Death and the Merchant (River's End Book 1)

by C. H. Williams

  ELSIE

  “Nobody ever asks the wolf why he wore the sheep’s skin—they just assume it’s because he was a greedy bastard looking for a cheap shot at dinner. Maybe he was just doing the best he knew how with the tools he was given. And at the end of the day, isn’t that all any of us are trying to do?”

  ~C.H. Williams, ‘Memoirs’

  Verbose silence filled the apartment.

  Elsie’s eyes were damp, the cold wall bleeding through her sweater as she leaned against the hallway, just beyond sight.

  The draft was a relief against her burning cheeks, and she stole the quiet, blinking back tears. Then, pushing herself off the wall, she met the living room.

  “Sam?”

  His head snapped over, dark eyes wide under furrowed brows.

  “Elsie.”

  Her name seemed to eviscerate him.

  Gutted. Right there, on the carpet, for all to see.

  Another handful of ripped-out pages.

  It felt sort of like walking out of the debtors cells, finding him there.

  If that’s what it takes to keep her out of your way.

  “Sam,” she echoed again, reaching a tentative hand brushing against his arm, “are…are you okay?”

  Maybe that’s what it’d taken.

  Maybe she’d needed to see it with her own eyes. Witness him, standing an impossible line.

  He didn’t say anything as he met her gaze, brown eyes watery. He only shook his head, jaw clenched tight.

  It was a bitter-sweet hug, the one she found after that.

  One she didn’t want to have to give.

  One, though, she was glad she did.

  The morning waned into early afternoon, and it was odd, finding a truce with Sam.

  Teddy was sleeping comfortably, Isa said, though they couldn’t verify this first-hand, as they’d both been banned from the bedroom. Elsie had been left to her corner of the sofa, her tired body trying to draw in as much of the heat from the half-hearted fire as she could.

  “Here.” Sam’s low voice interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced up to see him offering a steaming cup of tea. “It’s a bit strong, if that’s alright.”

  Warmth soaking into her fingertips, a wash of heat met her lips, the familiar cinnamon of distilled brandy burning her tongue. Her eyes flicked to his as he sank down beside her, nursing a cup of his own. “Thanks,” she whispered, watching the tiny smile tug on his lips at the word.

  There’s a sick kind of solace, finding someone hurting worse than you.

  Like pain could be freedom.

  At least, that’s what they’d been told.

  When did you age, Sam Alderton? It was yesterday, and you were fifteen.

  It’d been so easy, starting to cut him out.

  Except that it wasn’t, not really, not when it came down to it, the action itself of carving him out of her heart.

  That was what people like Clark did, with their spun words, though. They acted like right and wrong were indisputable facts, as if there were the winners and the losers, except there were no winners here, only good kids in bad situations trying to prove they were worth something more than spit on the sidewalk.

  There was no right, there was no wrong, there was only the surviving.

  The making of it all to the next day on the thought that if they could get through this next challenge, it’d all get better.

  The willing surrender of self and others, in the hope that maybe this time, it wouldn’t be that bad.

  “I think about the first one a lot,” she said softly, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “The first letter. What happened, with the, uh, the mercenaries, and the roll, and everything. I don’t think we ever…we never really talked about it. Afterwards.”

  “Wasn’t much to say,” he murmured, taking a sip of tea.

  “He told you I was there.”

  “It…was after dinner, and he pulled me into the carriage house. Didn’t say a word. Just handed me your intake form and tossed me a velvet money bag. And when I got back, he told me he needed someone to keep an eye on you. That your life was on the line.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “Elsie, I am so sorry—”

  “I’m still mad at you.”

  He opened his eyes once more, shards of cinnamon sugar, tired and dull. “As you have every right to be. But I hope that doesn’t preclude our friendship.”

  She gave him a side-long glance. “I suppose it doesn’t,” she said hesitantly. “And…you didn’t want me dead, so that’s a point in your favor, I guess.”

  Sam gave a quiet laugh, and she felt a reluctant smile lurking on her lips as she eyed him with mock wariness.

  “He told me I should’ve been suspicious,” Elsie went on, drawing the throw a little closer. “A merchant’s heir shouldn’t have wanted to befriend me. But that…wasn’t quite right. It didn’t sound like he knew about the bookstore. And you—you’re not an heir. You’re a bastard. Just like me. I don’t know what he was planning, or what he told you, but it—it seemed like even then, you sort of knew you weren’t going to inherit his empire. He wouldn’t have let you, not when he treated you like you were disposable.”

  “I’m not,” Sam said softly. “Like you, I mean.”

  She only shrugged.

  She felt his arm against hers, a soft nudge where words failed.

  “About Teddy,” she went on, a moment later. “I…I’m not ready, Sam. I’m not ready to lose him.”

  “He’ll be alright,” Sam nodded quietly, “he…I mean, you heard Isa—”

  “That’s not what I mean. I’m not ready for him to stop being my brother. A-and I’m not ready for him and you to—to…I didn’t tell him,” she stumbled, eyes stinging. “You know I didn’t tell him what you did, and I know you didn’t tell him what you heard, and maybe…maybe he has a right to know, but I’m not ready. That life, that—that city, I’m not ready, Sam, I can’t do it, I don’t—who am I, even? More than a name, a family, a city, I haven’t even—haven’t even—” She broke off, at a loss.

