Saffron rose to look directly in his eyes. “Once,” her voice was distant with memory, and barely loud enough for him to hear, “on a slave barge, across this very river.”
Rogan did not know how to respond. Finally, he simply nodded. “This trip will be much different.”
After returning to the shed and packing his bedroll with haste, he withdrew his coin purse and sifted through for what he thought would be a generous, but fair donation. The fisherman made things easier than they could have been, and Sir Golddrake gave him plenty of funds to secure arrangements prior to the Order’s arrival.
Rogan left his coins on the porch as instructed, setting a stone beside them to mark their presence. His debt paid, he pushed the remainder of the canoe into the river, jumping inside as it broke free of the muddy bank.
Saffron in front and Rogan behind, they each took up a paddle and maneuvered toward the faster current in the middle of the tongue. She fumbled a bit at first with the unfamiliar motion, but Rogan was patient, and with regular communication they achieved a fine rhythm. Ultimately, it mattered little, for the journey was completely downstream and the flow of the current accomplished most of the work on its own.
Once safely in its grasp, they pulled their oars in, and Rogan relaxed. “Just sit back and enjoy it, Saffron. Not much in this world is more peaceful than drifting down a river with the sun shining overhead. I will steer us if necessary.”
“Indeed, I have missed the sun.” She bent forward and flipped her hair in front of her, clearing it from her neck. Loosening the front of her shirt just enough to pull it past her shoulders yet remain modest, she let the rays warm her sandalwood skin. “How long until we reach the city?” she asked, her voice barely reaching him from her lap.
“The way we’re moving, a few hours at the most.”
They spent those hours mostly in silence, alone in their thoughts. It was barely past midday when the port of Talon Barge came into view. The River Chelhos widened at the joining of the tongues, and still the city bulged well onto its waters. Watercraft aplenty navigated into port, bringing cargo of goods and visitors alike.
The wharfs bustled with fisherman, merchants, dock workers, and customers. A well-known destination for all sorts of contraband, it was the most popular place in the Empire for acquiring unusual items.
Seabirds circled in hopes of stealing untended fish or bread, as Rogan guided their boat toward the area designated for fishermen. He paid some coppers to a local for letting them dock alongside his rig, and watching over their boat for at least a few hours.
“We should start by finding my contact, Cyril.” Rogan had to yell to be heard over the multitudes bargaining on the wharf. “He will get us situated in town, and hopefully be able to make all the arrangements we need.”
Saffron nodded, doing her part by staying silent as much as possible. She kept her head rigid as she followed Rogan, though her eyes were busy taking in all there was to see. They both kept on the lookout for anyone wearing the insignia of the office of the King-priest, or the telltale black of the Blood Tear Brotherhood.
Rogan wove through the crowd with a deftness indicative of his experience navigating the largest population centers of the realm. Once they made it past the warehouses of the docks, the streets became more orderly and less like a mash of hermit crabs all scrambling for the same shell.
In the merchant district, cobblestone streets replaced the boardwalks of the adjacent docks. Rogan searched the signs of shops as they passed, looking for the Silver Trumpet. Passersby occasionally leered at him or Saffron, but nothing indicating intent beyond sizing up his potential as a mark, or admiring the beauty of his partner.
At last he spotted the store, and in the doorway beneath the sign, stood Cyril. Rogan reached back and took Saffron’s hand, pulling her with him across the alleyway.
“I hear you’ve got a giant tortoise you’re looking to get rid of,” Rogan jibed as he strode up to the blind side of his old acquaintance.
Cyril turned, surprised, but laughed when he saw who was speaking. “Rogan, you old dog! How in the Nine Hells are you? I would have wagered ten-to-one I’d never see you again, once I heard you ended up in Blackthorn.”
“Shhh, do not say that so loudly out of doors.” Rogan was only half-jesting. He was well aware this was not the safest place for him. Still, he thought it proper to make introductions before going inside. “Cyril, may I present Lady Saffron. Saffron, this is Cladius Cyril. Are you still a viscount, or have your titles all been stripped as well?”
