Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  “Ah, a happening.”

  “Malan says like a mist rolling off the water, it was. Like smoke.”

  “Maybe it was.”

  “You heard of smoke with claws?”

  “Then perhaps a panther.”

  “In these parts?” The Imo’ani snorted. “No, it stood up like a man, Malan says, and came in so fast you could barely see it.”

  “Though he could still tell it was not a panther.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  One of the men chuckled. Balduin found himself holding his breath, straining to hear.

  “I believe you think a ghost story—in place of facts—will suffice for my explanation. It will not.”

  “These are the facts, man! My Malan ran, ran for his life, leaving behind gunshots and screams. Awful, hair-raising screams, he says, fit to curdle the milk in your stomach.”

  Another pause. “And?”

  “Huh.” The Imo’ani sounded sour. “No appreciation, your lot. Don’t you even want to know what they found?”

  “I think you will tell me anyway.”

  “Aye. Went back the next morning. You know what they found? All four of ‘em dead, torn to bits. But not like an animal. This was different. Deliberate. They say they ripped them own eyes out with them own hands.”

  “And this is your explanation as to why my shipment is missing?”

  “Your shipment? Hah. You know how this works. No guarantees.”

  “Hmm.” There was a pause. “Well, two play such games, as I understand. No guarantees, no business.”

  “Look, look. You’re a reasonable man, I see, and you know I get my fair share of your takings. It’s a right good arrangement, us helping one another. I find out what’s where, you strip ‘em on the way, and I get more than I would otherwise, given those shipments found their right path. But believe me or not, there’s strange things on the Road these days, and what happened to that shipment, I just never heard—no one knows. But that’s more and more the way of it. Now take Lesta, now. He went down river three moons ago, and aught what’s happened to him, no one’s seen, heard, or smelt. I’m telling you, Garrick, it’s strange times. Have I steered you wrong yet? Until this day, I tell you there’s a shipment coming, and there is. And we’ve been doing business for how long?”

  “One year, eleven months, and three days.”

  “There, see? Far too long to sever ties over a single missing shipment. These things happen and—”

  “Yes. These things happen.” There was a thump. “What happens is two weeks of wasted time for me and my men. What happens is unhappy men, a crew who want their dues, and a shipment that is not appearing. What happens is other jobs in other parts, and believe it or not, there are far more profitable venues than this shit-hole that stinks of Northern filth. What happens, Mister Yol, is a customer who is much tempted to investigate other opportunities, and now has one year, eleven months, and three days’ worth of information that others would, I am sure, find of great interest to them. Good day, sir.”

  “Wait, wait!” The shopkeeper’s voice had gone an octave higher. “Now see here, Garrick. It…it could be that, well, other things happen. For instance a handy compensation for your troubles, and some news I’ve heard from the kingdoms that might be of interest. Not to mention a new job what may suit your talents.”

  “I want twice the worth of my shipment.”

  “Eh…look here…”

  “Twice. In three days.”

  “But…”

  “Or things will certainly happen.” The sound of the man’s boots on the stairs was Balduin’s only warning. He jumped and scrambled back, panicking for a moment before he spotted a tight alley beside the shop. He slipped in, just as a figure in sleek dark colours strode by, boots tapping out a firm rhythm. He was tall, confident, different, and when Balduin peeked out of the alley, he saw golden hair tied at the back of his neck and a quiver of long, black arrows sticking above his cloak.

  Southerner. An Aethen man. From the mountain kingdoms. And hadn’t the shopkeeper called him Garrick?

  That name tugged something at the back of his mind. Like he’d heard it before. It was impossible. He’d never been to Calton before, and no Southerner named Garrick had been to Elamori, that was certain. Yet all the same, there was something familiar about it. About him.

  Balduin could always find his way back, but if he lost this man, that was it. And he was from the south, like his father.

  Before he could think better of it, he stepped out of the alley and hurried after the Southerner as he disappeared into the crowd.

