Whitney got the wagon rolling, but Sora didn’t stop staring at the sad state of the Shesaitju until they were beyond the palisade.
“Just forget about it, Sora,” Whitney said once they were in.
She glared at him. “Typical Whitney Fierstown—”
“Blisslayer.”
“Would you shut up with that already! Just because you got some letter sealed by the Crown doesn’t mean you can just throw away who you’ve always been.”
“Technically, it does, but that’s beside the point. I—we—worked hard for that name. You can’t just go forgetting it.”
“Well, it’s not right, locking them out there. It’s cold.”
Whitney sighed. “There she is. A second ago you wanted to burn their whole camp to the ground.”
“It wasn’t their fault.”
“No, it wasn’t. But out in the world, it starts to get hard telling, doesn’t it, knife-ear?”
He winced impulsively, but she didn’t strike him. Instead, she shot a glower his way that made him feel like shriveling into a cocoon.
“I’m just making a point,” he said. “Out in the world, if you stay somewhere too long you’ll wind up wrapped up in the affairs of lords and ladies. It’s the same thing I told you back in Yarrington.”
“What, and there are no lords in Panping? What’ll we do when we get there and my people are locked up thanks to some rebel warlord thinking about no one but himself?”
“We move on to the next place.” He placed his arm around her, knowing full well the risk he was taking considering her mood. “You think I fancy myself a Glassman because I was born outside Yarrington? I’m as much one as you are Panpingese.”
“Not according to that piece of paper in your pocket.” Sora either cleared her throat or chuckled, Whitney wasn’t sure which.
“All I’m saying is that in our line of work, we’re all on our own. Yeah, make that lesson number… whatever number we’re on: it’s us against the world.”
“And what exactly would you call our line of work?” Sora asked. He could tell by her tone she was starting to cheer up. Which was good, because a month-long voyage across the Boiling Waters to the land of her ancestors would be worse than Elsewhere if she was in a sour mood. And if seeing a group of Shesaitju forced to live in a camp, thanks to a possible rebellion, was the worst she’d ever seen... she had no idea what she was in for if pirates attacked.
“Thieving?” she went on. “That’s too simple. We did burn down Darkings' mansion. What about scoundreling. Is that a word?”
“We’re beyond description.”
“Scoundreling it is, then,” she said.
He slowed the wagon down beside an amassed crowd watching a street performer—a Panpingese kid juggling torches. He let the fire come as close to his face as possible, egging on a crowd of wealthy Glassmen in the merchant district. After he finished and earned a chorus of applause, he pointed to Sora.
“You!” he called. He had the voice of a proper showman, booming, yet inviting all at the same time. Impressive for his age. Whitney had run with a few performing troupes in his time. The acting was fun, but distracting a whole crowd of men and women with full pockets was even better.
Sora glanced between Whitney and the kid, then laughing, stopped the wagon.
“Go on,” Whitney said. “You’re part of the act now.”
The crowd parted to let Sora pass. Whitney heard a few lewd comments about her looks. Lucky for them, he couldn’t see who’d said them. He hopped down and watched from the back.
“I uh... wow…. she’s gorgeous enough to be Empress of Panping, isn’t she?” the kid asked, earning a mixture of laughter and cheers. Sora’s cheeks went as red as the walls of the Jarein Gorge. Whitney gave a nod of approval, even though he knew the kid wasn’t watching him. He was probably half her age, he was so young, but he was good.
“Now, stand right here.” The kid took her by both hands and led her to a tiny stand.
“Here?” she asked, so embarrassed she could barely get the words out.
He gave her one last adjustment. “Right here.” He bent down, and from beneath the stand, drew two curved daggers. They looked Shesaitju in design.
Only in Winde Port, Whitney thought, smirking.
Sora’s face drained of color. Two Glintish women dressed in feathery gowns yelped.
“Now, whatever you do,” the kid said, “just don’t move.”
