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

by C. H. Williams

  “Seconded.” Rodion was sauntering through the side-door, Mia a few steps behind.

  “We…search dirt,” Mia said thickly. “Enate.”

  “Nothing,” Rodion echoed dully, giving her a lingering side-long glance.

  Sam exhaled deeply, massaging his neck. And it was Cele, he found himself watching, Cele in her scarlet gown, with her dark curls pinned back and her caracara nose.

  Today was not her day.

  “Not that I don’t love standing in silence in a foyer,” Risa remarked dryly, annoyed, “but with that crisis out of the way, we need to move on. We need to focus on getting Elsie out of Caelaymnis. Adrian’s already there, but I’m due in the city in…” She plucked Sam’s pocket watch from his waistcoat without so much as a second thought. “…soon. Let’s move this party somewhere else, shall we?”

  “Prison—very nice,” Mia said knowingly, patting Sam’s shoulder.

  “Our cells are very comfortable, is what she’s trying to say,” Rodion cut in. “Very, er…civil. Soft bed, fresh food and water, heated, and very clean…”

  “Beautiful face, no worry—wrinkle, see,” Mia interjected, waving Rodion off as she tapped her forehead, making a mock scowl.

  “Well, I, for one, don’t care how comfortably she’s sitting,” Risa snapped, handing the watch back to Sam. “She’s still in a prison cell. And I’m going to get her out.”

  FLETCHER

  “There is nothing more brave than a friend who speaks the truth.”

  ~Elizabeth Clement Faulise

  Ten by ten and deafening silence.

  That was what he’d been afforded.

  A military cot in the corner, strapped with starched white linens and an itchy woolen blanket, a facility behind a partition, and a little stone ledge, where sat a plate of now-cold winterbean soup, a crumbling cornbutter muffin, and a tall glass of clear water.

  The silvered bars of the prison cell were thin, no bigger than his little finger, strung together with hardly an inch between them. He watched the grated hallway pass back and forth, back and forth, as he paced the bars, hand tapping almost violently against his thigh as he walked.

  His military garb had been traded for a simple tunic and trousers, the rough linen clawing at his skin.

  Arrested.

  He had been arrested.

  And he’d been expecting to find Elsie in this corridor, too, had been expecting to find anyone at all, but the only thing that had greeted him were two stone-faced guards, disinclined to words as they’d thrown him in the cell.

  He recognized Rodion’s steps at last echoing off the stone, and the Commander’s boyishly round face appeared a moment later, frowning.

  “Elsie—”

  “I haven’t been to see her yet,” Rodion cut in, putting a hand up to silence him. “I have news, and you’re not going to like it.”

  Gritting his teeth, Fletcher swore, turning.

  “Our search was thorough—some people from the City looked, too, and nobody found a damn thing.”

  “You let humans from the City conduct a search?”

  “Yes,” Rodion warned, “and before you start, yes, it was a joint effort, no, there was nothing suspicious on their part, no, I don’t think they’re culpable in a conspiracy to hide a production ring, and yes, I think your obsession has carried you too far. Into a prison cell, namely.”

  “They are tied inextricably to his interests—”

  “Fletcher. Listen to me.” Leaning against the bars, Rodion looked weary, his deep brown eyes cupped by dark circles. “You need to let this thing with Clark go. You have bigger issues to deal with, here, than a Commissioner buying black-market bandages. Your brother has arrested Elsie on charges of treason.”

  “He sabotaged a raid—”

  “No! There was nothing to raid, Fletcher! He didn’t sabotage anything, because there was nothing to sabotage!”

  “Get out!” Pacing like a caged animal, his chest was tight, breaths coming in short, angry intakes. “I don’t need this right now, I don’t need you here, explaining to me how I fouled this up, explaining how I have once more messed something up in a catastrophically irreversible way and simply can’t see it! So, get out.”

  Because that was all it had been.

  Another failure in twenty years of failing, again, and again, and again.

  He’d almost destroyed his relationship with Elsie, he’d spent six months investigating only to arrest the wrong man, he’d raided a warehouse of flipping bandages, and now this, this was the crowning jewel of his fucked-up-ness.

  Elsie, accused of high treason.

  Proof of how unwilling he’d been to leave her be.

  That was the proof of his love.

  A prison cell.

  Rodion loosed a breath, letting go of the bars with the cascading sheer of skin-on-polished-metal. “None of this is your fault, Fletcher. And I’m not trying to blame you for what happened. I’m just asking you, for your own sake, to be realistic.”

  Collapsing against the cool wall, Fletcher let himself slide to the floor. “Sometimes, it’s like—like everyone else has this window to what the world looks like. And you’re all looking at the same thing. Except me.” He let his head fall into his hands, cradling his pounding temples beneath sharp nails. “The one I’m looking through, the curtains are half-drawn and the pane’s all dirty. And everyone gets so mad when I can’t see what they’re seeing, and they think I’m not trying, that—that I could just open the curtains, or clean the window, or something, but it’s not like that. I’m stuck with the window I was born with.”

  Swearing, Rodion scuffed his boot across the floor.

