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

by T. L. Shreffler

  Lucas nodded. “I pegged you for a newcomer,” he said. Then he leaned in close. “You look mighty uncomfortable, sitting at this bar by yourself. A pretty lady like you shouldn't be here unescorted.”

  Lori was surprised at this. Admittedly, she hadn't been trying to blend in. She had figured that in a tavern this size, no one would notice. But apparently this man had. What else did he know?

  “Actually,” she said, deciding to lay her cards on the table, “I'm a rare book collector. I hear there are a few books in this city that might be hard to find elsewhere.”

  Lucas sat back. In one smooth motion, he turned to the bar and picked up his shot. Lori was surprised. She hadn't noticed the drinks arrive. Maybe I'm further gone than I thought. He took the shot of rum in one quick toss to the back of his throat, then slammed the glass down and signaled for another one.

  “Rare books?” he said, glancing at her. “Can't say I've seen many around here. Mayhap you haven't noticed, but pirates aren't the type to read.”

  Lori quirked the corners of her mouth up, a teasing smile. “Yes, but they are the type to steal. I figured I'd try my luck.”

  “Sonora is certainly a city of luck,” the man muttered.

  Lori turned and picked up her glass of wine. She wondered what this man was doing here. He didn't look like a lowly sea-scarred pirate. No, if he was a sailor, he was mighty well-off. Or knew how to loot. That shirt couldn't be cheap.

  “Do you know this city well?” she asked casually.

  Lucas searched her face curiously. “Aye,” he murmured. “A permanent resident, you could say.”

  “Then would you know anyone who has an interest in old artifacts?” she asked. Lucas appeared to hesitate. I have to make him talk somehow. She pulled her hair back off her neck, fanning herself as though hot while allowing him to see the smooth curve of her neck and shoulder.

  When she turned back to him, he was assessing her with his eyes, a pleased expression on his face. She saw his gaze flicker down, then up, making his intentions obviously clear.

  “Old artifacts, you say?” He leaned in closer, a flirtatious smile perched on his lips. “The owner of this establishment is a collector, in fact. 'Tis an expensive hobby, you know.”

  The owner? Lori suddenly wondered if Ferran knew this. Perhaps it wasn't such a coincidence that they had come to the Aurora. Not only was it the biggest tavern in the city, but it was owned by a collector of rare and ancient artifacts. She felt slightly irritated. Of course Ferran must have known. His luck wasn't that good. He should have told me.

  “And how does one go about meeting the owner?” she asked.

  Lucas frowned. The question made him uncomfortable; she could tell by how his eyes shifted. “You don't,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Aye...Captain Silas is not a kind man. And he likes blond women, perhaps a bit too much. You wouldn't want to catch his eye. You've come to a dangerous place, Miss...?”

  “Lori,” she said.

  “Lori,” he echoed. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “You are rather well-mannered for a pirate,” she smiled.

  “Wasn't always a pirate.” He raised his shot to her. “A toast?” he asked.

  “To what?”

  “To good luck.” He tipped his shot back, and Lori took a sip of her red wine, allowing the bold flavor to linger on her tongue. It burned on the way down, leaving a warm knot in her belly.

  There was a sudden crash from the side of the room. Lori jumped, surprised. She turned to look over her shoulder and spotted a card table tipped on its side, with several men standing around it, arguing. She let out a long breath. One of the men was a head taller than the rest, long and lanky, athletic—Ferran.

  “Goddess,” she muttered, staring at him. The crowd of women had somewhat dispersed, but several still hung around the table, their voices rising in Ferran's defense. The other sailors looked furious. She heard the words “cheating” and “check his sleeves.”

  She sighed to herself. Couldn't he play fair at least once? She wondered if she would have to step in and rescue her friend from his own reckless stupidity, but she was on to something with Lucas, and she couldn't let him go, not yet.

  Lucas watched her face. “So you know Ferran?” he asked quietly.

  Lori turned back to him, taken off-guard. Of course Ferran would be recognized in a pirate city. She should have expected that. Goddess! Does his depravity know no bounds?

