Trail of Rifts

by David Bokman

  That part, Zena did seem to hear. “So you’ve no doubt met Stonehand’s new heralds, then?”

  “Indeed. Though I knew them before they were heralds, too. They’ve helped our investigation.”

  “What do you think of them?”

  Attila shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Well… they’re an interesting bunch, but they have proven themselves useful, and I believe they will again.”

  “They seem like idiots.”

  “Even idiots can be useful if you use them right, Townmaster.”

  “Very true. Speaking of which, who would you make commander of the Townsguard, if it was up to you?”

  Attila seemed to genuinely think for a moment, weighing the options in his head. “Well, it would obviously have to be one of the three captains. Not Kenson, unless you want to undo all the good work you’ve done, no offense to the man. Ruok would be an excellent option, was it not for his health. If he were to die within a few years, it would cause more chaos than it solved.”

  “So Captain Dovan, then?”

  “If I had to choose, yes. But I don’t. The call is yours, ma’am.”

  “I agree with your judgment. Write up the necessary documents so we can officiate Dovan’s transition from captain to commander.”

  “You… don’t want to discuss it with Dovan and the other captains? The ministers?”

  Zena responded with silence.

  “Of course, Townmaster. Sorry. I’m on it.”

  “Attila?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We’ll need to name a new captain, as well. Write up documents naming yourself as the newest captain of the Townsguard and bring them to me. I want to make all this official before midday.”

  “At once, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  When Captain Dovan entered the office, Zena was sleeping, her legs resting on Stonehand’s old desk. She looks more alert when she’s asleep than most of my men do when they’re awake, thought Dovan. Not alert enough to wake up when I entered, though. Captain Dovan had only met the Townmaster a handful of times, and always made sure not to get a good look at her. I never understood why she hates it when people look at her; she looks better than most. Far better. I suppose everyone has their demons. Dovan did not know the Townmaster well, and did not know if she wanted him to wake her up or let her sleep. I’ll let her sleep for a while; she probably needs it, he thought, sitting down on one of the chairs. If the rumors are to be believed, I’m the new commander. The words did not sound right. Gallo Stonehand was the commander of the Townsguard, and he would be until the sun stopped shining. But Stonehand was dead, and out of the remaining officers, Dovan was probably the best choice. And why else would she call me here? He did not know if he was ready for the responsibility that came with the title, though. He had been leading men all his life, but this was something different entirely. He would be one of the most powerful men in the city, answering only to the Townmaster herself, and perhaps the Minister of War. I wouldn’t even have to answer to Zena; it would be I who had control of the guards, he thought. It was a foolish thought, of course, and one he quickly dismissed. Let’s hear what she has to say first.

  After a few more minutes of waiting, Dovan judged the Townmaster had gotten enough sleep. “Excuse me?” he said, clearing his throat.

  Zena instantly woke, as if she had not been sleeping in the first place, but merely closed her eyes. “Oh. Captain Dovan. I’ve decided to name you the next commander. It will be official in an hour or two. Congratulations.”

  Certainly doesn’t waste time, does she? “I am beyond honored, Townmaster. I will not disappoint you.”

  “Who are you?” she asked in a curt voice.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am?”

  “I’d like to know who it is I am bestowing so much power upon. Tell me.”

  “I… well…” What kind of question is that? “I’ve served as captain for close to a decade now, but you know this already. I grew up here in East Kardh’Ao. My father was also in the Townsguard, and my mother was an artisan. I started helping around the grounds here when I was ten, and joined officially when I was fifteen. Been here ever since. I commanded some of the later offensives of the Waterfield Conquest, which you oversaw as Minister of War. I always admired your direct and efficient approach to those kinds of things. Always knew we would get things done when you called the shots. Even more so now, of course.”

  “You’ll do. I’ve also promoted Attila to captain, to cover your vacancy. I like him. Work closely with him.”

  “Certainly, Townmaster. He is a good man. Shares many traits with Stonehand, may he rest in peace.”

