“Don’t know nothin’ about that,” the man replied. “I catch fish, clean them, cook ’em and sell ’em. Don’t pay to stick my nose into other goings-on.”
“This is good,” Corran said, chewing a bite of the crisp, flaky fish.
The man gave him a look. “Wouldn’t still be selling fish on the docks after twenty years if it weren’t.”
“Do you know who handles the shipments that aren’t fish?” Ross asked, talking around a mouthful of bread. He washed the bite down with a mouthful of ale.
The vendor snorted. “Not much comes in that isn’t fish. Hardly nothin’ at all by boat. Think your friend told you wrong.” He resolutely refused to meet their gaze.
“Well,” Corran said, “it’s not a total loss. Got some fine fish out of the trip,” he said, nudging Ross with his elbow and heading back the way they came. They walked along the wharf, finding seats on two crates, and ate in companionable silence, looking out over the water.
“Do you believe him?” Ross asked, changing a look over his shoulder at the fish vendor, who had a new crowd of customers.
“No,” Corran replied. “But I think he’s too scared to talk about it.”
“Why do you think the smugglers are connected to the hancha? It could be a coincidence.”
Corran gave him a look. “That’s what you really think?”
Ross looked down and shook his head. “No. But we don’t seem to be able to prove differently.”
“Suppose those smugglers had a rich buyer. Someone who didn’t want anyone paying attention to what was coming in at night. A few monsters could be a good distraction.”
“And what if the monsters ate the smugglers?” Ross challenged.
“Maybe the smugglers came up to the cemetery to see why the monsters weren’t where they were supposed to be,” Corran replied. “The smugglers showed up pretty quickly after we lit the pyre—too fast to not have started up the hill before they could have seen the fire.”
Ross nodded. “Yeah, I thought of that, too. So now what?”
Corran shrugged. “Let’s go back to the pub. Maybe there’ll be someone who’ll talk about what they’ve seen. People here are too sober.”
No one on the wharves paid them any attention as they made their way back to their horses. Corran let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, fearful that they might encounter the smugglers again. He and Ross kept checking over their shoulders but saw no one shadowing them.
“Maybe Trent and Polly have had better luck,” Corran grumbled as they headed into the pub.
“Pay up! I beat you fair and square!” Polly’s voice carried across the common room. Corran looked toward the crowd gathered at the far end of the open space to see a flash of red hair near the back.
“You must have cheated,” a man shot back.
“Because I’m a girl? And half your size? You weren’t afraid of playing fair when you took my bet.”
Corran and Ross pushed through the crowd. Polly stood toe-to-toe with a burly man. Behind them, a kitchen knife pinned a hat to one of the wooden beams of the wall. Trent stood off to one side with a long-suffering expression, one hand near the grip of his knife in case things went wrong.
“She’s got you dead to rights, Tom,” one of the men said with a guffaw. “Thought you’d found yourself an easy mark.”
“Bad enough you got beaten by a girl—now you wiggle out on the bet?” one of the men called from the back of the crowd.
Polly lifted her chin triumphantly and held out her hand. With a grunt, the loser of the competition slapped several coins into her palm. Polly grinned. “Never let it be said that I’m not a generous winner. Let me buy you a drink, kind sir.” She held up a hand and waved the serving girl over. “One for me, and two for my friend here.”
Corran and Ross exchanged a look. They had both seen Polly drink back in their quarters. Her size and age were deceptive. Several of the hunters had learned that, to their sorrow, after she drank them under the table.
“Let’s find a place to sit and see what we hear from the crowd. A few rounds of drinks and Polly’ll have him singing like a bird,” Corran said under his breath to Ross, who gave an answering chuckle.
Trent stuck close to Polly, but feigned indifference like an indulgent older brother. Corran wasn’t hungry after the fish they had eaten down at the docks, but he waved the girl over anyway and ordered them both ale and a plate of cheese, bread, and sausage. He leaned back in his chair, and as the crowd dispersed and went back to their tables, he kept an ear open to the conversations around them.
