a smart lad.”

  As it happened, the merchant this night was the same whitehaired woman he met the night the smugglers tried to kill him. He had yet to deal with any merchant or smuggler a second time. He wondered if this further increased the danger.

  Quinn insisted on accompanying him to the rise, and as Cresten prepared to Span he said, “Have a care tonight, lad. This is a more… sensitive item than the others you’ve delivered. Make sure you’re not followed.”

  Cresten assured him that he would.

  Droë joined him at the strand, as always arriving with uncanny precision, just after he slipped on his breeches. They walked together to the waterfront, where Cresten searched for a ship called the Kelp Runner. She was the last boat on the longest of the three piers, and he thought her deserted. He approached the vessel warily, scanning the wharf, expecting to be waylaid. Droë, he knew, watched from a distance, ready to blur to his rescue should any threat arise. Still, he felt vulnerable. Quinn’s warning had set him on edge.

  “Ahoy, the Kelp Runner,” he called from below her rails.

  Silence.

  He glanced back at Droë before trying again.

  After a fivecount, he heard motion within the vessel and then footsteps.

  “Ahoy,” came the response, the voice deep but thin, like distant thunder.

  A shadowed form appeared above him, framed against a darker sky.

  “Who’s that?” A man’s voice, the words thickened by an accent Cresten couldn’t place.

  “I was sent by Quinn.”

  “Who is Quinn?”

  Cresten stared up at the silhouette. This had never happened before. “Quinnel Orzili.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s… You should have a parcel. Something I’m supposed to deliver. And then bring you gold.”

  The man didn’t answer.

  Instinct drove him to say, “He works with Paegar.”

  The man might have nodded. “Wait there.”

  He stepped away from the rail, vanishing from view. A short time later, Cresten heard more footsteps, closer this time. A plank at the ship’s stern. A man – perhaps the same one – emerged from the darkness, stopped a couple of paces short of Cresten, and held out a small, pale parcel.

  Cresten reached for it, only to have the man snatch his wrist with his other hand.

  “What’s your name?” he asked in that elusive accent.

  Cresten should have lied, but in his fear could only manage the truth. “Cr- Cresten Padkar.”

  “Padkar. Easy to remember. That thing in your hand – not much you can do with it, but to us, very valuable. Muck this up, or try to steal, and we spend the rest of our days hunting you. Catch?”

  He dipped his chin.

  The man squeezed his wrist, grinding bone on bone. “I say, you catch?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  The man released him. “Go. Bring us our gold.”

  Cresten took two steps backward, then pivoted and hurried away, his wrist aching. The parcel was small but heavy, the cloth around it rough against his fingers.

  Droë fell in step with him as he reached her.

  “You’re frightened,” she said, the hint of a rasp in the words. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  “I thought I heard him threaten you.”

  “It’s all right, Droë. These are rough men. Sometimes they threaten. He didn’t hurt me.” Much.

  He wondered if she could tell he was lying. They didn’t speak as they navigated the lanes to the merchant’s shop.

  “Ah, Quinn’s friend,” the white-haired woman said as he closed the door behind him. She favored him with a smile.

  “What do you have for me tonight?”

  He crossed to the wooden counter and handed her the parcel. She hefted it, her smile slipping. She glanced up, meeting his gaze, then turned and pushed through the dark curtains to the back of her establishment. When she returned, she carried three purses. She lifted them one at a time. “Moar’s, the… the sailors’.” She raised the third. “And this is for Quinn. Payment for something else.”

  “All right.” Cresten placed one purse in each pocket and tied Quinn’s to his belt. “Thank you.”

  By the time he emerged from the shop, the moon had risen, red and hazed. Dim shadows stretched across the lanes. The city looked like it had been dipped in blood.

  At the wharves, Cresten approached the ship once more and called a greeting.

  “Padkar,” came the reply, immediate and unaccented. “Leave it on the plank.”

  “The plank–”

  “At the stern. Leave it and go.”

  A shiver went through Cresten, and his legs shook. He set the purse on the plank, and strode back to the lane as quickly as he could without running.

  “It was all right this time?” Droë asked as he joined her.

  They started back toward the strand.

  “I think so. I hope so.” He peered back at the ship. Even with the moon higher in the ebon sky, he couldn’t see the plank, much less the purse he had left there.

  Once at the strand, he asked the Tirribin to hold Quinn’s gold, and to give him a few moments of privacy. He stripped off his clothes, put Paegar’s gold in his mouth, and Spanned across the city to the man’s house. He dressed, approached the door, and knocked.

  The door opened, revealing the young woman he had seen last time. She didn’t give him time to speak. Disdain curled her lip, and she shouted for her father.

  Moar came to the entry a tencount later.