  “I doubt he will rest peacefully. Gallo is probably already proving a nuisance to Haara.”

  “The God of Death against the longest serving commander in the history of the Townsguard. I fear for Haara’s safety.”

  “Indeed. I’ll be in touch.”

  By the time Zena had made her way back to her tower, midday had already passed. And I’m not yet halfway done, she thought. She would have to organize a grand funeral for Stonehand, or else the people would revolt. Preferably as soon as possible, to show how much she mourned him. She would need to address the other ministers, too. While she had every right to name a successor herself, she would prefer it if they were on board with her decision. Alone, they did not pose a threat, but if all four ministers united, their power to depose her was certainly existant.

  The Minister of Law was unlikely to disagree with the decision; it fell well within the confines of the law. The Minister of War might have opinions on the matter, but he would not deem Dovan a bad choice. The Minister of Commerce might raise some disapproval just for the sake of disapproval, and the Minister of Faith would agree with her simply because he was too big a craven to openly oppose her. That could all wait another hour, though. Zena sat down in her office once more, and let reality hit her. Gallo Stonehand is dead. The words still did not seem to fit together. The man had been born before her grandparents and had lived longer than her parents. Time had always seemed to flow differently for Stonehand, but in the end, not even he could escape it. The Sons and The Black Sheep better not get any ideas now that he’s gone, Zena thought. Her increased funding had of course played a big part in decreasing crime, but she would be a fool to ignore the role Stonehand had played. With his age came great experience in how to deal with the criminal scum of the city. Not only that, she thought. Stonehand had experience about almost everything. He could probably even have served as Townmaster, if he wasn’t so hell-bent on honor, tradition, and respect. But he had the experience. Experience I fear Commander Dovan lacks. Experience I fear we all lack.

  ⧫ CHAPTER XX ⧫

  They had now been on open waters for a fortnight, and Jaio’s bowels had finally started to get used to life at sea. He still had trouble keeping his food down when especially hefty waves hit the Northern Respite, but at least the constant swinging of the ship no longer made him want to jump overboard.

  By all accounts, the voyage had been a swift and uneventful one so far. The weather had been mostly kind to the crew, apart from that storm on the eight day, or was it the ninth? The crew had maintained their good health and high spirits, and had not troubled Jaio too much. If Isaiah and his navigational prowess was to be believed, they would dock near Alko’s Peak in just a day or two, three at most. I personally doubt it possible to travel three more days north. Starting a few days ago, the weather had grown far colder than Jaio would have liked, even though he had made sure to dress for the occasion. Now it was icy cold - too cold for snow, most days. Icebergs had already started to make themselves known, and Jaio was certain the entire sea would be frozen a few days further north. At least there’s no risk of The Trade troubling me all the way up here in this godless land.

  It was pure bad luck that had led to The Trade bothering Jaio in the first place. How was I to know that they had a monopoly on lending money? What kind of a monopoly is that, anyway? It h
ad been during one of his visits to Watcher’s Rest that Jaio had decided to… share his wealth with those in need. It was only fair; I had taken a lot of money to them, so now I was giving some back. Or lending, at least. This had not sat right with The Trade, who, like they seemed to in most places, had a strong grip of the city. Credit where it is due, thought Jaio, they are masters of subterfuge and scheming. This was the first time he had come across this organization of merchants, noblemen, bandits and ruffians, but not the last. In many ways, he respected what they had managed to build; their structure was simple, yet effective. The rich higher-ups lend money and write outrageous contracts, and the morally decrepit foot soldiers get the money back, and often the house, too. While the organization would be hard pressed to rival the power of The Archive, they had nonetheless cemented themselves as the second most influential organization there was, or at least that Jaio knew of. But hopefully I won’t have to deal with them much longer. Although he had not lived much more than two decades, Jaio had seen enough cruelty and killing for a man five times his age. And I’ve had enough of it. Give me someplace quiet, someplace untouched by the evils of the south. He was not sure how long he would stay in the north; a part of him wanted to stay for the rest of his life, another part was already thinking about what to do next.