  Haven’t even lived.

  “It was a sweet thought,” she whispered, after a moment. “The things he told me.” There was a barrage of words waiting on her tongue, a barrage that didn’t come.

  “It…” Sam dropped his voice, leaning in, his breath warm against her ear, his words hardly audible. “That place is still rightfully yours.” There was defiance in his voice, challenging her submission.

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  It depended on what Clark had stood to gain by telling her the truth.

  Or by feeding her those delicious lies.

  She leaned her head back, wishing Isa hadn’t banished them from keeping vigil. “Sam?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “Oh?” His voice dipped up with soft intrigue.

  “I…took something.” Sitting up, she tugged her satchel into her lap from where it’d been heaped carelessly on the floor.

  “I hate to break this to you,” he warned, watching her warily, “but I believe my sway with the Commissioner’s mercenaries may be waning…”

  Snickering, she shook her head, pulling the bundled scarf from her bag, tossing it into his lap. “Just open it.”

  An indelible smile was tugging at his lips as he unearthed the dessert plate, holding it up to the light.

  “And it came with chocolate cake, too,” she grinned, heart starting to lighten.

  “Brilliant,” he whispered, running a finger around the gold rim, a bright smile dancing across his face. His gaze flicked to hers, sparking in the sun, a sun that didn’t seem quite so treacherous reflected in his eyes. “I missed you, El. Thievery and all.”

  TEDDY

  “As we tame the beast, perhaps we ought to consider who it truly is, that is in need of taming.”

  ~Greysha Boewliç

  Teddy blinked back the haze of dreamless sleep to find the bedroom bathed in uncertain light, neither dawn nor dusk.r />
  His body was stiff, like he’d lain unmoving for hours, and his joints were reluctant as he stretched, trying to shake the cloud from his groggy thoughts.

  The room was quiet.

  He was alone.

  Alone, save for the tired Thread, curled dormant in exhaustion deep inside.

  His muscles ached as he rolled out of bed, burning with fatigue.

  The seizure.

  The Thread stirred—not in the fury it’d known, though, pent up and angry.

  It moved in apology and regret.

  He put a hand on his chest, like he’d be able to feel the Thread, hot and sleepy, buried somewhere beneath his heart.

  Never again.

  A promise, to himself and the magic sleeping in his veins.

  It was tempting, to crawl back beneath the blankets, to let sleep take him again.

  A disgruntled growl from his stomach, though, demanded a meal—and gods knew how long he’d been out for. For all he knew, he’d slept away days.

  Even so, he paused in the doorway to the hall, not relishing what fresh hell he’d find those three to have released in his absence.

  But it was quiet voices, Elsie and Sam’s, that met him.

  “…I dunno, it’s not a small task, bringing him in,” Sam was speculating, legs tucked beneath him as he sat beside Elsie, one throw tossed over the both of them.

  “He’s been gone nearly six hours, how long does it take to toss someone in…hey!” Elsie’s eyes flicked past Sam, a bright smile lighting up her face as she threw back the blanket, rising to meet him. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Er, fine,” he mumbled, ruffling his hair, watching them both. “And…you both seem…”

  Sam gave a small nod, an easy smile on his lips. “Better.”

  Collapsing into the armchair, taking the cup of tea Elsie pressed into his hands, he loosed a breath, fighting off the disorientation, not aided by the lingering light-headedness. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six,” Sam offered.

  “In the morning?”

  “In the evening.”

  “What day is it?”

  “The same day as it was when you dozed off. You’ve been out most of the day, but it’s still Thursday.”

  “Isa?”

  “Left,” Elsie chimed in. “A few hours ago. Said you needed some rest, but you’re gonna be fine.”

  “Fletcher?”

  “In Caelaymnis with Clark.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Teddy was glaring at his sister, certain he’d misheard.

  “It’s true,” Sam said quietly. “Clark came by, because of the fire, and—well, things got heated. He as good as confessed to running the ring, so Fletcher arrested him.”

  Leaning back into the armchair, Teddy shook his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips all the same. “Gods. Sick for one afternoon, and I miss out on all the fun.”

  “Believe me,” Elsie muttered, falling back down beside Sam, “it’s more fun on this side of it.”

  Sam raised his teacup. “Here, here. I’ll drink to that.”

  “Arrested.” His limbs felt heavy, disinclined to do more than sit limply as he turned the word over on his tongue. “That’s—I mean, that’s incredible—”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  Fletcher’s voice was sharp from behind them.

  Lingering in the doorway, a few stray motes still fizzling out from where he’d evanesced onto the mat, Fletcher was dressed in a sharp gray uniform, an almost startling contrast to his typical attire. Boots polished, silver buttons gleaming from hip to shoulder, a black cloak had been pinned at the epaulets, tipped ears skirting a thin silver circlet hidden in his hair.

  “Fletch—”

  “He was detained,” Fletcher muttered, snapping off the cloak and tossing it haphazardly on the floor, the circlet following, “for all of twenty minutes, before my father was kissing his gods-damned boots, apologizing for the misunderstanding.”

