TEN
Within a Welcome Embrace
Merrick’s stomach
rolled on seeing the cloud of geist activity on the horizon. It was
always that way with a Sensitive; the body reacted against the
undead. Sorcha might have witnessed such things before, but he had
only read about them. As he fought down his nausea he realized
that, despite his satisfaction at finally seeing Chioma, he would
have been quite happy to never experience a geist storm
firsthand.
Without a word
passing between them, the four Deacons turned and very quickly
passed the wagon train on the way to the Abbey. They all knew their
duty to report what they had seen.
They were just going
underneath the red archway of the building, into what Merrick might
have termed safety, when the Bond sang. His Sight blurred, and he
staggered back as the world that he knew dipped away. Inexplicably,
his mouth tasted of dirty river water, and there was pain—so much
that it felt as though his spine was being ripped out through his
throat.
The sound of a savage
growl echoed in his head—one that he knew very well. In the ossuary
under Vermillion, Merrick and Sorcha had lost themselves, becoming
part of a creature with Raed and the Rossin. It had been both
terrifying and exhilarating—the kind of exhilaration that was full
of danger. The kind you could easily get used to.
It didn’t matter how
far away the Deacons were from the Young Pretender and the
geistlord he carried; they could still draw on magic from Merrick
and Sorcha.
They drowned in the
geistlord for a long moment, lost in his strength and bloodlust.
Then, mercifully and just as suddenly, they were free.
Jey and Delie were
staring at them, wide-eyed and concerned. Sorcha had collapsed back
against the door of the Priory, while Merrick found himself
kneeling on the floor like a penitent of ages past. He knew they
could not say anything to their fellow Deacons. Not even their
superiors back at the Mother Abbey knew about the Bond with the
Young Pretender—and for good reason.
The penalty would
most likely be death. The sentence for any Deacon who had dallied
with the Otherside was to be cleansed in the rune Pyet and their
Strop or Gauntlets thrown in after them. It had been a generation
or more since such a punishment had been meted out—but it was a
ceremony that could easily be revived.
“Are you all right?”
Jey bent down to help Merrick to his feet, while Delie ran to
assist Sorcha.
His partner thought
faster than he did. “Your weather takes some getting used to.” She
mopped her brow and smiled shakily.
The look that passed
between the two Chiomese Deacons said they were not entirely
convinced that both of their Vermillion
counterparts had been overtaken by the heat at the exact same time.
Yet they were luckily too polite to challenge the
explanation.
Bandele and the royal
caravan passed under the mud brick arch last, and the gates were
secured shut behind them. Merrick sidled up to Sorcha while the
unloading went ahead. She must have felt what he had, but he still
had to ask—to make sure he was not running mad.
Her face was white,
her jaw set. Shoulder to shoulder, under the cover of their cloaks,
he squeezed Sorcha’s hand. “He’s alive.”
She gave a quick nod
as if she could not quite bear to speak yet.
“And close,” he added
under his breath. The rest went unspoken. And
so is the Rossin.
Sorcha flinched, but
they dared not discuss this more, because someone in a vibrant
green and blue cloak topped with a mustard yellow hood was coming
down to greet them. The color clash alone drew the eye, but he was
also a tall, broad man with a flashing smile—the kind of solidly
built figure that would have made a fine warrior in any army.
“Welcome! Welcome, Brother and Sister!” He eschewed the traditional
bow and instead clapped them around the shoulders, as if they were
indeed long-lost kin. “I am Abbot Yohari.”
Sorcha shot Merrick a
surprised look, and he realized that she had not fully grasped how
very different the Chiomese Deacons were. Such a greeting in any
other kingdom’s Abbey would have been unthinkable; this man was
among those who chose the Presbyterial Council, after
all!