They were too far away to hear Polly’s comments to the man she had suckered into drinking with her, but even from a distance, watching Polly work her mark was fascinating. Polly joked and flirted, insulted and took potshots at her companion’s expense, playing to the crowd. Her drinking partner was so sure of his superiority, while Polly played him at every turn, pretending to be as well into her cups as he was.
Corran felt certain Polly was stone cold sober.
“… that fire up on the hillside. Heard someone was burning virgins.”
“… I heard it was children. Some dark witch ate their hearts.”
“… those damn monsters. Something burned them down to bone. You think it might be dragons?”
The last one had Corran nearly snorting ale from his nose. Ross pounded him on the back, so he didn’t choke.
The tower bells tolled midnight by the time Polly had finally wrangled all she could from her unsuspecting informant. Though she looked a little glazed, she still walked a straight line and possessed enough wits to slap the face of a man who let his hands roam as she made her way through the last group of stragglers at the bar. She and Trent met Corran and the others outside, near the stables.
“Let’s get out of here,” Polly said, and if her consonants blurred a bit, none of her three companions pointed that out.
Corran and the others had barely left the stable when an arrow thudded into the wood of the barn door, barely missing Trent’s shoulder.
“Halt! Surrender yourselves in the name of the Lord Mayor!”
The hunters spurred their horses and took off at breakneck speed down the dark road, with pursuers on their heels. Another arrow zipped past Corran, slicing into the skin of his bicep but otherwise missing its mark.
That’s assuming they meant to kill. Maybe the bounty’s higher if we’re alive for them to torture.
The thought of capture urged Corran onward, bending low over his horse. At the next crossroads, Polly and Trent went left, while Corran and Ross headed right, forcing the guards to split up if they meant to follow all of the fugitives.
For the first time, Corran regretted not bringing one of the witches with them. Aiden’s magic was less dramatic than Rigan’s, using his healer’s knowledge of the body to inflict boils or stop a heartbeat, but it could be lethal nonetheless. Elinor could work powerful sympathetic magic, but it was best suited to premeditation, not combat.
Another arrow sang through the air, this time catching Ross in the shoulder. He cried out in pain but kept his seat, dropping even lower over his horse’s neck to make himself less of a target.
Corran’s mind raced as he tried to remember the roads in this area. Hunting wherever the ripples in the magic showed up had brought them all over the farmlands, down many back roads and wagon trails. But in the dark, everything looked different, and Corran glanced around for any recognizable landmark.
The sight of an old stone barn with half of its roof gone reminded him of something he had seen the previous day. A desperate plan formed, and Corran dug his heels in to urge his horse ahead, moving in front of Ross. He gestured for Ross to follow, indicating that he had an idea.
If they survived, Rigan would rage at him for recklessness. Corran decided he would gladly bear the brunt of his brother’s anger if he could live long enough to experience the dressing down. He and Ross had pulled far enough ahead of their pursuers to make bow shots less
accurate, and the guards seemed unwilling to risk killing one of their prizes.
Corran’s horse could not keep up this pace much longer. Sweat covered the gelding’s neck, and Corran heard its breath, fast from exertion. “Not much farther,” he murmured, crouched low.
Up ahead, he saw the bend in the river and the stone abutments of a bridge. He guided his horse straight for the bridge, hoping he remembered correctly.
The guards rode close behind them now, close enough that if they cared to shoot, their arrows could not miss. Corran watched the entrance to the bridge grow nearer and hoped Ross could follow his thinking or had exceptional reflexes.
At the last minute, Corran jerked hard on the reins, turning aside from the bridge and down the embankment. Ross thundered after him. At least one of their pursuers headed up onto the bridge, then screamed in panic as rider and mount fell to the river below where the bridge lay in disrepair.