Sora looked to Whitney, but there was nothing he could do. The performer began juggling the blades all around her. She closed her eyes as one twirled up over her head, the kid catching it on the other side. Ooos and ahhhs filled the air as he danced with blades, each one closer to cutting her than the next. Until one sliced her arm. Just barely, but enough to make her howl. Half the crowd lunged forward to help her, but Whitney didn’t budge. He waited patiently until he felt the faintest pressure against his side. Reaching back with cat-like speed, he caught the hand of a pickpocket.
He shook his head in disapproval as he looked down at the performer’s younger running mate. The boy looked like he was going to fill his trousers with shog. It was probably his first time getting caught. Whitney remembered his younger days of honing his quick fingers on the streets of Winde Port. Traders and wealthy shoppers were the easiest targets around—easily distracted and usually with too many things on them to notice if something went missing.
Whitney however, was neither. “C’mon kid, oldest trick in the book. Never go for the man at the very back of the crowd because he clearly has trust issues.” He released the boy’s arm and gave him a light shove. “Now scram.”
Whitney continued watching for a moment, then bulled his way through the crowd toward Sora. She was hunched over, holding her arm while the performer tried to assess the damage. He looked nervous too, and Whitney could see why. A stream of blood ran from the cut down her arm, trickling over the hem of her glove. He’d nicked her far deeper than was planned.
Whitney wanted to smack the kid upside the head, but his attention was drawn elsewhere. Smoke poured out of Sora’s clenched fists. It was faint, but there was no question it came from her.
Within her?
He still barely understood how magic worked, blood-based or not, only that it drew on Elsewhere, the realm of banished gods and demons created by Iam after the God Feud.
The fabric over her fingertips began to sear. Whitney quickly hooked his arm around her and rushed her back through the crowd. The performer grabbed at Whitney’s arm, asking if she was okay.
“You juggle knives like my grandmother,” Whitney said, then added. “And your little brother has fingers as light as a zhulong. I sent him running that way if you’re looking.”
The performer looked both ways, then snagged his tin of autlas donated by the gathered crowd and bolted. Whitney leaned Sora against the carriage.
“You okay?” Whitney asked. “You need me to chase down the knife-ear?”
She managed to break her grimace for a second and smirk. Then shook out her arm. There was a long cut across her forearm over a row of ghosted scars he’d never noticed before.
“Seriously though,” Whitney said. “You’re not going to explode again, are you?”
“I’m fine. That area is just tender from… growing up.”
She flexed her arm and a bit more blood oozed out. Whitney had to turn away to avoid gagging. He made it look like he was just getting one of the silk blankets from their wagon. He wrapped it tight around her arm.
“There you go...” He coughed, again to cover for the sick feeling in his stomach. “Most expensive bandage ever.” Blood soaked through the fabric quickly. “Those scars—”
“Are where Wetzel used to cut me to help me tap into my abilities. It brings up bad memories.”
“Of him dying?”
She nodded. “And living. Unlocking a link to Elsewhere isn’t easy. I hated him every day until it worked and then even still, for a while.”
“Well,
let’s make sure and leave these fine folk intact. Using blood magic in public in the Glass Kingdom is a one-way ticket to the gallows, even here.”
She groaned. “I’m starting to hate this place, too.”
“Oh c’mon.” Whitney pulled her in tighter and pointed over her shoulder at Winder's Wharf where the tops of masts soared high over the city skyline like tree trunks stripped of their boughs.
“We’re in paradise,” he said as he took a great big whiff of the salty air. To him, it was the smell of freedom and relaxation. There was nothing in the world further from the worthless town he grew up in than sailing upon open seas.
V
THE KNIGHT
“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Wardric said. They stood in the Shield Hall. Snowflakes swirled in through an open, arched aperture overlooking Mount Lister and the Torrential Sea, carried by an icy breeze.
“I’m still trying to understand,” Torsten said.
“What’s there to understand?” Wardric walked toward the opening. “Apparently, our timid prince wasn’t so shy after all.”