Lay Brothers
scampered to help unload the caravan for their short stay. Guest
quarters would house the royal retinue, while the two Deacons from
Vermillion would naturally stay in the dormitory. There was one
place that Merrick was longing to be. Chioma had been the only
principality not to fall during the Dark Time, and it was rumored
to contain some of the oldest manuscripts anywhere. However, he had
not forgotten the menacing line of shades lurking in the
mountains.
He gave an awkward
little bow to Yohari. “If we could talk to you in private, Abbot.
We have some concerns about what is happening in
Orinthal.”
The smile faded on
their superior’s face. “You are not the only one, Brother.” He
gestured them in toward the cool interior of the
building.
Once inside, Merrick
could feel a little of his calm returning—enough to notice the
architecture. Again he was reminded how very different Chioma was.
All Abbeys, even the Mother one, were rather stark, removed of any
decoration that harked back to the little gods. In this
principality, however, the Order of the Eye and the Fist had to
tread carefully, and the Priory held on to its religious roots in
ways that would have shocked the Order back home.
The symbol of Hatipai
was repeated on the tiny tiles that decorated the inside of the
Abbot’s receiving room, and they made Merrick deeply uncomfortable.
So he took a seat in the sunny nook where he wouldn’t have to look
at them directly. A tall, clear window surrounded by panes of
colored glass looked out over the city, and Sorcha remained
standing before it. Her nerves would have been apparent even
without the Bond.
“I too have seen the
shades.” Yohari’s voice was now solemn; the act outside had been
for the benefit of his Deacons. He gestured over to the desk where
his Strop sat. “The gathering of them on the hills began two days
ago along with an increase in general geist activity. So few of my
Deacons are here in the Abbey—nearly every one fit for duty is out
fighting the good fight.”
He leaned back,
steepled his fingers and looked at them sternly. “If you were not
escorting the royal Ambassador, I might prevail on you to
assist.”
“Perhaps we could
find some time . . .” Sorcha offered.
The Abbot inclined
his head. “No, protecting the Ambassador is vitally
important.”
Now Merrick was
curious. “I am sorry, but we were given this job merely as a court.
We weren’t told to guard—”
“I think we can all
agree circumstances have changed.” Yohari gestured to the corner
where a gleaming blue orb rested atop a brass stand. Merrick saw
Sorcha flinch at the weirstone, but even she couldn’t complain
about the Abbot having one or their use in the Imperial air navy.
They made many things possible, the most important of which being
communication between far-flung Abbeys, Priories and
cells.
“I am waiting on word
from the Presbyterial Council,” the Abbot rumbled, “though I
certainly cannot mount an attack on them in the hills—not when the
city needs protecting.”
Merrick nodded. If it
was beyond the Abbot’s experience, then waiting was the wiser
course. “Then may I ask permission to examine your library, Father
Abbot?”
“The
library?”
“If there is no
service we can offer you, then I would very much like to view the
treasures in it.” Merrick tried to keep the hint of avarice out of
his voice.
The Abbot dismissed
them quickly—having ascertained that two more Deacons would not
make those hovering shades disappear. They took their leave from
Yohari, and Sorcha let out a long sigh of relief.
They stood in the
quiet corridor as lay Brothers began to light candles around them
against the drawing night. Even so, Merrick could make out deep
shadows beneath Sorcha’s eyes. “Go get some rest.”
She raised an eyebrow
at his almost commanding tone. “I hope you are not going all mother
hen on me. Remember, I am old enough to actually be your mother.”
He laughed at that.
“You’re not that ancient.” He chuckled somewhat forcibly. “I just
think we need to be fresh tomorrow.”
Even Sorcha, spoiling
for a fight, couldn’t argue with that. She rolled her shoulders and
let her eyes close for a moment. “A cool bath and a warm cigar
would be splendid. Are you really set on scouring the library?” He
grinned, and she sighed theatrically. “I see you are.”
“I managed to sleep
on the Summer Hawk,” he lied, knowing
that thanks to their unusual Bond she wouldn’t believe it anyway.