  She gave him a small smile. “An acquaintance,” she said. “We just met.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. He nodded to the barmaid, who immediately put another drink in front of him—a tankard of ale, the high-end stuff.

  Three drinks and no charge. He had to be someone important. Lori looked at him curiously. “I want to meet your captain,” she said bluntly. She might have slurred a bit. She hoped not.

  Lucas turned back to her, his eyes wide. “Pardon?”

  “Captain Silas, right?” she said. Her eyes glinted. He looked shocked. “Your drinks are on the house, you're wearing that ridiculous shirt—your captain owns this place, I'm guessing.”

  Lucas blanched.

  Her grin widened.

  Then he shook his head, a strained smile alighting his face. “You're an observant woman, Miss Lori.”

  “And I take it you're an observant man,” she said back.

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “I like to know who is visiting the Aurora. Particularly any new and attractive faces.” He held her eyes, and she was surprised to feel a blush creeping into her cheeks.

  She shook her head, unwilling to flirt. “Take me to see your captain,” she repeated.

  “Impossible,” Lucas replied, but his grin became magnetic, secretive.

  There was another crash from the side of the room—an overturned chair. The argument was escalating. Lori saw one of the sailors take a threatening step forward, pointing at Ferran's face. Her friend had his hands up, showing his sleeves. By his sly grin, she assumed he was trying to talk them down.

  Lori turned back to the Dracian. “What would it take to meet him?” she continued.

  “Nothing. I won't do it.” Lucas shook his head solidly. “Captain Silas is a smarmy, disingenuous sea dog. Everyone in Sonora fears his name. He's captured over a hundred merchant vessels, sold all of his captives into slavery. Once, he beheaded a man just for mispronouncing his name. Trust me, you wouldn't like him, and...” Lucas gave her a playful look. “He might not let you leave this city after laying eyes on you.”

  “I can pay you,” Lori said, reaching for her bag of coins.

  The man pursed his lips. “No, no, that won't do.”

  Lori frowned. Captain Silas has our book, I know it. She knew it as surely as the symptoms of smallpox. But how else could she meet this pirate captain? Asking was getting her nowhere.

  A thought occurred. It was spontaneous, a little risky. But hell, she was on her third drink, and perhaps Ferran was right. Maybe she needed to trust her gut and live in the moment.

  She met Lucas' eyes sweetly. She smiled.

  Then she pulled back her fist and punched him in the face.

  Lucas fell backward out of his chair. Lori leapt after him, pulling him up by his silky blue collar. She punched him again, squarely in the nose.

  Then, automatically, thirty men stood from their seats. A strange hush fell over the front of the tavern. Lori looked up, surprised to see so many pirates standing, staring at her, drawing their weapons. They were a gruesome lot, weathered faces and bright gold piercings. They were all marked with identical tattoos on their necks—a small anchor with a star beneath it.

  Lucas stumbled to his feet, one hand clutching his nose, blood staining his pretty blue shirt. He held up his other hand to the men, palm open. “Stop,” he said. “Dammit, everyone stop!” He paused a bit longer, his eyes closed. “You broke my nose!” he finally said, then glared at Lori.

  She raised an eyebrow. “It's not broken,” she said know
ingly. “But I will break it if you don't take me to Captain Silas right now.”

  “You infuriating woman,” he breathed, still holding his nose. His face was turning red. “I'm Captain Silas and this is my establishment!”

  Lori gawked, horrified. She looked around. Everyone was staring at her—all of the men at the bar, the barmaids, the serving girls. They were pale as ghosts.

  Silas glared at her harder, then turned on his heel. “Bring her,” he said, flicking his wrist, then he stalked across the floor toward the roped-off staircase.

  Immediately three brutes left the table closest to her. The patrons at the bar scuttled away, giving the men a large berth. Lori looked at the sailors disdainfully. She could have laid them flat out—considered it for a moment—but she needed to talk to the captain. Perhaps this situation could work in her favor.

  “No need,” she said stiffly. “I'm coming.” She stood from her seat and followed the captain up the stairs.