“Oh,” Cyril groaned in an exaggeratedly gruff voice. “You don’t know the half of it, Rogan. Very pleased to meet you, Lady Saffron. You are clearly too good for the company you keep, but I shall not hold it against you.” He winked.
Rogan tugged lightly on the man’s full, dark beard. “What is this on your face, huh? Been attacked by some sort of river rat, have you? What do you say we talk more indoors?”
“Certainly,” Cyril responded, swinging open the door to the Silver Trumpet. “Come in, come in, and welcome to my showcase of exotic wares.”
All three stepped inside the shop, and Cyril closed and locked the door behind them. No one else was inside at the moment, through wondrous trinkets and baubles were displayed throughout the space.
“I was just waiting on a delivery when you walked up. My man should be here any moment – do not mind the intrusion. He doesn’t speak much Illanese, but it’s an important shipment. I am keeping the store closed until he gets here.”
“May I look around?” Saffron asked. “The brasswork reminds me of home.”
“And where is that, exactly?” Cyril cocked one eyebrow as he assessed her. “Wait, let me guess…Begnasharan?”
Saffron looked over at Rogan, then lowered her eyes, shameful for keeping up her disguise so poorly.
Rogan pursed his lips and changed the subject. “Have you been back to Lucnere recently, my friend?”
“Ahh,” Cyril pushed the air with his hand, “why would I want to do something like that? With this ‘northern conquest’ in full bloom, you’re likely to walk in a free man, and walk out conscripted to the army. I tell you, Ebon Khorel has just about pinched the last drop of decency out of the capital. It’s getting bad here as well. He’s got a secondary palace built just downstream, probably to keep a closer watch on what comes in and out of the docks. ‘Hope’s End’ it’s called, and that’s the gods’ truth.
“So, I am guessing they did not let you just walk out of Blackthorn, no?” Cyril continued. “What does an outlaw baron need so badly he would risk coming within the shadow of his enemies?”
Rogan’s smile faded and his eyes set firmly on Cyril. “It may take a while to explain, and I do not wish to interrupt your business. Perhaps we could come back after you close tonight, and discuss it over a few bottles of wine?”
“Ooh,” Cyril groaned as before, taking a seat on a high, wooden stool. “Why does this sound like it ends with me doing you a dangerously big favor?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t be willing to pay you handsomely for.” Rogan took a step toward the door and Saffron ceased her browsing to join him. “Tonight?”
Cyril nodded. “Aye, an hour after sunset. I’ll bring the wine.”
Rogan turned the bolt on the door and reached for the handle, when Saffron conspicuously cleared her throat. He looked back at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Dhania?” she hissed a whisper.
“Tonight, Saffron. Trust me,” he whispered back. “There is someone else I need to see first.” He raised his voice to give a final “so long” to Cyril, then led them back onto the streets of Talon Barge.
“What is it?” Saffron questioned.
“Cyril can do a lot of things for us – he knows a lot of people. But, he knows a lot of people, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do not.” Saffron crossed her arms and stopped following, waiting for Rogan to explain himself.
He sighed and took her by the shoulde
r, guiding her along to keep moving while he talked. “Asking after the whereabouts of a particular Bengnari slave girl is most likely going to require Cyril talking to a few sources himself. I certainly did not want to have that discussion in front of his deliveryman, had he shown up. The sort of people who can provide answers about slaves are either slavers themselves, or people who work for slave owners. In your sister’s case, that owner is likely to be the King-priest.”
They rounded a corner and took a side street leading toward a district where the buildings were more crowded, allowing less light. “We don’t want to attract that sort of attention before we even find out if Cyril can help us with smuggling Sir Golddrake’s men down the river. I need to make sure he’s still a viable option, and setting up a meeting was the start. There will be no point in stirring up a fuss and drawing scrutiny to our intended operation until I speak to my other contact, anyway. That’s where we are headed now.”