It was a little game they played.
Sorcha clapped him on
the shoulder and then, muttering to herself, left him to
it.
The Abbey was silent
around Merrick, but that was just fine. He was itching to see what
the library might hold. After a few wrong turns he found
it.
It was larger than he
had expected and packed with books, scrolls and manuscripts that
made his blood rush. He was hoping to find something in here that
might account for the cloud of shades, yet his scholarly instincts
made him just want to dive in.
The sun began to
creep down behind the horizon, and still Merrick kept scouring the
shelves. He knew if he looked out the window aimed toward the
mountains he would get all the inspiration he needed. Yet the
library was proving a disappointment. Most of the works here were
about Hatipai, and there was only so much adulation to a goddess
even he could take.
Finally Merrick
slumped down at the broad table in the middle of the room and
admitted defeat. With his head in his hands, exhaustion began to
overcome him; the long hours of traveling finally catching
up.
He was just about to
stagger upright and go to find a place to give in to sleep—when a
strange noise made him pause. It sounded like onhe eerie sounds
made by the Chiomese nose flute—the kind of vibrating noise that
had sent him as a child running for his mother’s lap. It filled the
long lines of shelves with a kind of tuneless vibration that he
could feel in his bones.
Then the whispering
began. A cool chill ran up his neck, as subvocal human noises
echoed through the library. He was sure that there were words in
there, but as much as he strained his ears, he could make none out.
So he did the one thing that a trained Sensitive Deacon would
always do; Merrick closed his eyes and flung out his
Center.
His awareness spread
wide over the whole building. He could count every Deacon in the
Abbey and every animal too. Swallows were nesting under the
building’s roof, a colony of ants were harvesting leaves from the
garden, and a hundred tiny pinpricks of awareness in his sight
showed where earthworms were digging deep in the soil seeking
whatever moistness remained there. He could sense all of these tiny
things, yet apart from himself and a straying bee battering itself
against the window, there was nothing else in the library. No hint
of the Otherside was anywhere in the room.
Merrick told himself
that, yet the ominous sounds continued around him. They ebbed away,
seeming to move through the stacks of books, roll around in the
corners and come back stronger.
Wrapped in confusion,
he took a step back, banging into the table. All of his life in the
Order he had been able to depend on his Sight—it was the one
constant. And more than that, he was the best at what he did. His
tutors had told him so. He had been partnered with Sorcha Faris
because of it. It was the one thing he relied on.
His childhood had
been ravaged. Every happy memory had been stained by seeing his
father killed on the stairs of their castle by a terrifying, still
unidentified geist. So he had run, taken another name, taken refuge
in the Order—because that was what they offered—order. And now, in
one instant, he was beginning to doubt all that.
The whispering
continued, as if mocking his uncertainty. It sounded harsh and
demanding now—like all his worst thoughts were bubbling to the
surface. Merrick’s head was spinning, and he had the horrible
feeling that maybe he was going mad. No—he would not allow that.
Surely madness was something that came on gradually, not as a
sudden avalanche of half-heard voices. Perhaps the Bond that Sorcha
had created with the Cursed Young Pretender was having
consequences; maybe the Rossin power was finally corrupting
him.
Then just as the
whispers rose to the point where he could almost discern
words—there was silence. Abrupt and total; the atmosphere went from
tense to serene. Merrick stood very still and held his breath. His
mind raced to find an explanation.
It had not been a
geist. So what else could it have been? If only he were back in the
Mother Abbey. He might have plundered their larger library or had a
quiet word in Deacon Reeceson’s ear, because one explanation
remained: a wild talent.
Shaking, Merrick sat
on the nearest chair. He’d tried to block out all memory of the
incident outside the jail. Just after they had rescued Raed, the
three of them had been nearly torn apart by an angry mob. He had no
clue how he had brought all those people to their knees racked by
sorrow—but he had.