  Silas paused on the landing, turning to address his men. “And bring me Ferran Ebonaire!” he snarled.

  Lori's eyes widened. She looked back at Ferran across the crowded room. He gave her a quick smile and then bowed out of his game, nodded farewell to his female entourage, and turned to greet the approaching sailors.

  “Now, now,” he said amiably. “No need to use force.”

  Lori turned back to the staircase and closed her eyes. Ferran Ebonaire. He had never mentioned his surname before. They had known each other for eighteen years, and never once had she heard him speak it. Ebonaire. Why hadn't he told her?

  * * *

  The third deck of the Aurora was something like a concert hall. A large stage stood at the far end, hidden by long red velvet curtains, perhaps forty feet high. Intricate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, far larger and grander than the chandeliers on the floors below. The majority of the light in the room, however, came from wall sconces lit by torches. Countless wooden tables covered the floor, each circular in shape with four or five red-velvet armchairs positioned around them. This was definitely a room for entertaining high-end guests, but for now it was empty.

  Two large sailors were positioned on either side of her. Ferran stood a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, leaning on one leg, as though he did this kind of thing every day. She half-expected him to ask for a drink. Before them, Captain Silas had pulled out a chair and was sitting with his head back, a cloth pressed to his nose.

  After a long pause, he said, “Tell me why I shouldn't have you both killed.”

  Lori's eyebrow raised at this. She shot a glance at Ferran and saw him open his mouth to reply. No! she thought. Whatever the treasure hunter was about to say, she doubted it would help their cause. She rushed to cut him off. “If you had just told me who you were, this would have gone a lot smoother.”

  Silas sat up and glared at her. His bright blue eyes gleamed in the torchlight. His hair was slightly mussed; a few silky strands had slipped loose from their tie and brushed against his face. “I don't need to tell you anything,” he said menacingly. It was quite different from the way he had spoken before, at the bar, playful and intimate. “Now state your business or I'll gut you with my knife. Believe me, the thought is very appealing.”

  “You wouldn't dare,” Lori said angrily, raising her chin a notch. “I'm a Healer.”

  “A Healer?” Silas echoed. She could see the thoughts pass behind his eyes. Healers took an oath to serve all people—all races and creeds, good or bad, even criminals. They were surrounded by a sense of mysticism, and were thought to have the protection of the Goddess.

  It was commonly said that to kill a Healer was the worst luck of all; to be cursed with a lifetime of misfortune. A human might ignore that superstition, but not a Dracian. The Races knew better.

  “I'm listening,” Captain Silas said icily.

  “We are looking for a book,” Ferran's voice cut into the conversation. He spoke lazily, unconcerned with the tension in the room. “I gave it to a whore in Cape Shorn. She said she sold it to a pirate from Sylla Cove. You're the only collector in this town. I figured it was you.”

  Captain Silas cocked his head to one side, thoughtful. Lori stared at Ferran, resisting the urge to clock him over the head. All this time—he didn't tell me! She didn't know whether to be furious or laugh at the irony.

  Any minute now, she expected him to start threatening their captor, provoking Silas into a fight. That's what the young Ferran would have done—anything to prove he was tough. But this new Ferran did no such thing. She looked him over for a second time. He seemed bored.

  “Aye, I remember buying that book,” Silas finally said. “Couldn't make head nor tail of it. Half the pages were blank.”

  “Do you still have it?” Ferran asked.

  Silas paused. “Yes.”

  Lori felt a knot of tension loosen in her stomach.

  “I take it you want the book back?” Silas asked mockingly.

  Ferran shrugged. “We have need of it.”

  “What kind of need?” he demanded.

  Ferran glanced at Lori. She shifted on her feet. Now what? The only thing left to do was to explain the situation.

  Silas spoke before either of them could. “The Book of the Named is a rare artifact,” he said. Lori was surprised again. Ferran hadn't known the title of the book—he couldn't remember it. Obviously Silas had done his research. A collector, indeed.

  But there was more to it than that. She remembered The Book of the Named mentioned in old stories about the War of the Races. It had been lost shortly after the final battle, when the world had been torn by chaos and disarray. It was an evil book dedicated to the teachings of the Dark God, the ways of the assassins.