  Somewhere in the distance, a bell-tower was ringing, signaling first meal on the compound.

  “I’m being an ass,” Rodion said quietly, after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. You—you’re right. Elsie is sitting somewhere in here, facing charges of treason and gods know what else, and I’m busy obsessing over a tart a thousand miles away. I just…I don’t know if I’m ready to eyeball those sounds yet.”

  Rodion gave a quiet chuckle. “You’re not ready to what?”

  “Eyeball…sounds?” He gave Rodion a side-long glance. “That’s not right, is it? It’s something Elsie used to say…”

  “I think the expression you’re looking for is face the music.” Still snickering, Rodion sat down, crossing his legs as he watched Fletcher through the bars. “She’s quite a woman, isn’t she,” he said softly, eyes sparking.

  That didn’t even begin to cover it.

  “She doesn’t care what my window looks like,” Fletcher breathed, tilting his head back against the cell wall. “She doesn’t care what’s outside at all. Everyone’s looking out their windows, and she’s the only one that sees the house they’re all trapped in.”

  “You know, it—it’s funny, that even now, I can almost hear your brother trying to set you straight?”

  Fletcher rolled his head to the side to look at Rodion. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And…” He shrugged. “I think he’d probably say you’re wrong. I think he’d tell you that your window isn’t dirty, or curtained, it’s just that you’re…I, dunno, seeing a view that nobody else can. They’re all staring at a mountain, and you’ve got an ocean vista, so of course, when you say you see waves, they think you’re wrong.”

  “You think I was onto something with Clark?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. What I do think, though, is that it’s easier to dwell on the Commissioner, than face the fact that the person you love is facing a death-sentence because of charges your brother brought about. But,” Rodion continued, pushing himself to standing, brushing off his fatigues, “she will be roaming these halls a free woman before the day is out, if I have anything to say about it. Anything you want me to relay?”

  “Just that I love her. And I’m sorry.”

  So gods-damned sorry.

  RISA

  “I often find my best decisions a
re made impulsively. Come to find out, it’s a family trait.”

  ~Risa Barrett

  Risa’s gaze lingered on the sketch, framed in silver, and sitting quiet on the bookshelf in the living room of Sam’s apartment.

  Teddy, laughing, his arm around Sam.

  Her own blue eyes stuck behind the glass.

  “Here you are,” Sam said quietly, joining her behind the sofa, steaming mug in hand. “One cup of tea.” Sleeves of the button-up tunic rolled to his elbows, top button loosed when the cravat and waistcoat had been abandoned, he seemed a far cry from the stuffy young man she’d taken him for three years ago.

  “Thanks.”

  Go home. Take a shower. Get out of this gods-damned dress.

  I am home, another, louder voice seemed to say.

  Adrian would be expecting her in Caelaymnis.

  Careful.

  They had to be so careful.

  One wrong move, and the Factionists would converge.

  They had to play this casual. Like it was no big deal. Like they’d just been in the neighborhood, and while they were there, they’d swing by and check on the human so publicly arrested, and if they felt like it, maybe they’d do something for her.

  Not like they’d be fighting tooth-and-nail to pull her from the prison.

  Her eyes lingered on the sketch as she took a sip of tea. This, being here, standing in their apartment, in the middle of their lives—it was landing in the middle of a book she’d been memorizing for the last three years.

  “I remember when you drew this,” she said softly. “You said it was the first time you’d been able to really see his eyes, and when you looked, you saw your own reflection in the blue.”

  Sam sighed, scooping up the frame to study the drawing. “It’s so strange,” he said slowly, voice low. “Thinking about a student, in a library somewhere, memorizing such trivialities.”

  “That’s just it, though. They weren’t trivial, otherwise you wouldn’t have included them.”

  “I was young, and stupid, and there were many things I wouldn’t have done, if I’d spared any of it a second thought.”

  “Ah. You’ve stumbled across the motto for the life of Risa Barrett,” she snickered, cradling her tea to her lips.

  He gave a quiet snort, setting the picture frame back on the shelf. “Ah. Well, she sounds like a person I look forward to getting to know.”

  “Who is it, you want to get to know?” Teddy was coming down the hall, drying his hair and sporting a change of fresh—and decidedly casual—clothes. An easy tunic, soft, with two buttons at the top, and simple canvas trousers…

  Yeah. That was him.

  “I was saying I’d like to get to know Risa,” Sam said.

  “I thought you knew each other,” Teddy frowned, towel forgotten in his hand, damp hair standing almost on-end.

  “We met once, in passing, when Adrian was introducing me to the cases we maintained,” Risa explained. “Part of our job is to act as a buffer between the Commissioner and the Chancellor, and regulate some of the minor requests.”

  “Funny. I guess I hadn’t explicitly realized the Guild was aware of the City. I mean, Clark—I sort of took him for the exception…”

  “I certainly didn’t know,” Sam mumbled, glancing to Teddy.

  Their shared glance was enough to know the words were rightly believed.