The wild talents, not
sanctioned by the Order, were dangerous things to admit to. Even
Deacon Reeceson, an elderly and venerable member of the Order, kept
his gift of prescience to himself—sharing it with very few. So when
Merrick thought of what these whispers might mean, what wild talent
they might evealing, he shuddered.
He couldn’t give in
to fear though. Deacons had to face the darkness. So he got up from
his chair and stumbled toward the shelves—to where the sounds had
come from. Naturally it was in the darker recesses of the library.
Back here everything was covered in cobwebs, and the smell of dust
competed with the odor of old books for supremacy.
The faintest echo of
the whispers drew him to the carved rear wall. Follow. Follow.
Merrick ran his hands
over the wood while putting his Center forward into the darkness.
Hidden and secret. It was very like
when he sensed the living things around him, but it tasted strange
in his mind; dry and musty. The little click under his right
fingertip sounded so very loud, but when he slid the secret
compartment aside, it was as silent as a lonely grave.
The compartment
beyond was packed with books, ones that judging by the amount of
dust on them had not been touched for a very long time. He knew
before even lifting them what they were about. The round shape of
stars on the cover told him, and the shiver down his spine
confirmed that these were books on the Native Order. Books that
should have been destroyed with the downfall of that
organization.
Certainly there were
plenty of folk tales about the past—how the people had risen
against the old Order, how the ruling Emperors of that time had
hunted them down—but their books were burned, and their history had
been deliberately destroyed and none in the Order of the Eye and
the Fist knew anything of them.
It was not the first
time Merrick had discovered that all was not as it seemed within
the Abbeys. He let out a long, deliberate breath and then reached
for the book. It was the Chiomese Abbott’s journal—but definitely
not the current one.
As Merrick scanned
down the entries, his blood began to run cold as he realized this
was no record of geists destroyed or banished. Instead, he saw
words like “captured,” “resistant” and, most chillingly of all,
“useful.” It began to make sense. Unlike his Order, the native ones
had taken a step down a darker path—a path that used geists for
their own gain. It was, to put it mildly, terrifying: an idea that
he knew his own superiors would not want even in the heads of their
own Deacons. It was no wonder the voices said Hidden and secret.
“Merrick?” His
partner’s voice made him jump. Sorcha was standing in the shelves,
her hair damp, her eyes half-lidded with sleep. Even when
slumbering, the Bond alerted her to his fear and confusion. “Are
you all right?” While she rubbed her hair briskly, her partner
tucked the journal under his cloak and clicked shut the
compartment. With so much dust, he knew these were long
forgotten.
Merrick turned and
smiled. “Yes . . . just tired.”
“Well then, you
should get some sleep.” She sighed. “Silly boy.” She said it with
such affection that he couldn’t really take offense.
For a moment he
considered telling her about the journal, but she had so much to
think about that ancient history seemed a silly thing to bring up
now. Still, he wouldn’t be sleeping well tonight, no matter what
his partner said.
The crew of the
Sweet Moon fished their naked captain
out of the river the next morning. Raed lay gasping on the deck
with the taste of blood and dirty water in his mouth. They stood
around him in a somber circle. His fingers tightened into fists as
he remembered other times like this. It had been many years, but
the memories were still vivid and still cut.
“Captain?” Tangyre’s
voice was soft and her hand gentle on his shoulder.
Raed closed his eyes
and tried to recover what remained of his humanity, piece together
the shreds that the Rossin had left him. The geistlord was like a
leech—only once he had taken his fill of blood would he drop away.
Raed had lived in the shadow of this parasite for far too long, but
it still became no easier.
Finally, gathering
his remaining strength, he levered himself up with every muscle and
sinew aching.
Tangyre draped a
blanket over him, helped him up, but barked to the crew, “We still
have to get to Orinthal. Jump to it!”