  In many ways, Jaio felt the ocean taunted those who travelled upon it. It was naught but water as far as the eye could see, but a thirsty fisherman who took a sip of the ocean allegedly found himself even thirstier. Asta had explained to him that the high concentration of salt made the water more deadly than poison, a theory the Laentarian had been quick to put to the test. Locating a bucket of seawater, Jaio had taken bets with everyone in the crew that the dangers of the water were greatly exaggerated. “Ah, but my friends, it is just water!” he had told them. “I am not a naturalist or a great thinker, but I know water when I see it!” The crew had told him he would not manage five gulps of water. The Laentarian took one, and instantly felt his throat turn to sand, coarse and rough. He had tried to mask his anguish, to defeat the malicious seawater, but it was impossible. It was not only the saltwater’s effects that were worse than poison, but its taste too. Determined not to appear weak in front of the crew, Jaio had thrown his head back, opened his throat and let the water force its way down. This had proved a great mistake, as it did not take long before he was standing at the gunwale throwing it all up again, with some remnants of salted meat as a bonus. After that day, the Laentarian had taken no more bets with the crew.

  Today’s meal came in the form of salted meat. Jaio had begun to spot a pattern regarding the food: it was always salted meat. Yesterday had been salted meat, today was salted meat, and when he inquired with Asta, she informed him that they would indeed be graced with salted meat tomorrow too. The Laentarian had no trouble suffering through two weeks of this diet, but he did not envy those who spent their lives chewing salted meat out on the wide oceans. Today, for once, he decided to enjoy his meal in the company of the crew out on the deck. Although he did not like admitting it, feeling the ocean air hit his face did feel rather refreshing. Jaio had started appreciating the smells, too. The ocean smells of fish, brine, more fish, seaweed, and even more fish, he concluded.

  A dozen crewmates were enjoying their meal at the deck, and Jaio made it thirteen. His friends were not very talkative ones, and when they did talk, it was not about fishing stories or sea monsters. They are bitter. They talk of nothing but how unlucky they are and how unjustly they have been treated. Do they not understand that you must do what you can with what you are given? Everybody is unlucky, and everybody must make their way in the world all the same. Jaio had not been more than a child when he had learnt that lesson, and he made sure never to forget it. At least we are lucky enough to be given salted meat.

  Jaio had sat down next to Cain and a sailor whose name he had not bothered to learn. Once more, Jaio decided to inquire about The Black Sheep. He had learned tidbits of information during his stay, but every time he pressed further, the crew quickly ended the conversation. It is hard to blame them, Jaio thought. A lifetime of persecution, and most men will be slow to trust. They had told him that the organization targeted those they saw as enablers of the persecution; guards, rich merchants, noblemen, people in power, et cetera. They made it very clear that they never bothered the common folk, which apparently made them sleep easier at night. Even ruthless murderers can find a way to justify their actions, it appears. They had also told him that their leader, whose name they made sure to keep hidden, had not been opposed to them leaving the organization, which surprised Jaio. In all the criminal syndicates he had been involved in, loyalty was the biggest cornerstone of all. But no, Isaiah and the rest were adamant that their departure from The Black Sheep had been respected, but that most of the members still remained in Kardh’Ao, seeing this as a perfect opportunity to increase their activity. Eager to learn more, Jaio turned to Cain, and said, “Cain, now that we are friends, may I ask how you came to be quartermaster of this fine carrack? Were you perhaps a senior member of your organization before you left?”

  The burned man did not bother to take his eyes off his food. “Sure.”

  “Ah, the greatest shame of all is when men with great stories decide not to tell them. I must insist you indulge me, friend.”

  “I’d like to enjoy my meal in peace, outlander.”

  Jaio found it amusing to be called an outlander by someone who, in the eyes of many, was also an outlander. “And I will of course honor that request, as soon as you have answered my question!”

