by Kevin Hearne
Once we cleared the northern shore of Joabei, the full force of the westerly wind smacked into us as we tacked into it. Then I engaged my kenning, asking those prevailing winds to swerve around my ship, curl back on themselves like a whirlwind, and billow my sails east, so that we were at once sailing against the wind and with it.
This decision was a bit fraught, and one could argue it had not ended well for Maesi and I was blowing ill wind over a grave—in fact, it had been so argued. By my cousins, by the relatives of the women on my crew—by most everyone who heard about my plan to sail east against the prevailing winds of Shoawei. Sailing with the wind—heading west—was the pious and righteous direction to explore, even though far more people had died going that way than going east. The krakens must think of our shipping lanes as a buffet.
There were some distant uninhabited islands that way—great fishing, supposedly—and once, long ago, someone had tried establishing a village there, but it didn’t take hold. When the resupply ship arrived the next year, the villagers had all vanished. It was safer and more profitable to focus our trade with Omesh to the south during the summer months than reach for more-distant shores.
I was leaving exactly two years after Maesi had left. Systematic record-keeping of courses, time of year, and disappearances had revealed that fewer ships got lost in the hottest summer months—almost none; the krakens retreated somewhere during that season, most likely to some unholy spawning grounds, and thus it was the best time for exploration. We knew that there was a landmass—a large island or a continent—to the east. That had been confirmed in the past few years by a number of cautious explorers who sailed out and back. But the more adventurous—those who had tried to map its coastline, perhaps, or set foot there—never returned.
My crew didn’t know I wanted to map the coastline or find my way through the Northern Yawn to come home again from the west. They thought we were going to reconfirm the eastern continent, maybe map a tiny bit of it, and return before the krakens stirred in the deep again. That made for a very tight schedule.
It took us most of a month to cross the ocean, to get utterly filthy, and for the lookout in the crow’s nest to shout that she spied land ahead. We’d have to turn around soon to avoid the krakens.
My first mate, Haesha Laejeong, reminded me of this fact. She was a friend of mine from school days, who’d not been jealous when I had sought a kenning and found it. A true friend happy for the happiness of others. She admired what she called my “graceful eyebrows,” and I admired her gifts: high cheekbones and perfect skin and a voice to either beguile or command.
“Some of the crew have asked when we’re going to turn back,” she informed me over a glass of wine in my cabin. That was the acceptable way for the crew to question me: Approach the bosun or the first mate with their concerns, and they would then play go-between. My officers acted as both bubble and test audience for me.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Aye, that’s fine to say right now, but still: when? They’re going to keep asking, Koesha, and forcing me to ask you.” When we were alone, she dropped my title, and it was a relief to us both. “So if you can name the date of our return, that would be wise.”
“I can’t put a date on it. I’m looking for something, and when I’ve found it, we’ll return.”
Haesha blinked. “All right. Can I share with the crew whatever it is you’re looking for?”
I circled the rim of my wineglass with a finger, considering. It was a sweet white vintage, because if I’d wanted early-stage red vinegar, I’d have just bought some.
“I’m looking for my sister,” I admitted.
“You think she’s alive?”
“No. I mean…I hope she is, of course. But that is not what I expect or what I seek. What I’d like is to chart some of the coast and travel inland a bit, see if we can determine whether it’s this mysterious land that’s responsible for missing crews. If it seems safe, then it was the sea. One or the other had to have killed her, so which was it? If we find something on land, then…we can report that. If not, then…”
“It was the krakens.”
“Yes.”
“But taking time to investigate might only ensure that the sea takes us before we can make it home.”
“We won’t stay long. And I’ll add my kenning to the western winds to speed our journey back. That should give us a couple of weeks to explore.”
“Two weeks? You’ve done the math on this?”
I pursed my lips. “You’re right. Fifteen days instead of sixteen. Play it safe and stay ahead of the tentacles, as they say.”
“Timeless advice.”
I paid painstaking attention to the stars and the time and made copious notes of the coast but directed the helm to skirt the northern shore rather than drop anchor. It was all cliffs and rocks anyway; we would need to find a more hospitable stretch for a landing party.
On top of the cliffs, a dense forest of trees stretching for leagues north and south brushed the sky and swayed in the wind. There were also some soft hills carpeted in evergreens, but no true mountains that I could see. We saw no evidence of settlements, likely because we saw no fresh water. We’d need to find some for ourselves soon and stock up for our journey back.
Once we found a river or a stream emptying into the sea, I’d go ashore personally to investigate. And because Maesi would have needed fresh water too, I also hoped to find some sign that she had been there.
If I found nothing, I might let Haesha convince me to turn around. If I found evidence that Maesi had survived the crossing and was somewhere in this new land, however…I’d sail on by myself if I had to.
