Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles)

by T. L. Shreffler

  The Viper. She hadn't heard him called by that name—not by Burn or anyone else she knew.

  “That's your name?” she dug.

  “Yes. It was,” he said briefly.

  “Was?”

  Crash shrugged, resigning himself to the conversation. “Dorian started calling me Crash after we met you. A joke, I suppose.” He glanced at her, as though self-conscious about the story.

  Sora grinned. “That's cute.”

  “Dorian thought so.”

  She snickered at this. Leave it to Dorian to nickname an assassin. The thief was long dead, but he had a way of living on. She wondered, briefly, what he would say in their situation. “Bad luck, sweetness,” she heard in her head. “Just the way we like it.”

  “Why Viper?” she asked. “That's a strange name.”

  Crash sighed. She knew he was uncomfortable with all of these questions, but she wasn't going to back down. His faux death had given her a new perspective on things, at least for the time being. She wanted to know as much about him as possible. As much as he would let her know.

  “Where I grew up, we had to earn our names,” he explained. He paused briefly to jump over a fallen log, then turned, reaching out a hand. She took it and he helped her over the obstruction. On the other side, they resumed walking. “I earned the name Viper because I was the best.”

  Abruptly he reached to his belt, pulling out a long, viciously curved dagger. She had seen him use it before, but had never looked at it closely. She gazed at the sharp blade, noting the worn handle, the intricately carved snake around its pummel. Her eyes widened. It was beautifully made and very well-maintained for its age. “I won the name and the blade with it,” he added.

  She gave him a sour look. “Humble, aren't you?” she grunted.

  A thin smile came to his lips. “It's the truth.”

  “The best at what, then? Blade work?” she asked brusquely. He certainly knew how to use a dagger and a sword.

  “All of it,” he repeated softly, and looked to the ground. A sudden, cold shiver went down her spine. His meaning was clear. Not just blades, but the spear, the bow, the fist—the best at killing.

  She looked away, suddenly unnerved. You know who he is, her inner voice said. Don't act so innocent. It was true, she knew he was a trained killer, a master of the deadly arts. But she tricked herself into forgetting sometimes, lost in his enigmatic presence. They had grown so close over the past year. Have we really? She hardly knew anything about his past. Still, she couldn't look at him as just a murderer—a man who took money in exchange for lives.

  She forced herself to push through it. She was afraid of his answers—but she needed to hear them, and she was suddenly full of burning curiosity. “What....” She paused to clear her throat. “What made you leave? Did they force you out? Did Volcrian have something to do with it?”

  He shook his head slowly. His eyes clouded for a minute, focused on something that she couldn't see. She wondered where his mind was. She had seen that expression before, a glimpse of his inner thoughts.

  Finally he said, “No, not Volcrian. I wanted something else. A different life.”

  Sora let out a long sigh of relief. There, you see? she scolded herself. He's not evil after all. And yet when she looked at him, he didn't seem happy. There was no peace on his face. Only a small grimace, as though focusing on some unsavory detail of a larger painting.

  “I take it you haven't found it yet,” she said wryly.

  He glanced at her. A glimmer of surprise registered on his face. He gazed at her until she turned away, unable to stand the intensity.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed slowly. “I don't know.” And he turned back to the trail.

  They continued walking, entering a lush grove of strange fruit trees. Their leaves were bright green and spade-shaped, hanging close to the ground, supported by fat, short trunks. As they walked, he pulled two exotic fruits from the lower branches, large pinkish orbs with soft skin that reminded her of peaches, only larger and heavier. He handed her two and took two for himself. They ate as they walked, peeling the skin from the rich fruit. The meat of the fruit was a deep yellow color, soft and juicy, warmed by the sun. Sora thought it was the best thing she had ever eaten. She took two more before leaving the grove.

  * * *

  “Why are we just waiting here?” Lori muttered, rolling up the sail and tying it to the yardarm. Ferran assisted her on the opposite side of the mast, securing the closed sail in place.