“I am glad you know what you are doing,” Saffron admitted, “because I would have handled this entire situation another way. So, who is this other contact?”
“He, uh, is a little less savory than the viscount.” Rogan stopped in front of an unmarked door. They were no longer in the merchant district, and the smells of piss and vomit wafted in from the nearby alley. “Maybe you want to stay out here?”
Saffron shook her head. “I do not think so.”
“Very well.” Rogan knocked on the door five times, three quick ones followed by two spaced out. He heard a bar sliding out of position, followed by a hollow thud. The door budged inward a few inches, and a pair of eyes stared from the darkness beyond. They looked from Rogan to Saffron, silently deciding, before the door opened wide enough to step inside.
The antechamber was pitch-black, but a rectangle of light opened as their host whisked back a curtain, leading to a larger room. Rogan held his tongue as he followed their silent guide, hoping Saffron would know enough to do the same. The room beyond the curtain was hazy with heavy smoke, and the person who let them in joined a dozen others who were puffing out of long, curved pipes.
A similar number of bodies were strewn about the room in varying states of consciousness, lying on mats or cushioned benches. Some stared at their own fingers as if they didn’t belong to them, while others entwined with one another, leisurely touching the exposed flesh prevalent among both the men and women.
A few individuals in the room remained astute, and Rogan strode purposefully toward one of them. He was a thin-framed, middle-aged man, sitting in an armless chair, wrapped from ankle to neck in what appeared to be a burlap suit. The soles of his feet were pressed together, jutting his knees outward. His hands remained motionless in his lap, but his eyes followed Rogan’s progress as he crossed the room.
Kneeling on the floor in front of the man, Rogan spoke softly to him. “Kasim, it’s me, the Baron.”
The man cracked a smile, revealing a mouth with very few remaining teeth. He nodded, slowly.
“Kasim, the time has come. We’re going to liberate Blackthorn, but I need to know if you can get a message to the Dampers. Do you still help with deliveries into the mines?”
Kasim turned his right arm over and lifted up his sleeve, revealing a skull-shaped burn scar, but still said nothing.
“All right. When you pick up the next shipment, I need you to find Corbin. He’s been a prisoner there forever, everyone will know him. Tell him – now this is very important,” Rogan clasped the side of Kasim’s face and stared straight into his eyes, making sure he appeared lucid. “Tell him, ‘The Mating Day Ceremony will be bittersweet this year.’ Can you do that? Will you remember?”
Saffron tapped Rogan on the shoulder, “Do you have any confidence in this man?”
Kasim saw her face and once again gave a tooth-challenged grin.
“I do. Kasim is a good man; he will not let us down.” He patted Kasim gently on the side of the face and stood. “Well, that just about does it here. Time for us to leave. Let’s find a place to eat dinner, then we can head back to the Silver Trumpet.”
Saffron shrugged. These were, after all, not her people.
After finding their way outside, Rogan once again took the lead, taking them back toward the wharf. He had a surprise for Saffron to help with the homesickness he imagined she must feel. During his last visit to Talon Barge, during the winter freeze, he had come upon a small eatery among the docks, serving Begnari cuisine. He had not sampled the food himself, but he wagered it must have been months since Saffron had eaten any native fare.
Before long and without too much trouble, he was able to find the spot, and luckily, it was still in business. Saffron’s eyes lit up and her hands clasped over an open mouth when the cook rattled off the available dishes. She gave Rogan a heartfelt hug, and her eyes teared up.
He mentioned he was paying, and she proceeded to order three meals so they could share and sample some of her favorites. All of them were spicy and flavorful, and though Rogan had trouble pronouncing the names of the dishes, he was content to eat sparingly and simply bask in the abundant happiness Saffron exuded. He knew then that he wanted to go on making her happy, a feeling previously reserved for Riah. The thought excited and frightened him.
“So, how exactly did you conjure that fire, back with the wolves?” He hoped she would’ve spoken of it on her own before now, but decided it was as good a time as any to ask, in part to distract from his upwelling of emotion.