* * *
—
Fintan enjoyed his cup at Master Yöndyr’s that evening, listening to people talk about his tales and noting whether they seemed most excited about Tallynd’s discovery, the Sixth Kenning in Ghurana Nent, or Koesha Gansu obviously sailing toward the Nentian coast with more knowledge of krakens than we had. We had never heard that the krakens retreated in the summers before.
But we both limited ourselves to a single drink before heading home. It had been a long day and our minds were exhausted.
“I’m so tired I doubt I’ll dream at all tonight,” Fintan said as we parted. “Which would be perfect.”
All I want in the morning is a peaceful time for toast. Give me that first, and then throw life at me. But it was not to be. Knuckles rapped on my door after I’d buttered my bread but before I’d managed to apply marmalade.
Gerstad Nara du Fesset greeted me at the threshold, her arm still in a sling, and I invited her in.
“Thanks, Dervan, but I can’t. I’m here to deliver a message and then I have other duties.”
“Oh. What is it?”
Instead of giving me a verbal message, she presented me with a sealed envelope. “This.”
“What’s it about?”
“No idea. I’m just running errands. But I was told to do this first, so I guess it must be important. Better read it sooner rather than later.”
“Do you need a reply?”
“They didn’t say I did, so I think we’re done here.”
“Oh.” She waved and took a step away and I said, “Nara? Are you all right? We haven’t spoken in a while and I’ve been worried.”
“I’m fine, Dervan. Just keeping busy. I’m sure you are too.”
She gave me a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes and I knew something was bothering her, but if I kept prying I’d only be bothering her more. It was enough that she knew I cared.
Taking the note to the kitchen, I placed it on the counter next to my toast and paid attention to my breakfast, letting the envelope know that however important its contents might be, they were not more important than the proper slathering of marmalade on a buttered slab of rye. I too
k toast, tea, and envelope to my kitchen table, enjoyed a bite and a sip, then broke the seal.
Inside was a note for me in a crabbed script and another sealed envelope with no addressee, just an illustrated pair of eyes.
The note read:
Master du Alöbar,
I require your services this morning on an urgent matter. The enclosed envelope is intended for a Brynt agent who cannot be seen near the palace. I need you to simply leave it at a dead drop, which is underneath a refuse bin in the alley behind the Kraken Good Time Inn outside the city walls. The proper bin is marked with a yellow star. I need this small favor done as soon as possible, please, in return for the many services I have done you. Please burn this note before proceeding, but proceed with all haste.
Yours in wretched darkness,
Master Butternuts
“Drown me!” I shouted. “No. Drown him! I don’t want to do any of his spy shit!”
But I didn’t know how to refuse. He had done me quite a few favors, from refurnishing my home to finding out who’d ordered my wife to be poisoned to promising vengeance upon the perpetrator. All I had to do was take a walk outside the walls and place this letter underneath a bin. As far as skulduggery was concerned, that didn’t sound so bad. I might even find the exercise invigorating.
Muttering curses all the while, I burned the note with a candle and then stepped outside with my cane and the sealed letter. I waved at Constable du Bartylyn, who was passing by and had absolutely no updates on my stolen furniture, save for a speculation that someone else must have farted on it by now, and if I thought about that long enough, it might make me feel a little bit better about never seeing it again.
He walked away, whistling, and I thought he was a singularly strange individual for trying to comfort me with thoughts of thieves tooting their foghorns on my property. But perhaps I should give him full marks for innovative community policing.
The walk to the city gates and then outside them was the opposite of relaxing. Anytime someone’s eyes flickered in my direction, I was positive they could see that I was up to something dastardly. Yet they walked on and raised no alarms.
The Kraken Good Time Inn might have actually been a good time, but I would not know since I never set foot inside. I circled around to the back, saw six stinking bins of trash, and noted that the fourth one from the left had a small gold star painted on one side. I tipped it up slightly and slid the envelope underneath, even though it was crawling with insects. I let the bin rest and wiped my hands on my pants. The alley smelled foul, and I felt like I needed a bath after that.
I never made it out of the alley. Four mariners—two in front, and two behind—appeared with halberds pointed in my direction and demanded my immediate surrender.
“Okay,” I said, raising my hands. “You got me.”
“Damn right we do,” one snarled. “Traitor.”
“What? Who are you looking for? Because it isn’t me.”
“It’s you, all right. You’re the one who just put a letter underneath that bin.”
“So?”
“So you’re a traitor, fish head.”
“Sir, I’m a patriot. Pelenaut Röllend is my friend.”
An impact on the back of my head ended that conversation before I could receive any reply. I woke up someplace dank and dark, nursing a headache far worse than the previous day’s hangover. It was not the sort that tea would fix very quickly.
There was a light source coming from a hallway, dimly seen through a grille of bars. I was in a dungeon.
“Huhhrr. Gleh. Huh. Hey!” I felt that last word was the correct one, so I said it again. “Hey!”
A voice from the hallway said, “He’s awake,” and another replied, “I’ll let them know,” before the tap of bootheels receded on stone.