  Despite its large size, Sylla Cove had been difficult to find, tucked between high cliffs almost forty miles past Cape Shorn. The trip up the coast had been fraught with short, choppy waves and bursts of wind. Now staring across the cove, Lori saw no evidence of a pirate ship, just a broad half-circle of land scooped from the cliffs and a friendly batch of seals that clambered on shore, honking and yelping at one another. The evening sun lowered softly behind her, casting its net across the sky.

  “Patience, my dear,” her companion replied, his hands tugging deftly on the ropes. “Isn't patience required of Healers?”

  She shot him a disgruntled look.

  Ferran grinned flippantly. His “loft,” as he called it, was a small and shabby affair, a sailboat that had been constructed into a dwelling, not meant for the high seas. It sat low in the water with a roof built over it, housing a single cot, small table and kitchen area. At least it was clean. The mast was thin and pointed, attached to the front of the boathouse where he could fly a sail. But they wouldn't need one beyond this point. Once the tide came in, the current would carry them forward and Ferran would rely mostly on the long rudder that jutted from the aft of the boat.

  To one side of the cove, a narrow inlet cut through the shelves of rock, flowing inland from the ocean, leading to some unknown destination. Its mouth was about fifty feet wide and blocked by a series of jagged stone teeth. For the past hour, she had watched the water inch upward incrementally. Soon the teeth would be submerged and the inlet free to travel. She assumed, given the direction of Ferran's gaze, that they were going through it.

  “It looks too narrow for a schooner to sail,” she said, noting the cliffs on either side of the inlet. “Certainly too narrow for a squarerigger.” Luckily, their boat was about a third of that size.

  “The channel is broader than it looks,” Ferran replied. “And deeper.” He was chewing on a cinnamon stick, rolling it about in his mouth. He pointed over the low railing to the broad cliffs. “On the other side of that inlet lies Rascal Bay and Sonora, the Pirate City.”

  “Pirate City?” Lori balked. He hadn't mentioned a city when they had left Cape Shorn a week ago. She had never even heard of one before. Then again, she didn't consort with any pirates.

  Ferran nodded, biting down on the cinnamon stick. She remembered the days he would smoke thin rolls of tobacco leaves, back in their youth when they had adventured together. She was relieved he had put them aside; they smelled horrible. Or perhaps he just didn't have the money to buy them.

  She lingered on that history for a moment, remembering the younger Ferran, far less weathered and much skinnier, without the tightly-roped muscle of the man next to her. He had spent his time gambling and brawling on the streets of Delbar, twenty years old and already a successful treasure hunter, building a strong reputation. Rumors had circulated about him back then. She remembered vaguely that the prince had hired him—though for what, she wasn't sure. She had heard the story fifty different times over the years, all from different mouths, but none were ever the same. He had never mentioned it to her directly during their time together and she hadn't bothered to ask.

  She wondered at his current occupation—or lack thereof. She didn't understand how one of the most renowned treasure hunters in the Kingdom could end up like this. Perhaps it was becoming an antiquated business. All of the important relics from the War had already been found.

  “You didn't mention a pirate city,” she repeated.

  “You don't just mention pirat
e cities,” Ferran muttered distractedly. “Sonora is one of the worst kept secrets on the coast—but secret, it remains. If you go about telling the world, you're likely to get your throat cut.” He secured the ropes in a tight knot and abruptly turned, striding toward the rear of the ship. “The tide is almost in,” he said. “Secure yourself.”

  Lori took her seat at the center of the boat. She sighed briefly in irritation. Ferran insisted that she sit with a rope tied about her waist in case she went overboard. She had reassured him that she knew how to swim, but he wouldn't hear of it. She didn't remember him being so cautious in the past.

  Ferran hunched next to the rudder, too large for the very back of the boat, his legs stretched out before him. He was a tall man, a few years older than she, in his late thirties, yet time had been kind. With the exception of a few sun lines, he was fit and strong, his hair thick and full, deep brown, tussled by the wind. A few distinguished strands of gray showed at his temples, hardly noticeable. He held a tousled sort of charm—an easy, thoughtless smile and quick gray eyes. A handsome man, Lori admitted, if a bit weathered. He carried himself with a reckless sort of confidence that she had always thought of as foolhardy. Back in their youth, women had flocked around him, drawn to his mischievous aura and deft hands—the promise of mystery and excitement, like drinking from a forbidden cup.