She squinted at him for a moment, looking intense, before slackening and shrugging casually. “It was my song. Palomar has been teaching me, but that was the first time I succeeded. My guess is, it was the danger.”
Rogan wanted more. “How does one simply sing fire into existence? I cannot.”
“Nor could I, before then.” She took another bite of the pastry she’d chosen to cool her palate. “According to Aasimar lore, there are seven key note combinations tuned to either the deep consciousness or the elemental planes.” Witnessing the incredulous look across Rogan’s face she added, dubiously, “I know.”
“Each of these note combinations is a trigger for turning what comes next in the composition from possibility to reality. Every singer, therefore, has seven possible manifestations of magic. The key is not only pairing the correct combination, but constructing a song that will not only tap into the power of one’s will, but describe, in a very specific way, what the manifestation will be.
“I have been working on several compositions, but nothing quite came together until the wolves. I suppose I hadn’t been feeding it enough of my will – that is what Palomar said was always the trickiest part for new singers. Now that I know what it feels like, I should be able to put my other songs to the test.”
Rogan leaned back in his chair, marveling. How could he not believe it? He had seen it happen, and grown used to Palomar’s power. “Well, let me know when you figure out what else you can do.”
Before long their stomachs were full, though it was still a chore to pull Saffron away from the table with remnants of her native dishes dotting the plates. The sun had set, however, and it was time to visit Cyril once again. “Let me get through the negotiations for Sir Golddrake before you mention your sister,” he warned. “I know how important she is to you, but this is going to be expensive as it is, and we do not need to give him any more leverage.”
“I thought Cyril was your friend?”
“As close to one as I have in the business world, but trust me, this is still about business to him.” Rogan took them back to the Silver Trumpet. The crowded streets were already thinning as citizens headed home in advance of the government-imposed curfew. From an hour after dark until an hour before dawn, only agents of the King-priest were allowed to roam the major cities of Chelpa.
The viscount was waiting just outside his doorway, and ushered them in with due speed. He glanced both ways down the thoroughfare before closing the door behind them, which he immediately bolted shut.
“How were sales today
? Did your new shipment arrive as scheduled?” Rogan could not have been less interested in the mundane transactions of the shop; he knew it was just a front for Cyril’s real business, the sale of information and movement of black market merchandise. He thought it wise not to let Saffron in on how personally involved his contact was in such matters, lest her emotions become their undoing.
“Oh yes, things progressed smoothly today,” Cyril answered. “But of course, curiosity about my old friend’s visit preoccupied my thoughts most of the afternoon.”
The shop was in near darkness – only a single brass lamp, resting on the counter, illuminated the space. Cyril took it and continued toward the back of the shop, where a flight of stairs rose to the second floor. The light, pale though it was, reflected off dozens of shiny objects lining the shelves. Saffron leaned to get a better look, even as they left the baubles behind.
At the top of the stairs, Cyril unlocked a sturdy, wooden door, reinforced with iron edges. He replaced the key in a pocket inside his vest and swung the door open. “Welcome to my War Room.” Rogan glanced about as their host busied himself lighting a candelabra and more lamps. Like a large attic, the room was packed tightly with the viscount’s exotic spoils.
In the center was a round, wooden table, so well-polished its surface shone like glass. Six high-backed chairs, carved with intricate tribal designs, were arranged around it. Mounted on stands were several large stuffed creatures, fierce and strange combinations of tusks, fur, and scales, unknown to Rogan. Two open coffers boasted piles of gold coins and jewels, and three similar chests sat with lids closed.
Suits of armor, painted shields, and exotic weapons encircled the table at a respectful distance, and numerous crates and boxes lined the walls, too far beyond the light’s reach to share the secret of their contents.
“Please, take a chair.” Cyril waited until his guests were seated before joining them. He picked a chair beside Saffron and leaned closer to her, feigning the need to hear Rogan better.
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