  “The Spanner,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cresten held out the rounds, and Moar plucked them from his palm.

  “Everything went as it should?”

  “So far.”

  Moar frowned. “So far?”

  Cresten feared he had said too much. “Yes, it’s all been fine.”

  Moar stepped closer, looming over him.

  “You have more to do? Have you been to the ship yet?”

  “Yes! I was only– Quinn said you wanted me to come here.” The words tumbled out of him. “I need to retrieve something for him and go to the tavern.”

  “Well, you’d better be moving on, then. You
should be finished by now.” He gestured at the bulge under Cresten’s shirt: his sextant. “Everywhere you go with that bloody thing, you draw attention to yourself, and to our affairs. You catch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out of here.”

  Cresten spun and left, heart pounding. He searched for anyone who might be watching him, but saw no one. As he removed this set of clothes he decided that Moar’s fears were unfounded. Paegar and Quinn both – they had convinced themselves that all the world cared about their business.

  He thumbed the release on his sextant and sped back through the gap to the strand. There, he pulled on his breeches, not bothering with his shirt. He called for Droë. She blurred into view and stopped beside him, the purse held out before her.

  “You’re not as frightened now,” she said. “I’m glad.”

  “Thank you, Droë. I’m grateful for all your help.”

  She canted her head and smiled up at him. “So you want me to go with you next time, as well?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” she said before leaving him. “I like it. I’m glad we’re friends.”

  At the rise, Cresten stumbled out of the gap, his head aching, the world around him spinning. Too many Spans this night. When he could manage it, he pulled on his clothes one last time and staggered down the hill to the tavern. He walked in a weary daze, only taking notice of his surroundings as he neared the Brazen Hound.

  He halted. Something was wrong.

  The quiet. Aside from a dog’s distant barking, he heard nothing. No voices. No laughter. He surveyed the building. The windows had been shuttered, though it was a mild night. No light leaked out around their edges or seeped from the door.

  The door, which stood ajar.

  Cresten drew his blade and crept forward, hand shaking. He almost called for Droë, but wasn’t certain she would come. His breathing sounded loud, his every footstep echoed like cannonfire.

  He pushed the door. It swung open a short distance before catching on something. He couldn’t tell what.

  But the stench knocked him back a step. The iron smell of blood, overlaid with the stink of human feces and piss.

  Cresten eased inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Bodies littered the floor. Claya and the other serving girls lay in a cluster near the bar, their throats slit, blood pooling around their bodies.

  Lam’s corpse had stopped the door, his body cleaved from neck to groin. The smell of shit came from him.

  And from Quinn, sprawled on the floor of the common room, gutted as well, his throat carved open for good measure.

  Cresten walked to him, breathing through his mouth, fighting not to be ill. He would miss Quinn. The innkeeper had been good to him, had given him work and taught him a few things. But theirs had been a partnership born of opportunity and mutual need, and this was no time to grieve.

  A creak from the door made him whirl and tighten his grip on the knife. The hinges squeaked a second time. The wind.

  Time to go.

  He ran to his chamber and reclaimed his belongings, including the hidden purse from within his pallet. He strapped to his belt the short sword he had taken from the palace armory, and swung his carry sack onto his shoulders. Quinn’s gold hung from his belt.

  I have money now. I can go anywhere.

  He returned to the great room, scanned the carnage again, and eased out into the moonlight, taking care to leave the door as he had found it.

  “Spanner.”

  He stiffened, hand still on the doorknob.

  “You would have been better off not coming back.”

  CHAPTER 27

  28th day of Kheraya’s Fading, Year 619

  Cresten wheeled, his blade hand slick with sweat. Paegar Moar stood in the street, flanked by two men. All of them held swords. Moar’s blade gleamed with moonlight. Dried blood darkened the weapons of his toughs.

  They hadn’t come to talk or scare him. For reasons Cresten didn’t understand, they wanted him dead, as they had Quinn, Claya, and the rest. He darted back into the tavern. Slammed the door shut and dropped to his knees. Heedless of the blood, he shoved Lam’s body. The stink made his eyes water, and at first the corpse wouldn’t budge. At last it gave, with a wet, sucking sound that made his stomach squirm. He pushed it flush against the wood, just as Moar and his men reached the door and threw their weight against it.

  He lurched to his feet and backed away, eyes wide in the darkness. His foot caught and he nearly tripped.

  Quinn’s body.

  Turning again, he hopped over the innkeeper and ran to Quinn’s chamber. Moar and his men hammered at the door and at the shutters of a window.

  Cresten rifled through the drawers of Quinn’s desk until he found what he sought: a flintlock, ammunition, powder, and paper. Another blow to the door shook the building.