  Now, at thirty-five, Lori knew better. Men like him were dangerous to fall for; they drifted into one's life and then out again, as errant as the wind.

  Abruptly, the water of the cove swelled beneath the boat, the tide rushing in like a final sigh before sleep. Ferran gripped the handle of the rudder.

  “Hang on,” he called.

  Lori barely had time to grab the ropes. Suddenly the boat shot forward, sucked toward the inlet by an unexpected current. Her eyes widened. The teeth at the front of the inlet were now fully submerged. The water swelled through the rocky crevice in a small tidal wave.

  Ferran manned the boat expertly, maneuvering them toward the rocks. For a terrifying moment, she thought they would run up against the teeth, but their narrow boat skimmed through. The teeth dragged against the hull of the boat; she felt the long scrape in her bones. She held her breath, wondering if the rocks would bite through the wood. Given the long nose of the sailboat, it was a wonder that the boards didn't split and shatter.

  “Witch wood,” Ferran called to her above the roar of the water, as though reading her thoughts. He held the rudder firmly under his arm, using his weight for leverage and forcing it to the side, steering them into the deep canyon.

  “Witch wood?” she asked, shocked. She glanced back at Ferran, catching his eye.

  “Aye,” he winked at her. “I was a treasure hunter once, you know. I held onto a few of my possessions.”

  A witch wood ship. Lori looked down at the shabby little boat, her opinion changed. Very impressive. Witch wood was only found in the Bracken, an ancient forest far to the East, where the trees were so old that they grew together as one giant organism. The wood couldn't be dented, even with a sword. Any relic made of witch wood had to be from the time of the Races, back when magic had been used to cut the wood and meld it into weapons. Humans had no tools that could mar its surface.

  Lori looked at the wood beneath her, noting its smooth, bluish-gray hue. Then she let out a shriek as the boat tossed to one side, pushed by an upsurge of water. It tilted sickeningly, but didn't overturn.

  After the initial rush of white water, the waves calmed and the current propelled them forward at a steady pace. She was surprised by how fast they moved. Hesitantly, she leaned over the side of the railing, watching the deep blue water rush past them, skimming the bow. She could see shards of wood against the sides of the cliff where larger boats had smashed into the rocks. Not a comforting sight. If they were to sink, there would be no land to swim to. The cliffs were steep and perfectly parallel to the water. She wondered how many sailors had drowned in the strait.

  She looked back at Ferran. “Why did you give it up?” she called above the rush of the water. “You know...treasure hunting?”

  Ferran managed to shrug, even as he manned the rudder. At this angle, his shoulders looked wide and taut with muscle, his back rippling with strength. “Too many death threats,” he replied. “Thieves and cutthroats trailing me through every city....” Then his voice softened. “After Dane died, I continued for many years, but it lost its novelty.”

  Lori frowned. Ferran and Dane had been close friends when she had met them. She had fallen in love with Dane almost from first sight—his roguish smile, his carefree spirit.

  Dane's face had grown dim over the years, clouded by memory, more than a decade since his death. But she saw his features in their daughter. Sora had his proud chin, his wide palms, his lower lip. His laugh. Every time she thought of her daughter, a mixture of fierce love and deep, roiling pain wrought her heart, stealing her breath. And guilt. Far too much guilt.

  “Dane was a good man,” she said. Far too young to die. When she thought very hard, she could almost picture his face, piece it all back together, the exact curve of his jaw and the fall of his dark hair.

  “He gave his life for a useless trinket,” Ferran said stiffly. “A couple of urns and an old statue. No artifact is worth a man's life.”

  “Aye,” Lori agreed softly.

  The water grew rough and fast, splashing over the edges of the boat. Before she knew it, Lori was soaked from head to toe. The wind was brisk and cold in the canyon, the sky darkening, making it difficult to see.