  Keeping up to him was no easy feat. The man moved swiftly through the crowds of Calton and had an eerie way of blending in for someone so tall. He would disappear, and Balduin would hurry in that direction, thinking maybe he’d lost him. Then there. Another flash, further along.

  Balduin was running now, swerving through the crowds. But when he reached the next street and strained to look down it, the man was gone.

  He began trotting in that direction, hoping to get another glimpse, but the people were sparse here, and not one of them was the Southerner.

  Balduin sighed and halted. His stomach picked that moment to growl loudly and he swallowed against a growing uncertainty.

  What was he doing? What would he even say to the man if he caught up? Pardon me, but you look like my father—do you know him?

  It sounded foolish even in his own mind. So why did he feel like he’d just lost his best lead?

  A cloud ran across the sun, dulling the colours of the street and sending a prickle of cold through him. He turned.

  A man was watching him.

  Balduin had never seen the man before, yet instantly, he felt a shiver of distrust. It was the eyes: two pinpricks of light in a dark forest, deciding whether the creature they’d found was vulnerable.

  The street was quieter, and further ahead, it narrowed into winding darkness. Like a cave. Balduin imagined throwing himself into the back ways to escape those eyes. But would he ever come out again?

  He hadn’t come to Calton to hide.

  When he glanced back, the man was gone and there were no more eyes. Only another dead street.

  Not knowing what else to do, Balduin hunched his shoulders and began retracing his steps.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Magellan Yourk

  Magellan Yourk knelt on the crushed grass, the grass he had trampled, then crawled over, then scratched through like a bird scraping for worms. His hands were black with dirt.

  The stone was gone. Just to be sure, he’d checked every finger’s width of ground where the stranger had attacked. And there was only one conclusion to be had. That so-called Kyr’amanu had taken his stone, had stolen it from him, just like he’d stolen it from the Contessa, as she’d probably stolen it from someone else.

  He laughed. It was all he could do. It was so ridiculous. To have spent so long searching for her secret, to have risked his life, played that dangerous game, with those Terryn bastards breathing down his neck, then finally working up the damned courage to actually take it—only to have it stolen now. By a madman.

  He laughed and laughed and clutched his stomach. And rocked back and forth.

  “Do me a favour,” his father had told him all those years ago. “A favour, son. Just one more thing.”

  And so Mag had gone to the Duke of Marrentry. He’d watched those stubby, fat fingers, tapping the oak table, tapping, gesturing, tapping again, glittering with rings.

  “Your father owes me a lot of money,” said the dry voice. “A lot of money.”

  “I know,” said Mag.

  “You don’t know. No idea.”

  “Fine. How much?”

  “More than you could ever pay.”

  And just like that. The way he’d said it: more than you could ever pay. Mag knew where this was going. This was how it started. This, right here. He tried to sound flippant, kept his voice light.

  “What do you ne
ed?”

  The fingers stopped, then tapped in unison, like chubby, stamping horses. “You’re a clever lad. I need a clever lad. I need someone to do a bit of . . . snooping for me.”

  “Snooping?”

  “Yes, yes. Snooping.” The fingers came together. “Last week, I received a report. My ships didn’t make it through the North Pass. Again. My ships were . . . waylaid. Very tragic. Lots of goods lost in that shipment. She knew—and we were very careful this time. Still, she knew.”

  “The Contessa of Terryn Dal?”

  “Of course, the Contessa.” The voice scratched with anger, the fingers clenched into meaty fists. “Terryn Dal.”

  There was a pause.

  “Sorry to hear about your lost ships.”

  “Lost ships?” The fists banged the table. “Those ships are the least of our problems. War is coming. Do you smell it? I’ve had enough of this gods-be-damned Contessa and her gods-be-damned spies. Thinks she can own the North Pass, own the south trading routs, own Lendahyr and Ranithgar and Ynas and leave me some farms and a shitty little bridge to Toern. Now on top of that, she’s buying up mainland fast. And somehow, she’s always a step ahead of me. Always. Always.”