Leaning against
Tangyre, his limbs heavy, Raed let himself be led into the small
cabin and tucked into the captain’s bed. Wordlessly, Tangyre washed
him of the river water, examined the cuts and bruises and finally
sat down to put salve on them. Her fingers were strong and sure,
but her voice when she finally spoke was gentle. “One woman did all
this?”
“I wish,” the Young
Pretender whispered. “She must have been possessed by a geist. This
is all the Rossin’s doing.” To Raed the concerns of his body were
very far away.
His friend knew
better than to pursue further questioning—there were answers best
left unknown.
Raed kept repeating
Fraine’s name in his head, conjuring up images of her face framed
with curls and her wide blue eyes. They were hard to retain because
as always the Rossin had left him with shattered images of the
night before. It might not have been him who did the killing, but
it had been his flesh—transformed, yes—but his all the same.
Flashes of a woman, her white skirt gleaming in the darkness among
the grass. Glimpses of a farmer standing before his house, sickle
in hand, then nothing but frenzy and the feeling of thick blood in
his mouth. Reflected emotions that were not his: hunger and
delight.
Raed rolled to one
side, heaving. Tangyre, who knew the way of things, had a pot
ready. She rubbed his back while he vomited the contents of his
stomach—but there was no blood to get rid of. The Rossin had taken
that. It was only his own honest dinner from the night before that
reappeared.
The Young Pretender
slumped back on the bed.
“It was not you,
Raed. Remember that.” Tangyre tidied away the soiled pot and handed
him a glass of water. “It was that creature, the Curse—not
you.”
He worked his mouth a
few times before being able to speak. His throat felt raw, broken
from too many Rossin snarls. “I know that, Tang . . . it doesn’t
make it any easier.” He took a few gulps of the liquid, but the
taste of blood was not removed.
Tangyre opened Raed’s
pack and fished out some fresh clothes. “If only you had been born
in Vermillion as the Curse dictates. If only those worthless
Princes had crowned your father instead of—”
“That’s a lot of
ifs.” He closed his eyes again, trying to imagine how his life
would have been different. “Perhaps if we could go back and change
my grandfather to a kinder Emperor—but we have to live in this
world, Tang. This reality.” Raed, finding some little remaining
strength, pulled himself upright and swung his legs over the side
of the bed. He took several long gulps of air. “How far to
Orinthal?”
“We should be there
by nightfall.”
Chioma was not one of the principalities
that had slavery, but they allowed slaver ships to pass up the
massive Saal River to places that were less enlightened. It meant
they profited from the vile trade—yet remained aloof from
it.
It was not just this
aspect of Chioma that disturbed Raed. He had studied a lot as a
young man: history of the Empire, family legends and all his
ancestors. Something from that time was worrying at
him.
“In the bottom of my
pack,” he croaked weakly to Tangyre. “My grandfather’s
journal.”
Captain Greene
frowned. “I don’t think you—”
“By the Blood, Tang!”
Raed growled and immediately wished he had not. His head felt
stuffed with snapping turtles. He waved his hand. “I can at least
read. I promise not to get up immediately.”
His friend let out a
sigh, retrieved the journal and handed it to him. “Just promise to
keep to that bed.” Then she tucked a blanket over him and retreated
out of the cabin.
With a ragged sigh
Raed obeyed, even as he opened the book on his lap. The last Rossin
Emperor’s journal was not studded with gems or even terribly thick,
and it was not the official record—that still remained in
Vermillion Palace. Instead, this journal contained Valerian’s
personal writings; after his death it had been carried away by his
few remaining supporters.
The Young Pretender
had been born years after the last Rossin Emperor had died, but he
had read enough of his writings to have a pretty good idea why the
Assembly of Princes had chased his son out of Vermillion. It
mattered little to them that the meek heir, who was branded the
Unsung, was nothing like his father.
Raed shivered and
pulled the blanket closer. He had no way of telling if his life
would have been better if his father had retained the throne; he
might have grown up as foolish as his grandfather and met just as
untimely a death. But he would never have had to live with the
Rossin.