  “You’ll honor my request right now. Just because you paid off Isaiah don’t mean you’re welcome here.” The Quartermaster had never been especially warm towards Jaio during the voyage, but today seemed to be the worst day yet.

  “With an attitude like that, you must be a black sheep even among The Black Sheep,” laughed Jaio. Nobody else did. Instead, the Quartermaster stood up, spat out his salted meat, and said, “I think you should run along to your quarters, outlander.”

  Jaio, still sitting down, said, “Ah, but you have not yet answered my question.” His normal voice of happiness and carelessness had all but disappeared. The other crew members looked at the two men, not with fear, but with anticipation. This was shaping up to be the most excitement they had experienced since setting off.

  “I said run along, little man.”

  The second insult forced the Laentarian to his legs, and he stood up next to the Quartermaster, who stood several inches taller than him. “So it was not thanks to your charisma you were promoted, then. I am shocked, truly.”

  “I’ll promote you all the way to the bottom of the ocean if you don’t close that mouth of yours.”

  “For a hundred and forty suns, I would like to think I am granted the privilege to speak.”

  True to his word, Cain attempted a jab towards the Laentarian’s face. As everyone who had previously attempted the same maneuver had come to learn, this was a fruitless endeavor. Jaio nimbly stepped to the side before the blow was even halfway through the air. “Now, now, there is no need for this to go where you want it to go, Quartermaster.”

  Another jab flew out, forcing Jaio to dance backwards. You’re really good at finding yourself in these situations, aren’t you, Jaio? As he looked around him, he saw that the crew had formed a circle around the two men. The Laentarian saw fewer and fewer peaceful resolutions to this issue. When he looked back to where the Quartermaster had previously stood, Cain had already run up to him. The Quartermaster threw his arms around Jaio, restraining him.

  “This should teach you not to mess with The Black Sheep,” he said, applying more and more pressure to Jaio’s chest. Deciding he did not wish to die at sea, Jaio lifted his boot, and stomped it down on the Quartermaster’s bare foot with all his force, feeling bones and ligament crack and break. Cain let out a roar of pain, and for a moment he loosened his grip on Jaio. A moment was all that the Laentarian needed, and he broke free of the ho
ld, stepping away from Cain.

  “Quartermaster! Enough!” he screamed.

  Cain seemed to disagree. He came running towards Jaio as fast as his foot would allow him, arms flailing. Thanks to the Quartermaster’s weakened state, dodging the charge was child’s play for Jaio. He stepped aside, and took a few steps away, this time forced to walk towards the ship’s gunwale. The ship hit a wave, and the Laentarian felt the seawater splash onto his face, burning his eyes. Cain, now fueled only by rage and lust for revenge, made ready to charge once more, like a rabid bear. Putting one foot in front of what remained of the other, he began his charge, and Jaio once more made ready to dodge.

  As the pink, burned man came within reaching distance, the Laentarian again dodged to the side, but Cain was not a man to be fooled twice. He quickly threw out his left elbow, hitting Jaio in the throat. The younger man gasped for air, almost falling to the ground from the strike. If you fall now, you’re not getting up, he told himself. While he did not manage to draw breath, he did manage to draw his sickle in anger. Instead of his normal slice, he pushed the weapon into the back of Cain as if trying to shove him. The Quartermaster screamed out once more, grabbed his back with one hand, and forgot to look where he was going. Before he had time to stop his charge, his feet met the end of the ship, and his lower body slammed into the gunwale. Travelling with far too much speed to stop, Cain’s body flew over the edge of the ship, plummeting into the treacherous, open ocean. Combined with the injuries to his foot and back, this did not make for a good recipe. The Quartermaster hit the water like a cannonball and sunk like an anchor.

  Jaio, not sheathing his sickle, looked down into the ocean. “Well this was an unfortunate turn of events, my friends.” As he had suspected, the crew quickly lost interest in their dead Quartermaster, and instead drew their weapons. “I am afraid this is where I must leave you,” said Jaio. “But please tell Isaiah that I appreciate the hospitality I’ve been shown, and deeply apologize for Cain.”