  “I won't just give it away,” Silas continued. “I paid a large sum for it.”

  Ferran turned to look at Lori fully. “Tell him about the plague.”

  Lori noted the frown on Silas' face. She licked her dry lips. The alcohol was beginning to make her feel sick and sleepy, and she wanted to sit down. “All right,” she said. “As I told you, I am a Healer. Six months ago, I began to see a strange sickness infecting the farm animals around our town.” She dove into the story, describing the symptoms, how she had attempted to treat the illness, to no avail. Then the disease had spread to the farmers.

  When she mentioned her daughter's Cat's Eye and the magical quality of the illness, Captain Silas sat forward. She sensed that she had his full attention now. Lori quickly explained the events that had led them to this place—why they had come, and what they hoped to do.

  Captain Silas tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, his bloody nose forgotten. After a moment he said, “Some of my crew have fallen ill.”

  Lori's eyes widened. Had the plague already spread so far?

  The captain was thoughtful once more. He glanced at his men, then at Ferran with a look of distaste rather uncharacteristic of a Dracian. Lori wondered if his supposed reputation was true—perhaps he really was feared in all of Sonora.

  “Fine,” he finally said. “I will give you the book. In exchange, I want you to save my men's lives.”

  Lori balked at that. “Of course,” she said automatically. “But if it's caused by the plague, there's not much that medicine can do.”

  “We'll do it,” Ferran said, almost at the same time.

  She turned to stare at him, horrified. She wanted to wring his neck. What were they supposed to do when she failed? When the sailors died? And what if she and Ferran contracted the plague? There was nothing to protect them from the Dark God's curse. She hoped against hope that he had a plan—but she suspected that he was flying by the seat of his pants.

  “First, the book,” Silas said, oblivious to Lori's thoughts. “And then, my men.” He gave Ferran a menacing glare. “And if you can't heal them, I will kill you.” His eyes turned to Lori. “His life is in your hands.”

  Lori gave him a tight smile. “Right,” she said, still secretly furious. If we fai
l, I'll kill Ferran myself! She tried to catch her friend's eye, but Ferran was gazing at Silas placidly, as though hardly concerned by his threat.

  The captain jumped to his feet and signaled to the sailors. The men grabbed Lori's arms and hauled her forward, following the Dracian's quick pace. Surprisingly, Captain Silas led them to the side of the room, where he pressed his hands against a panel of ornately carved wood. After a small shove, the wood gave inward and slid sideways—a hidden door. Of course pirates would have hidden doors, Lori thought, almost amused.

  Silas led them onto a dusty staircase, lit by oil lamps that hung from the walls. The group started downward. One of the sailors kept a firm hold on her arm, though it was impossible to walk side by side. The staircase wrapped around in a narrow spiral; Lori felt dizzy from the alcohol and swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn't throw up. Eventually Silas paused and opened another panel. She had no idea where they were, possibly underground or in a separate building adjacent to the ship.

  The room beyond was shrouded in darkness. Silas took one of the oil lamps from the wall and stepped through the doorway, casting the light around until he found and lit a nearby candelabra.

  The candlelight spread in a broad circle, but even with the illumination, Lori couldn't make out where the corners of the room were. The chamber was massive, like a fourth deck, though now she could tell that it wasn't part of the Aurora. The walls were made of old stone, the floor was dented wood caked with dust. The room was filled with all kinds of things: boxes, chests, crates and barrels. As they started to walk through, she saw stranger things in the lantern light. Old statues worn by time and, perhaps, saltwater. Suits of armor, pieces of wagons, ox yokes, old furniture and a broad assortment of weapons. Most of the weaponry was rusted beyond use: axes, swords, spears, halberds, countless arrows, some of them mounted on plaques on the walls. A few appeared to be labeled. She was hit with a sudden, burning curiosity. Were these relics from the War? Pieces of ancient kingdoms? Some of the swords didn't look human-made. Their steel had a yellow sheen and their blades were ornately curved.