“Can I—”
“Shut up, traitor,” the first voice said. “You can talk all you want when they ask you questions. Nothing’s happening until then.”
Considering how much pain I was in and the spinning of my senses, I was content to remain silent. I held myself still and patiently waited for my skull to cease punishing me. It might be a long while.
The pain might have receded the tiniest smidgen when, after some inderminate time, they moved me to a different room, with some better lighting and significantly less mold. They sat me down at a table and chained me to it. There were two chairs on the other side, and after a few minutes Pelenaut Röllend and his lung, Föstyr du Bertrum, entered and took the seats. There was no flash of welcome or friendship in their eyes.
“Rölly, what—”
“Let us ask the questions, Dervan.” My old friend held up the envelope with the eyes on it. “Did you write this?”
“No! You’ve seen my handwriting. I was given it and told to drop it under that bin outside the walls.”
“Who gave it to you?” Föstyr asked.
“Gerstad Nara du Fesset.”
Neither of them showed any surprise at this. “And she told you to drop it under the bin?” the lung asked.
“No, she just gave me an envelope. Inside that envelope was a note plus that envelope you have there. The instructions told me where to drop it.”
“Do you still have the instructions?” Rölly said.
“No, it said I should burn them after reading, and I did.”
Föstyr pinched the bridge of his nose as if a headache was coming on. He could have mine if he wanted.
Rölly sighed in frustration. He fished out three sheets of paper with various things written on them and arranged them in front of me, each obviously written by a different person.
“Were the instructions you burned written in the handwriting of any of these notes you see here?”
I scanned them quickly and picked out the crabbed script of the Wraith immediately. I chucked my chin at it.
“Yes. The middle one. That’s it. Master Butternuts.”
Rölly and Föstyr exchanged a dour glance. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Do you know what’s in this letter you dropped off?” Rölly said, waggling it in front of me briefly before unfolding it. The seal had already been broken.
“No.”
“Do you know what language it’s written in?”
“Brynt, I assume.”
“No, Dervan. It’s Eculan. And it’s signed by Vjeko, the traitor we’ve been looking for.”
“Ohhhhhhh, shiiiiit.” My poor treatment by the mariners suddenly made sense.
“Yes, Dervan. Infinite fields of dire, malodorous shit. Because Gondel Vedd, the only man who can read it, isn’t here.”
I blinked. “He’s not? But we just heard about this Vjeko character a couple days ago.”
“True, but the bard was sharing events that happened months ago. Gondel left us shortly after that time, and we’ve been looking for this Vjeko character ever since. We sure could use Gondel to read this to us now. Unless this Master Butternuts can do it for us. Who is that, by the way?”
“Oh, that’s just my nickname for him. You know who it is. The Wraith.”
“You’re not jesting with me right now, are you? It’s not the time.”
“I’m not, Rölly. I swear to you as both a subject and as a friend. Master Butternuts is the Wraith.”
Rölly put the unsealed letter in Eculan down on the table next to the middle note I’d picked out. They were written in different languages, but it was without doubt the same handwriting.
“The instructions you were given were in this handwriting, which you’ve accurately identified as the Wraith’s. And he sent you to drop off a letter signed by Vjeko. A letter that he wrote. So you see our problem.”
I took a deep breath before replying and saying the words aloud, realizing the horrific truth. “Yes. The Wraith is the traito
r Vjeko.”
“Yes. Our own master of spies betrayed us and attempted to erase our people from the face of Teldwen. And you’re working for him.”
“What? No! I mean, yes, I did this one thing for him, but I didn’t know he was a traitor! The instructions said it was intended for a Brynt agent.”
Föstyr cleared his throat and said, “That’s one of many problems we face. Who is this letter actually intended for, and where are they? As for the Wraith being the traitor, we’ve suspected that for a good while. We saw the teeth a long time ago and now we see the bladefin behind them, thanks to this confirmation. The tale the bard told about Gondel’s intelligence and Tallynd’s tale about finding the Seven-Year Ship were precisely to provoke this kind of response. We knew where the dead drop was, and we just needed to wait for him to use it again.”
“Okay. So what are the other problems?”
The lung snorted. “Who else is working for him? And are they unwitting accomplices or are they traitors with full knowledge of their complicity? And how do we deal with the Wraith himself?”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you unable to arrest him or pull the water out of his brain, or what?”
“It’s easier said than done,” Rölly said. “We’re fairly certain he’s not a normal person.”
“How so? I mean, he’s sick and he sits in the dark. If you listen to him breathe, it doesn’t sound like he can beat a bowl of pudding to death.”
Rölly quirked an eyebrow at Föstyr. “Shall I tell him?”
The lung nodded. “Might as well.”
Rölly leaned forward and lowered his voice, even though it was only the three of us in the room. “Tallynd saw something else about the wraiths on Blight. Just as we made sure the bard included some of Gondel’s information in his tale, we made sure that a very important detail was left out when Tallynd recounted her story to the bard. We didn’t want it to be public knowledge.”