That left one guard behind them. Ross turned his horse with a hard pull on the reins and rode toward the stunned attacker, never breaking stride as he pulled a knife from beneath his jacket and hurled it with his full strength. His aim was true, and the blade sank hilt-deep into the man’s chest before he could gather his wits to draw his bow. Without a word, he toppled, blood bubbling from his mouth, and fell to the ground.
Corran scanned the dark water of the river, but he saw no signs of the other guard or his horse.
“Come on,” he said to Ross. “Let’s go before any more of them show up.”
“Trent and Polly—”
“Will find their way home,” Corran replied. “Or they won’t. But if we try to backtrack to catch up now, we’ll either get ourselves caught or put them in more danger. If they’ve been captured, we’ll deal with it. But there’s nothing more we can do tonight.”
Even as he spoke the words, Corran hated the truth of it. Polly and Trent could be down any number of farm lanes and cow tracks, and searching for them in the dark was only likely to lame their horses or get them all killed. They’re smart and sneaky. They’ll find a way to hide—or they’ll kill the bastards that are after them. I’ve got to trust them, but damn, I wish I knew where they were.
Corran and Ross rode cautiously the rest of the way back to the monastery, staying to the shadows and lesser-used roadways. Worry weighed on Corran’s heart with every step, but he knew they had made the right decision to return rather than spend candlemarks searching in the dark. One look at Ross’s face told Corran his friend was equally worried.
They stabled their horses in a barn behind the monastery, owned by a farmer whose gratitude for banishing the vengeful ghosts from his property earned them his loyalty and silence. Corran rode into the stable, feeling the hard ride in every bone and muscle.
“Took you long enough.”
Corran’s head snapped up to see Polly sitting on a bale of straw, grinning broadly. Trent emerged from one of the stalls. “Glad you made it—we were getting worried.”
Corran swung down from his horse and stood staring at the two of them, hands on his hips, shaking his head in amazement. “How—”
“Polly rides like a madwoman,” Trent replied, though a touch of pride tinged his voice despite the report of his words. “It took everything I had to keep up. The horses will be spent for days. I couldn’t retrace our path if you offered me my weight in gold, but somehow, we lost the bastards who were following us, and came back here, hoping you’d have beaten us home.”
“It’s all in how you look at things,” Polly said, leaning against the rough wood of the stall. “I was a lot more scared of being caught than of getting thrown from the horse. The guards didn’t want us badly enough to ride full out.” She dusted her hands together. “And here we are.”
“I need a drink,” Corran said, leading his horse into its stall. Once the horses had been taken care of and the tack stowed, the four of them headed into the ruins of the monastery. They dared not light a lantern in case they had been followed, but moonlight sufficed. Calfon greeted them from where he stood watch, and Corran promised to give him a full account of the night’s events after Calfon’s shift ended.
Once inside the secret underground levels, they found Aiden, Elinor, and Rigan waiting for them in the small kitchen.
“Thank Eshtamon you’re all right,” Rigan breathed, rising to clap Corran into a tight hug. “Aiden had a premonition of an ambush, but we had no way to warn you. We’ve been worried sick.”
“Guards got the jump on us as we were leaving the town,” Ross replied. “It took a hard ride and some utterly mad risks, but we’re here, mostly in one piece.”
Rigan stepped back, realizing that Corran’s sleeve was wet with blood. Trent had broken off part of the shaft of the arrow that was still lodged in Ross’s shoulder, but the wound bled sluggishly, soaking his shirt.
“You’re hurt,” Aiden said, guiding Ross to a chair while Rigan forced Corran to a seat. Elinor ran to grab supplies. Aiden looked up at Polly and Trent. “What about you two?”
Polly shook her head. “We’re fine, although I’ll probably be saddle sore for a week!”
Corran started to get up from his chair. “You need something to eat. And some whiskey to go with it.” Aiden pushed him down with a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Sit before you fall down and give me more to worry about,” the healer said.
“We’re not hurt, and we’re hungry too, so let us take care of it,” Trent said as he and Polly rummaged for easy edibles. They came back with dried fruit, cheese, sausages, bread, and honey, plus a bottle of whiskey.