Torsten gripped the railing. His eyes fell on Mount Lister. The top of the mountain was a mere silhouette through the low clouds but the area at its base where the earth crumbled into the Royal Crypt below, remained visible. The tarpaulin covering it flapped, and he could imagine the tiny dots of dwarven artisans flitting about inside.
“I know,” Torsten said. “It was like Liam was alive all over again. I swear to you Wardric, I could literally feel him next to me. Before I knew it, my sword was drawn…”
“You won’t see me complaining about the new king growing up fast. I haven’t seen anyone put her in her place like that since Liam. Apparently, Pi was paying attention all those many years ago.”
“He declared war. There’s no question of the state of the kingdom now.”
“Like the boy said, they acted first. The last time we stood in this chamber I told you we had to teach the Shesaitju a lesson in force. You were wise to delay that while the Queen Mother was unstable, but we can’t be cautious forever.”
“It won’t just be Muskigo. He’ll rouse more afhems seeking to ‘free’ their Caleef.”
“Good, let all the traitors show their colors so that we may put them in their places.”
“You did not see Muskigo fight. Nor did you see his innumerable army.”
“Are you losing your faith, Sir Unger?”
Torsten sighed and turned away from the overlook toward a large, slate table. Eyes of Iam, spiked flames, and other sculptures covered the slate table like the parts of some elaborate game. Each blown-glass figure represented an army, thousands of young men whose lives were now in jeopardy thanks to the impulsiveness of a twelve-year-old.
Torsten reminded himself that Liam too had been stubborn in his youth. He wouldn’t have conquered the world, wouldn’t have brought glory to the name of Iam if he hadn’t been. Like Pi, Liam’s father had died when he was still young, leaving Liam as king at only sixteen. Though four years might as well be a lifetime that early on.
“How long do you suppose we have until word gets out?” Wardric asked.
“Days,” Torsten said. “Maybe less. I trust the Shield, but our numbers are thin, and I don’t recognize half the people in the castle anymore.”
“Another thing for which to thank our lovely Queen Mother.”
“And what thanks is that, Sir…” Oleander appeared in the entry. Pi stood in front of her, barely reaching her waist with the top of his moppy hair. The fire in his eyes was gone, and he looked every bit as tired and disinterested as he once had.
“Sir Wardric Jolly, Your Grace.” He bowed low, but Torsten could sense the bitterness in his tone. He’d been a pillar of the King’s Shield for longer than she’d been queen and she still didn’t know his name.
“Your Grace.” Torsten bowed. “We were discussing the potential… consequences of the King’s decision.”
“He was brilliant, wasn’t he?” She smiled and patted his head. He didn’t react in the slightest. “Why should we have to play coy with those who should be kissing our feet?” She led Pi to the stone seat at the head of the table and helped him onto it. He slumped back, barely able to see the map.
“We must consider the implications carefully.” Torsten turned to the map. “From my scouts, we know that Afhem Muskigo remains in the Fellwater with his army. They have completed numerous siege engines—”
“Breaching towers, catapults,” Wardric explained.
“I know what that means,” Oleander snapped. She took a step toward Wardric, her tall, Drav Cra frame looming over him. All the confidence Pi had stripped from her when he scolded her seemed to have returned in full. “Torsten, who is this man who addresses me as if I need his explanations?”
“He has served the King’s Shield for decades, Your Grace,” Torsten said. “Longer even than I. He fought faithfully by your husband-King. He’s the most loyal sword in the Glass.”
“Well, tell him to keep his tongue sheathed in my presence.”
Torsten grabbed the back of Wardric’s armor and guided him away. If fury could manifest in flames, the room would be ablaze.
“Muskigo’s army seems prepared to march at his command,” Torsten said, refocusing the conversation. “News of their Caleef’s detainment will most certainly expedite things. We can only guess at his exact numbers since they are hidden by the swamp’s fog, but it’s enough to know Muskigo has been preparing this coup since the moment Liam fell ill.”