  Mag’s stomach dropped a little more with every word.

  “I need a clever lad,” the Duke continued. “But someone they won’t expect. A harmless-looking fop. An ambitionist. There’s lots of those in Terryn Dal these days, and—”

  “Wait, what?”

  “An ambitionist. You know what I mean. Some naïve fool who thinks he can saunter in and make his way—”

  “No, I mean—Terryn Dal? You want me to go to Terryn Dal?”

  “Of course!” The stubby fingers spread as far as they could. “How else are you going to figure out why she knows what she knows?”

  “You want me to go to Terryn Dal.” Mag couldn’t believe it.

  “Now, now. Is it so much to ask? A young man like you needs to travel, needs to see more of the world. Foxwyn’s not the world, boy. Time you got out.”

  “But . . . surely you’ve got your own spies. People who do that sort of thing.”

  “Of course I have my own spies. Some in Terryn Dal, too, so you won’t be quite on your own. Trouble is, they can’t get close. No one can.”

  “And you think I can?”

  “I hope you can. You see . . .” The fingers started tapping again, now just the index fingers. Tapping. Tapping. “You see, I’ve thought of how to get my money back from your father. First, I thought I might just throw him in prison, sell his pretty daughter for a pretty coin to some rich noble, and dump you with the other slaves. But . . . well, that’s a little short-sighted, don’t you think? A little coin, but nothing near what I’m owed. Better to give him a rank, tell him how much I need him, keep his daughter close. Then I have a man in my pocket. A man willing to do anything.”

  Mag swallowed. He wanted to be furious, but cold, inevitable dread was wrapped so tight around his stomach, it was the only thing he could feel. “I wouldn’t count on him,” he heard himself say.

  The Duke laughed. “I wasn’t talking about your father, Magellan Yourk. I was talking about you.” Then the fingers landed on the table, once, all together. “I hate being blunt. But I will make an exception, because I want you to get it, and get it straight. You’re going to Terryn Dal for me, boy, and you’re going to do everything, everything in your power to get close to the Contessa. I don’t care if you have to lick her toes. You’re a pretty face, you’ll figure it out. And then you’re going to learn how she does it, her secret, how she knows the impossible, if she has spies here, if she knows my secrets, and you’re going to stop it. And if you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to revisit plan number one. Is that blunt enough for you, boy?”

  “Plenty blunt,” said Mag. He restrained the urge to the rip the rings off those chubby fingers and stuff them down the man’s throat.

  “Wonderful!” The fingers lifted in exultation. “Starting now, you can consider yourself on duty. You will speak no word of this to your father, or to your sister, or to anyone, and no letters. I’m terribly sorry, but they’re going to think you ran off. Decided to seek your fortune elsewhere. Maybe as far as Terryn Dal. Who can say?”

  “And if something happens to me?”

  “Secrets must be secrets. I’ll do what I can. Now soon as you leave, you’ll be approached by a bald-headed man named Rask. He’ll ensure you’re on the next ship bound for Hon, and further instructions you shall get from him. Are there any questions?”

  “Nope,” said Mag. He hooked his fingers into his belt, looked the Duke of Marrentry straight in his flat blue eyes, and smiled. “Just don’t wait up all night for me, yeah? Sweet dreams.”

  Then he’d turned and hadn’t set eyes on Marrentry, Foxwyn, or the Isles since.

  Mag groaned. He had to get that stone back. It was his proof. If he passed on his tale to the Duke and had nothing to show for it, it would be back to plan number one: shame and imprisonment for his father, slavery for his sister. Or else there’d be something else for Mag to do. Just one more favour. Of the favours asked, Mag knew, there would be no end.

  On the other hand, if he came back with a gift, promised the Duke he could turn the Contessa’s advantage against her . . .

  He let out a long, agonized sigh. Bartering the stone for his family’s freedom—it was all he had. It was that—or nothing.