  A look of painful disbelief washed across Sam’s face. “He’s not—”

  “Back home, safe and sound at Carson Manor.”

  FLETCHER

  “Hold close. Don’t let go. Not now, not ever, do you understand?”

  ~Greysha Boewliç

  Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.

  Elsie was staring at him from the opposite end of the sofa, and Fletcher loosed a breath, pressing his eyes closed as he took in her sounds.

  The quiet rush of air in her lungs, meted out in slow, deliberate inhalations, an echo of forced calm.

  The dull pitch of the slender gold chain against her neck, her mother’s locket buried beneath the knit gray sweater.

  The whine of her fingers in her pitch-black hair, twirling the braid with idle frustration.

  The swish of cotton-on-leather as she tucked a leg beneath her, pulling the other knee close to her chest—her favorite way to sit when there was pouting to be done.

  When he opened his eyes again, there was a bit of clarity to the screaming world.

  “You’re back,” Teddy edged, piercing blue eyes fixed on Sam and only Sam. His body was tense, locked between the impetus to rise and the obligation to stay beside his sister.

  Sam’s necktie was hanging limply over his shoulder, the top buttons of his tunic already undone as he tossed the suitcoat on the dining table. “I’m back,” he muttered, turning for the kitchen. The acrid smell of tobacco followed him, soaked into his person, and Fletcher had listened to the crackling drag of cigarettes from the street for the better part of an hour.

  After news of Clark’s release, though, it seemed there had been little else for Sam to do but try and steady his shaking hands with cigarette after cigarette on the street below.

  Sam reappeared from the kitchen a moment later, a frosted bottle of reluctant topaz liquid tucked in the crook of his elbow, four crystalline cups in hand.

  “Good idea,” Elsie said darkly as she stole a glare at Fletcher.

  And to his surprise, she held his gaze, her green eyes storming.

  Sluggish dollops of the chilled liquor were being doled out over the sound of quiet explanation, and he was lost, lost in a forest of green and emerald mines and rolling plains of spring and splatters of paint on a gallery canvas, where words were just sounds and it took every ounce of his being, every fiber of strength, just to stay there in the beyond of her stare.

  Her lips were moving the shape of his name, the sound of her irritated voice rolling across the air in rhythmic hesitation.

  “Sorry,” he managed at last, ripping his eyes from hers to find the world as he’d left it.

  He’d have drowned in those eyes, though, if time were no matter.

  Sam passed him a cool glass of whiskey, the condensation catching sweetly on Fletcher’s fingertips as he murmured quiet thanks.

  Teddy watched tentatively, curled beneath the blanket. He’d been dozing, on and off, waiting for Sam—but not before a few choice words.

  I love you both, he’d sighed, eyes distant. But this is such bullshit. Either get out of here and have it out with each other, once and for all, or just—just move on.

  Elsie had straightened, glaring. But—

  Take it somewhere else, or let it go. I can’t deal with this right now, though. I just…can’t.

  It’d felt wrong, after that, to linger, so Fletcher had retreated back to the kitchen, idly letting the magic curl into his fingertips.

  The cooling pot of tea on the counter had proved an alluring distraction from the mourning siblings, sharing their grief.

  He had closed his eyes, feeling the room.

  His hands met the air, weaving together the thin strands of magic, letting it blossom out, a sigh of relief as it encircled the chocolate-brown pot.

  Now, the fun could begin.

  With practiced hands, he coaxed a column of air within the shell, hugging it close to the tea pot between the secondary membranes of magic. The trick wasn’t the column that clung near the pot, though, drawing tighter and
tighter as he compressed it down, building a shield around the porcelain, not unlike the one that’d held the Commissioner. It was tricky, yes, watching the curves and bends, elsewise the pot was liable to shatter, but the real trick to it was the easy weave holding a wide berth around the whole thing.

  It didn’t much matter how much heat he’d make, if the insulation didn’t work.

  There’d been a smile on his lips as he’d drawn the column of air tighter, tighter, tighter, until with a wash of mist, he’d evanesced it gone, a faint draft of chilled air lurking over his shoulder where he’d dissolved the column.

  And when steam began curling from the spout, he’d turned the whole thing around, setting to cooling it once more.

  Needless to say, it’d been a credit to Elsie’s patience, finding a solid block of ice inside the kettle when she’d come, at last, to fetch a cup. Still, though, they’d been feigning peace well enough, not really exchanging any words, per say, but finding an amiable patter, nevertheless.

  Not really caring for another visit to Caelaymnis—one had been sufficient, for that day—he’d shed his uniform in favor of Teddy’s borrowed clothes. The gray coat and polished boots had been donned hastily, and at Augustus’s snapping—you look like a gods-damned human, Fletcher, put some clothes on—and it’d been a good call, seeing as he’d been dragged before their father and dressed down before the Council.

  It’d been an unintentional mercy, leaving the specifics of his punishment to Augustus.

  The cracking of firewood overtook him, a snap of sap sending a spray of sparks pinging into the grate, and Fletcher was snapped from his thoughts back to the present.