  Finally, they burst from the opposite side of the inlet, skipping across the water as though spit through the air. The boat shot forward into a large bay, and immediately the current changed, slowing, broadening. In the last rays of the sun, she could see the color of the water, deep navy tinted with aqua green.

  “Rascal Bay,” Ferran's voice drifted to her above the rush. “The secret entrance to Sonora, the Pirate City. Look there.” He pointed into the distance where Lori could see the glint of lights bobbing in the darkness. The city, or perhaps just the docks. “This is a freshwater bay. The salt water sinks to the bottom. There are tributaries that feed it from the Crown's Rush, about fifty miles to the East.”

  She nodded. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the drifting outline of ships against the dusk. Graceful. Mysterious. Finally they were close enough to see this alleged pirate city, bright with window lights and street lamps. She was surprised.

  Sonora was built on the foundation of beached ships. Massive holds were hammered together, crossed by rope bridges and wooden decks, three or four stories high. Buildings had been resurrected between them, filling in the gaps, backed by a series of cliffs that enclosed the bay. She could see the figureheads of mermaids, horses and other statues that adorned the old bows. Many of the windows were portholes recovered from old wrecks. The roads were paved with sandstone, the docks made of mismatched wood, pieced together over the years.

  Several boats were in the bay now—large, seagoing vessels with unmarked flags. Pirates, of course. And a few merchants, she suspected. She noticed them only because of the crates they held on board, a familiar sight from the port city of Delbar. A merchant wouldn't be fool enough to fly his colors in these waters. There was no evidence of the King's guard. In this alcove of a city, she doubted the King's law held much sway.

  Ferran rowed them to a smaller area of the docks, occupied by houseboats like his, all tethered together. He left the rudder and perched on the keel as they neared, then leapt to the floating planks, a length of rope in hand. He guided the boat into the dock, his hands firm on the railing. Then he tied the keel in place, parallel with the houseboat next to him.

  Finally, he held out a hand to assist her onto the dock. Lori picked up her satchel—she didn't like the idea of leaving her belongings on board, especially in a pirate city. She glanced at his hand, gave him a wry smile, and jumped off the boat by herself.

  “Aren't you worried that your boat will be
stolen?” she asked. There was a watch tower in the distance, but no guards on patrol. Paper lanterns bobbed along the waterfront, strung across the docks, casting pink, blue, and yellow light across the dark water. She could already hear the roar of voices, the distant strain of music, the general hubbub of the city.

  “Pirate's honor,” Ferran said, returning her ironic smile. “A pirate city wouldn't last long if they were all stealing from each other. No one steals from Sonora's port.”

  Lori frowned. “But what if...?”

  “Otherwise, they'll be captured and killed. Trust me.” He gave her a knowing look. “You don't want to be chased down by a fleet of pirates.”

  Ah. Lori nodded, imagining the long and narrow strait they had just passed through. The man had a point. A sailor would be hard-pressed to make it out of the bay.

  “What now?” she asked.

  Ferran looped an easy arm around her shoulder. He was more than a foot taller than she. She felt as though a lanky coyote stood at her side, loping easily down the boardwalk. “Now, we have a drink.”

  “I thought you were broke.”

  “I know the crew of the Aurora,” he said, “a tavern in town. Trust me, a few drinks and some idle chit-chat, and we'll find the man who has our book.”

  “And what then?” she asked. She didn't like the thought of drinking with Ferran. The last time she had seen him drunk, he had been splayed out on the floor in the aftermath of a bar fight.

  “You plan too much,” Ferran said. “You should live more in the moment. What happened to you, Lori? You used to be so much fun.”

  She frowned. She hated the way he said that, as though she had become her worst fear—an overbearing worrywart of a woman. Maybe it was true. She had seen a lot of sickness and injury during her years as a Healer—a lot of death. For a while she had become reclusive, clinging to her cabin in the woods, hiding from the dangers of the world. Irrational fear, she had finally realized. One couldn't control death, just as one couldn't control a harsh winter, a fever, or a runaway horse. To live was to live dangerously. Precaution couldn't stop fate.