Raed’s jaw clenched,
and he began to flick determinedly through the journal. Having
already read the damn thing before, he was aware it was soaked in
the arrogance and pride of the dead Emperor, yet there was still
much of value to be found in its pages. As a young man Valerian had
traveled with his father the length of Arkaym and visited every one
of the principalities. Even with his many faults, the last Emperor
had still been a shrewd observer of character.
After a few moments
Raed found the section that dealt with Chioma, the spice land of
the Empire. It remained a strange case among the principalities of
Arkaym, skating at times perilously close to independence. Its
history could be traced unbroken as far back as the written records
went and, curiously, its royal family had never changed throughout
the ages. No other principality could lay the same
claim.
Raed frowned and read
on. Valerian recorded his impression of the Hive City, the vast
markets for spices and dyes, and the beauty of the women—even if he
could have been only thirteen at the time.
However, it was the
portion about the Prince of Chioma that caught Raed’s
attention.
The ruler of Chioma keeps himself in remarkable seclusion that no other Prince we have visited would dare. None have ever seen the heirs to the throne of Chioma—nor the face of their liege. Even in the presence of his servants, his nobility and his women, the Prince’s form is covered in blue robes—scandalously close to Imperial purpl! When my father and I were taken into his presence, it was like we were the penitents rather than he. I was horrified to find even then, when we were in his presence, a glittering wall of crystal beads obscured his face.He bowed most politely, correct to the tiniest degree, yet he did not once offer to remove the covering before his face. I wanted to take my sword and smite him down for the offense given to my father—but he held me back with a stern look. After the audience I said to Father, “He should be whipped for his insolence.” He only replied, “In Vermillion he would be, but in Chioma that would be dangerous,” as if that were explanation enough!Later that night I managed to corner some of the Imperial Guards, who told me the rumors surrounding this Prince. One told me that he was so hideously scarred none could look on his face and not go mad, while another fool suggested the Prince was immortal. The final one whispered the Prince had died years before, and it was his mother concealed behind the veil.
Raed scanned the
pages further, until he found another mention of
Chioma.
Only three years
after taking power, Valerien had nearly lost his throne to a
conspiracy of aristocrats in Vermillion. He had not been able to
prove the involvement of any of the Princes—but he knew very well
that some of them must have taken part.
Valerian wrote
tirades against those he thought most likely—but one name caught
his grandson’s eye.
I have had reports that the poison meant to do me in may have been traded in Orinthal—that serpent’s den of thieves and assassins. My spymaster was only able to get this information with application of the rack, but then the trail ran cold. I am sure that hidden viper in Chioma, our ancient enemy, is responsible.
Raed paused, his
finger tracing the word with some confusion. This was the first he
had ever heard of such a royal feud. Flicking back through the
pages, he passed another hour trying to find what that curious
reference could be in relation to. Finally, he had to admit
defeat.
Closing the journal,
he let out a sigh. His scholarly instincts had been piqued, but
unfortunately, trapped on the Sweet
Moon, he had no way of doing further research. Raed had
studied all the official accounts available—except for those held
in the palace library—and he had never heard of a feud between the
Imperial family and the Chiomese ruler.
“My Prince?” so
engrossed in his study had he been that Raed had failed to notice
Tangyre’s reappearance.
“I am all right.”
Raed sighed and pushed himself out of bed. “We must put all efforts
into finding Fraine so that I can get back to open water. The tide
of the Otherside has obviously turned against us.”
Tangyre nodded but
offered no comment on his Curse. Instead, she stuck to what they
could control. “We are nearly to the port of Orinthal. Slavers do
not stay here long; there are no markets for their cargo. I hope
you have a plan to explain our presence there.”
Raed ventured a
smile. “I do indeed—and I think the crew will enjoy
it.”
After getting
dressed, he joined Tangyre and the circle of sailors on the deck.