  As far as young Sam had known, Risa was an advisor. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Aware may not be the right word for it. Clark excepted, they look the other way, and we let them go about their business unimpeded.” The mantle clock chimed seven, and Risa sighed. “I should go. I…” She trailed off, eyes lingering on Teddy.

  I’m not ready to say goodbye.

  She’d never been good at letting go.

  You can rationalize anything, Adrian once told her. That’s our power, as advocates. We can make ourselves believe any lie. And we must believe it, Risa. How do we fight this fight, knowing the truth?

  “Come with me.” The words had slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Teddy, come with me to Caelaymnis. You—you can visit Elsie. I imagine seeing a familiar face would do her a world of good right now, and seeing as Fletcher can’t—and you can testify to her character, if we need, and—”

  “Yes,” he breathed, eyes sparkling, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, that would be wonderful. It—is it allowed?”

  “I’m an advocate, and…well, it isn’t not allowed…”

  He looked to Sam. “What do you think?”

  “I think she’d be ecstatic, seeing you there,” Sam said softly, his eyes flicking to Risa.

  “That’s it, then. I will. When—you said you had to go now?”

  “To go home, to change. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you here,” she grinned, fishing for the whaynedisc in her pocket.

  “I—I don’t understand,” Teddy frowned, taking an anxious step forward, “how—ten minutes?”

  Risa flicked the whaynedisc up into the air, glass glinting as she caught it like a coin. “Worst kept secret of the Hidden City. Why should the Drada have all the fun, evanescing like they do?”

  “You’re a—a Healer—”

  “Don’t have to be something special to use the disc.” She grinned, taking a step back towards the door. “It’s what we do, Teddy. We find the loopholes.”

  She wouldn’t be leaving him behind.

  Not this time.

  ELSIE

  “To make another spend their life in fear—this is a crime for which no punishment can suffice.”

  ~Adrian Lynch

  The sound of water drip, drip, dripping filled the tiny stone cell, each reverberation louder than the last. Raspy breathing roared in Elsie’s ears—her own. It had to be her own. And the pounding, drums, drums deep in the prison, the fibers of her very being stretched thin across the rim, pounding relentlessly—

  Her fingers gripped her skin, slick with sweat, her cold, clammy skin, where the beads should’ve frozen into drops but they rolled, rolled, rolled, rolled beneath her skin, making it crawl like skittering little beetles in the dark—

  I write the endings

  Aching, aching, aching, why did she hurt so much, like her bones were stinging with an impact and yet she sat there, unmoving, because each movement tugged at her seams, and if another stitch was ripped she’d come undone, undone completely—

  I write the endings

  I write the endings

  Terror had grabbed her by the shoulders, that was why her body ached, had shaken her back and forth, banging her head into the stone wall, forcing up every memory, every pain, every hurt, every doubt—

  “Why?” Fletcher’s voice echoed through the cell, and she didn’t remember him being there, but there he was, and she was crying, crying, clawing at herself, trying to crawl out of her skin and into the pages of her books, because maybe then she’d be at peace—

  “Why did you betray me?” He was crying, angry, his fist slamming into the wall, and it terrified her—

  “You lied! You lied, lied, lied,” he screeched, stomping his foot in time with the words, a sadistic song and dance for the amusement of her broken heart, “and I can’t believe I ever loved you—”

  Her scream pierced the air, because it was true, true, true, he had never loved her, never, how could he, and she knew not to trust him, that she’d let him in too fast, loved too quickly, fallen so hard that there was nothing, consumed, that’s what she’d been, consumed by her undying need for approval—

  I write the endings

  And she would write him away, but the panic was crawling in, crawling under her skin, making her writhe with the doubts unspoken, a gravedigger unearthing the rotting corpse of who she might’ve been, if she’d pressed that pen to the paper a little harder, clung to the parchment before they’d ripped it away—

  I write the endings

  I write the endings

  A shovel struck the vein, found the cache, str
uck it rich with the feelings in the box—put it in the box, put it in the box, put it in the box, that was what he’d taught her, because they were weaknesses and what happened to the weak but they’d failed to survive and it was her, she had failed—

  I write the endings

  the endings

  the endings

  AUGUSTUS

  “More pleasant to eat the veal, than to slaughter the calf.”

  ~Dryadic Proverb, from the Book of Adagic Texts

  Arms folded across his chest, Augustus waited, watching her through the bars on the heavy iron door.

  Her shoulders jerked at odd intervals, her muttered arguments with the shadows interspersed with tearful screams as she clawed her own skin, staring at phantoms brought forth from the darkest depths of her own imagining.

  It would take time for the Ruby Tears to fall. Days, perhaps weeks, even, but it didn’t matter.

  He would wait.

  One drop of her sweet Ruby Tears, one drop on the tongue of each warrior, and they, too, would walk with Death. Not as victims, though. Not this time.

  This time, Death would be a warrior amongst them, and one by one, the Woodshade settlements would fall.

  In her delusions, she mumbled into existence names Augustus did not know, conjuring people she must’ve loved or feared in a different life.

  There was a boy, Percy. He’d tried to rape her, so she’d stabbed him, that much he knew from the town archives his aide had rummaged through, in search of her malfeasance.