“I thought you ate at the pub?” Corran asked as Polly took a bite of sausage.
“We did,” she replied with a full mouth. “But running for your life gives you an appetite.”
Corran gritted his teeth as Aiden cleaned the gash on his arm and closed the wound. “So after you drank the men at the bar under the table and cheated them at your game, what did you learn?” Ross asked.
Polly poured herself a glass of whiskey and leaned back in her chair, grinning widely. “I learned that most men are too busy staring at my bosom to pay attention to how much I’m really drinking,” she confided.
“They were doomed from the moment Polly walked into the pub,” Trent confirmed. “She really could have done well with a life of crime, if she’d wanted to.”
Polly smiled up at him. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said in a long time.” She returned her attention to the others. “No one would talk about the smuggling sober, but after we worked through most of a bottle of whiskey, I got them to admit that there were boats coming into the wharves—no particular schedule that anyone can figure—and bringing in cargo at odd times of the night. In the morning, there’s no trace of the boats or their crates. One of the men said that whenever the boats come in, there are wagons waiting to take the crates away. One of the others thought that some of the cargo stays in town, but whoever’s receiving it hasn’t let on to what it is.”
“That makes no sense,” Corran said, sipping his whiskey as Aiden worked on the wound in Ross’s shoulder. “Smuggling undercuts the trade agreements. It undermines the entire League.”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Rigan said. He looked haggard, and his voice sounded raspier than usual, but his eyes were alight with the challenge of a good puzzle. “Maybe whoever’s behind the smuggling wasn’t happy with that big trade agreement everyone was talking about. Or maybe they merely found a market for cheap goods without the tariff.”
“Corran’s right,” Trent said, leaning against the wall as he nursed his drink. “Bringing in contraband is a threat to the League itself.”
“There’s more,” Polly said, making them wait as she chewed and swallowed the rest of her piece of bread. “One of the men started to say something about pirates before his mates shut him up.”
“Pirates and smugglers,” Trent mused. “Do you think one of the other city-states is trying to force Ravenwood into defaulting on its agreement?�
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Elinor shrugged. “Could be. Parah was ranting about the trade negotiations before I ran away. Apparently Ravenwood and Garenoth have had a really favorable agreement for quite a while, giving each other their best prices and the best of their wares. The other city-states get what’s left over, down the line according to how good of an agreement they can broker with partners that have something to offer. The weakest city-states get what’s left. Parah said that she’d heard other city-states, like Kasten and Sarolinia, were jealous of Ravenwood. If Ravenwood lost its favored status, someone else would move up.”
“This is the type of thing the Guild Masters fret about, not the likes of us,” Ross grumbled.
“And so are monsters, but we saw how well it worked when we left it up to them,” Trent noted. “Pirates and smugglers become our business if they’re going to attack us. And if they think we’re out there spying on them, they won’t want to leave loose ends. We need to protect ourselves.”
Corran shook his head. “This is different. We have our hands full just staying ahead of the guards and trying to kill whatever monsters are roaming around—and now, teaching the villagers how to be hunters. Policing the riverfront isn’t our job. Leave it to the guards—it might give them something to do besides chase us.”
“I agree,” Rigan replied. “But look at what happened out at the cemetery, when we were there to do a job, and the smugglers thought we were after them. We may not be able to avoid clashes, and every time it happens, they’ll think it was intentional.”
“Shit,” Ross muttered. “Maybe we should move farther inland, away from the river. No river, no boats, no smugglers.”
“Except that it isn’t just a riverside problem,” Polly said. “Someone is taking what’s brought in on those midnight ships and carting it away to sell somewhere else. There’s probably a whole secret market for it, the way people used to take what they stole down Below or to The Muddy Goat to find buyers.”
“The kinds of people who are tangled up in smuggling and piracy survive by being suspicious bastards,” Trent added. “It’ll be impossible to convince them that we aren’t a threat.”
Vengeance Page 21