  Cresten left Quinn’s chamber and tiptoed through the kitchen to the dark passage beyond. It led to the entrance he and the innkeeper used whenever Cresten Spanned. As he walked, unable to see a thing, he loaded the pistol. Albon had insisted that he and the other novitiates learn to prime a flintlock blind. Now he understood why.

  The building rocked again. Cresten thought he heard wood splinter.

  At the end of the corridor, he unlocked the door, the click of the bolt loud enough to catapult his heart into his throat. He prayed to the Two that Moar and his men hadn’t heard. He eased the door open and stepped into the alley behind the inn. Before he could close the door, leather scraped on stone.

  He whirled.

  A bulky form. Reflected moon glow. The whistle of steel slicing cool air.

  Cresten dropped to the cobbles. A sword swept over his head. Prone on his back, Cresten aimed and fired.

  A blaze of fire lit the byway. The report blared. A man stumbled back against a wall, dropped a sword, toppled to the street. Dogs barked nearby. Acrid smoke clouded the lane.

  Men shouted within the tavern and from the next lane over. Scrambling to his feet, Cresten fled, loading his weapon again, spilling as much powder as he managed to put in the barrel.

  Footsteps sounded behind him. His carry sack bounced on his back, and the sword strapped to his belt slapped his leg, slowing him. He ducked down a narrow lane, cut toward the center of the city, hoping to lose them in the confusion of Trevynisle’s oldest streets.

  After a series of turns, he found himself near the shop of the white-haired woman. He heard no pursuit, and allowed himself to hope he had lost them. Knowing he took a risk, he headed to the shop. The woman might have been working with Moar. Or she might take pity on Cresten and protect him. A chance worth taking; he could fight her off if he needed to.

  He found the shop dark, and assumed she had left for the night. He tried the door. It swung open, the bell above the frame ringing like a fanfare. Cresten spat a curse, listened for footsteps. Hearing none, he entered the shop but left the door open, lest he stir the bells again. He saw no sign of a struggle, no blood-soaked corpse in the middle of the shop floor.

  This eased his mind. He stepped around the counter, intending to search the back room where the white-haired woman stowed the items he brought her.

  A mistake.

  She lay in a puddle of blood behind the counter. Her throat had been slit, too. Her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, and she clutched something in her right hand. His heart labored, his breath came in gasps, but he squatted and pried her fingers open.

  A door key. Probably she had been about to lock the shop when she died.

  Whispers from outside chilled his blood. He raised his head slowly and peered over the counter toward the front window. Moar and his toughs stood in the lane. Moar spoke to the men, pointing at the shop, and both ways down the street.

  Cresten snaked his arm up over the edge of the counter and took aim, steadying his trembling hand on the wood. He would have to shoot through glass, so he aimed for the center of Moar’s torso.

  He pulled the tri
gger. The pistol bucked, boomed. Glass shattered. Moar fell, clutching at his thigh. His men dove to the cobbles.

  Moar roared at them to give chase. Cresten crawled over the woman’s body and through the curtains. Then he stood and searched frantically for a second door to the shop, aware of the toughs closing in on him. He tried to load again, but dropped the first bullet. He had time for no more than that.

  Moar’s men pushed through the curtains. Cresten dropped his pistol, drew his short sword.

  They separated, coming at him from different angles.

  “Should’ve kept running, boy,” one of them said. “Now you’re a corpse.”

  Cresten still held the powder purse for the flintlock in his off hand. He leapt at the man who had spoken, feinted with his blade. The tough raised his sword to block the blow. Cresten flung the contents of the purse at the man’s face.

  Albon would have called it a waste of Aiyanthan powder.

  The tough screamed and clawed at his eyes, his sword clattering to the floor.

  Cresten hacked at him, striking him at the base of the neck once, twice. The man fell, blood spewing from the wounds. Cresten reeled in time to parry an attack from the second man. The force of the blow drove him to his knees. A second forced him onto his back. The man hewed at him again. He blocked this strike as well, but the tough’s blade skipped off his own and bit into his forearm. He grunted at the pain. The tough leered.

  Cresten rolled to evade another attack and kicked out with both feet. One missed. The other slammed into the tough’s knee. The man staggered, growled an oath.

  Cresten rolled again, putting distance between himself and Moar’s man. He clambered to his feet. The tough stalked him, limping now.

  The man lurched at him, swung his blade. Cresten ducked away, tripped into the wall, righted himself before he fell. The man came after him. He was slow, strong but predictable. He jumped at Cresten again. Cresten spun away from the blurring sword and countered with a slash of his own. Blood blossomed from a gash on the man’s side. He grabbed at it with his other hand. Cresten danced forward as the weapons master had taught him and chopped at the man again, opening a second wound on his sword arm.