  He climbed to his feet and found Tums. Mag had made good time. He was tempted to push the horse even further, but Aunt Tan would kill him if he rode the beast to exhaustion. Not to mention water. He was running low on water, and Tums needed a lot of water.

  So back to the river, for now. It was his only option. Take an easy day going east, back towards the forest, stock up, then ride as fast as he could. Maybe, if he was lucky, the thief would have gone back to the river himself. He could follow him, catch up to him. And then what, Mag, you fool? You just going to ask for the stone nicely?

  Mag swore. He’d do what he had to. He’d figure it out. That’s what’d gotten him this far, hadn’t it? He would figure it out.

  He leapt onto Tums’s back and rode north.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Jerad Amanti

  The night’s storm still soaked Jerad’s shirt and pants. The fabric clung to him, open sores stinging.

  He knelt in the muck between two Northmen, while Garden took his time finishing his breakfast. Salted meat. Half-turned fruit. Some hot, pungent drink from over the fire. The Northmen eating with him spoke in harsh, mocking phrases, their voices punctuated with laughter. He felt their caustic eyes from time to time, their scorn.

  Finally, Garden rose. He relieved himself behind a bush, then stomped back to Jerad. One lip twisted in disgust, and he sighed and shook his head.

  “This ain’t working now, is it, Feddel?”

  Jerad swallowed. “I’m thirsty,” he tried to say. It came out as a wheezing croak. He swallowed again.

  One of the Northmen shoved a flask between his teeth. Jerad choked on half, but managed to swallow a few precious drops. He coughed and cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m weak,” he said. “And hungry. And hurting. We all are.”

  “Uh huh.” Garden folded his arms, nodding. “What’s your point, boyo?”

  “I’m trying, sir. I really am. We’re all trying. But . . . but . . . we’re worn out.”

  “More food, s’at the way of it?”

  “That . . . could help.”

  He nodded. “Tell you what. Maybe I shoot one of ‘em, leave more grub for the rest of you. Whaddya say to that?”

  Jerad clenched his jaw. Maker’s breath, he was tired of it. All the threats and posturing. For what? What good was it?

  The gun cracked before Jerad even saw it. There were cries of alarm. Even one of the Northmen grunted and backed away. Garden was waving it in the general direction of the slaves, without even looking where he was shooting.

  “Stop it!” Jerad shouted. “Jus
t stop it, Garden, you’ve made your blasted point a thousand—”

  The gun pounded again. Jerad winced. He heard the splintering of tree bark. Someone yelped, though more in surprise than pain.

  “Alright, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever. I’m fine. See?”

  Garden didn’t take his eyes off Jerad, gun aimed to his right, as he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the dirt, spraying mud across one of the nearby slaves. Then another whizzed over someone’s head.

  Jerad clamped his mouth, not daring to look. Crack! A yelp this time. He said nothing. His shut his eyes, head down, burning.

  Silence . . .

  “There now, he does learn!” Garden exclaimed as he fished out a handful of little silver casings from his belt.

  Jerad pried his stinging eyes open. A quick glance. No one was hurt, though their faces were stricken with terror. Jerad dared not say anything, though he noticed Garden had flipped open the side of his revolver and begun to reload.

  “So quick to tell me what I can do, what I cannot do,” Garden said. “Or what it is you’ll do. No, no, it ain’t work like that, boyo, and you should know better by now, seyah?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jerad mumbled.

  “Your tongue’s for answering my questions, and naught else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He slammed the cylinder home. “Now let’s begin again. I’m tired of this charade. I’ve crawled after you six days with neither whiff nor nicker of my traders. My trail’s cold, Feddel. And I do believe you shat the drink, so we say back home. Now you want to run that weeping story past me again, or are you ready to buck up and own it?”

  “I can do it,” Jerad said with a resolve he didn’t feel.

  Garden shook his head. “Last week I bought it. That was last week. Now I’m gonna need more than talk, Feddel. You understand me?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Garden lifted a brow.

  Jerad scrambled for something to say. For the right something.