“Oh, Torsten. Sweet, loyal… gullible Torsten,” Oleander said. “You really believe the lies spun by Sidar Rakun?”
She positioned herself before him. They were the same height, but they rarely saw eye to eye. He couldn’t help but be rapt by her lips, glistening a deep indigo that matched her dress, by her long blonde hair, so fair it shone silver under a certain light.
Torsten took a moment to gather his breath. “It doesn’t matter what I think, Your Grace. The King’s decision will inspire others to the rogue afhem’s call.” He gestured to the area on the map where Pantego forked off into the rocky and black sand-ridden beaches of the Shesaitju. “These cities southeast of the Walled Lake have large, concentrated Shesaitju populations. When word—”
“The Master of Rolls has already sent word across the kingdom that all gray-folk are to be placed under armed watch,” Oleander interrupted.
“I’m not sure…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head, frustrated. “How? The audience only just concluded.”
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Your king gave the order the moment we stepped out.”
“Taking such a harsh stance will only encourage revolts, Your Grace.” Torsten regarded the boy, but Pi remained emotionless. “We must focus on the true enemy south of us.”
“Better to root out all insurgents now than wait until the army is nearer,” Wardric said. “Why don’t we sail a fleet down from Winde Port, catch them napping in Fellwater?” He smiled proudly like he expected Oleander’s approval. Instead, she ignored him.
“The Shesaitju have been fighting within their islands for centuries,” Torsten argued. “They are renowned for their naval combat. In that shallow water and fog, so far from home, we would be at a great disadvantage, especially if their scouts see us coming.”
“And how could anyone miss a mass of ships sailing down Trader’s Bay?” Oleander remarked.
Wardric bit his lip. Torsten could tell he was growing frustrated and tried to urge him with his expression to relax. Nobody knew better than Torsten how hard it was to get and stay on Oleander’s good side.
“Does it benefit you, keeping fools around, Torsten?” Oleander asked.
Wardric was squeezing the table now. But before he said anything stupid, King Pi said, “Excuse me, Mother, but why exactly are you here?”
Torsten glanced up and saw that the boy now stood and stared down at the map. That fierce look in his eyes had returned.
“What was that, my dear?” Oleander asked.
“I said, I’m curious why you are here? You are not king and have no experience with war, yet you insult this soldier who served beneath Father in numerous campaigns.”
Her whole body tensed but she maintained a calm expression.
“As Queen Mother, it is my duty to help look after your kingdom. I learned a lot watching your father, Iam rest his soul.”
Torsten traced his eyes in prayer to Iam. Wardric did the same, though there was no missing the mirth tugging on the corners of his mouth. Pi did not—Torsten noted.
“If you paid attention to Father,” Pi said, “you would know the best course of action is to rely on the expertise of the Royal Council when its outside your own specialties. Of course, because of your actions, Sir Unger is the only man of proper resource who remains on my council.”
“Pi...” Oleander’s lips started to tremble. The muscles on her long, slender throat contracted as she fought back tears.
“Now, please,” he lifted a hand, palm out, “allow them to continue without interruption.”
Oleander stared at her son a few seconds longer, her eyes welling. His façade didn’t falter, stern, cold, the way Liam was with irritators. Torsten wasn’t Wearer when the man could still walk, so he didn’t have as much insight into how he was with Oleander, but Uriah had always said how rigid he could be when she spoke out of turn.
Oleander stood and curtsied. She didn’t weep aloud, but Torsten noticed her shoulders bobbing on her way out of the room. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her despite everything she’d done, despite turning Yarrington into Elsewhere while he was gone. She’d done it all for Pi.
“So, attacking them first is out of the question,” Wardric said. He lifted a statue of a zhulong—the pig-dragon beasts the Shesaitju were so fond of—which represented Muskigo’s army then placed it back down.
Torsten forced himself to return his focus to what was important. “Agreed. Only zhulong would be able to handle mud that deep, and he has many.”
The Redstar Rising Trilogy Page 41