They would not meet his gaze, and he didn’t blame them. Even those
who had been with him since the beginning had not seen him
transform for a long time.
Raed cleared his throat and addressed the
stocky crew member closest to him. “Balis, go below with a hammer.
See what damage you can visit upon the Sweet
Moon without totally sinking her.”
The sailor grinned.
“It’d be a pleasure, Captain—though sinking this filthy tub would
be a kindness.”
“Not in the
plan”—Raed gave him what little smile he could find—“but I very
much agree.”
By the banging and
whooping that came from belowdecks a short while later, Balis was
making the most of the opportunity to take out his frustrations on
the slave clinker.
“Nice to know this
ship won’t be used again,” Tangyre said as the river port appeared
round a bend in the river.
Long piers, made out
of the local red stone, extended out into the river, displaying to
everyone its wealth, while ships of all sizes bobbed in the
Saal.
Snook took the helm
and slowly guided them into a free berth. The smell of rich spices
combined with the more musky smell of camels, goats and sheep
assailed the nose in a way that was pleasant and
shocking.
The grinning Balis
returned to the deck, just as Raed swallowed a knot of concern and
addressed the sailors again.
“Please remember you
are slave ship crew, so act accordingly. And by the Blood, do not
call me anything but ‘Captain.’ ”
“Good thing we did
not bring Aachon, then.” Balis chuckled, folding his arms around
the sledgehammer.
The laughter took a
little of the sharp edge from the moment.
An army of harbor
officials were already scampering in their direction, forms and
paperwork trailing in their wake. Raed and his crew dropped down
onto the pier as the harbormaster’s second homed in on
them.
The captain handed
over his paperwork and waited for the official to notice the rather
impressive damage in Sweet Moon’s hull.
The Deputy was examining the order in such minute detail he didn’t
even raise his head.
“Ahhh”—Raed cleared
his throat and jerked his head toward the damaged vessel—“we had
some trouble . . . ”
“Trouble?” The
official’s gaze flicked up, and then his eyes widened on seeing the
gaping holes. “What . . . what about your cargo?”
“They got loose in
the night, put up a hell of a fight, then jumped right into the
damned river.” Raed let out what he thought was an exceedingly
cruel laugh. “Hope the crocodiles ate the lot of
them.”
“Yes, well . . . ”
The Deputy Harbormaster didn’t seem to get the joke. “You were
supposed to move on tomorrow.”
“How am I supposed to
do that?” Raed leaned in close to the smaller man. “My ship is full
of holes, and I ain’t taking my men back on the water again until
it is fixed.”
The other looked down
at his notes. “We can accommodate your vessel in one of our dry
docks—but it will be at least a week until it can be worked
on.”
“Hear that, lads?”
The Young Pretender shouted to his crew. “Rest and relaxation on
the owner for a whole blessed week!”
The Sweet Moon’s crew did an admirable job of
impersonating slavers looking forward to barmaids, brothels and
beer. They whooped and hollered until everyone on the pier was
looking in their direction
Raed pressed his
thumb in the inkpot of the Deputy Harbormaster and then to the form
allowing the ship to be moved to the dry dock. Somewhere the owner
of a slave ship would eventually get a terrible shock. Raed grinned
at that satisfactory thought.
Finally all of them
sauntered along the pier and into town.
“What now?” He asked
Tangyre quietly over his shoulder.
“We make contact with
our man here.” Captain Greene also kept her voice low, while her
eyes scanned the many dark alleyways that lined the approach to the
port. “The pub should be nearby.”
“I like the sound of
that.” Raed tucked his fingers in his belt with a lot more bravado
than he felt. He could do with a beer to wash away the final taste
of blood that the Rossin had left him. Once it was gone, perhaps he
could live with what had happened the previous day—or at least file
it away with the rest of the horrors the Curse had brought him.
Ahead lay his sister, and that was the anchor his sanity clung
to.