Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  * * *

  An hour later, Argus found himself sprinting down the hill.

  He drew strange looks from the sailors and prostitutes he passed. But he didn't slow down. Not even when he dashed through a pack of boys—all of them filthy and shirtless—and sent them scattering. His legs burned. His shoulder throbbed from the dagger point.

  Argus let gravity carry him the rest of the way down. He focused on avoiding the muddy potholes, and didn't stop running until he reached the fledgling market, where he clutched a tent pole to catch his breath.

  The woman inside, a Tokati with skin as dark as coal, made a shooing motion and muttered something in her tongue.

  “Fine,” he said, gasping for breath. “Give me some of that smoked fish.”

  The Tokati put her hands on her hips, and left them there until Argus produced a few dragons and slammed them on the counter. She bundled some sardines in a leaf from a banana tree and handed them over.

  Argus grabbed them and bolted out of her tent. He didn't expect any change; if there was, he didn't have time to wait for it. His eyes bounced from merchant to merchant. Only about ten of them out this early—and even fewer patrons. Most of the stalls were vacant.

  How hard can it be to find a bald, one-handed Rivannan in this fleaspeak town?

  He paced the docks. A few sailors scowled as they unloaded their cargo, looked away after they spotted his mangy beard and Reaver on his hip. Argus was used to the Davos docks as a frenetic place. Where jostling strangers was a way of life, and the perfect habitat for pickpockets. Not for the claustrophobic.

  Now, everyone made way. They averted their eyes and gave him a wide berth, even if that meant inconveniencing themselves. Argus supposed he couldn't blame them. With the juicy gossip about his sorcery making the rounds, no one wanted to eat a lighting bolt for breakfast.

  At last he reached the Rotting Crow. The long, low stone structure had popped up only a few months ago—the only permanent tavern in Davos. It had expanded since he'd last seen it. A ring of Garvahnish pirates ran the place, and they weren't keen on competition. A few had tried; their taverns had a funny way of always burning down to ashes.

  Argus spotted four of them lounging against the wall out front. They had long beards and dark, beady eyes that never stopped flickering. The pirates passed a pouch of tobacco between them, loading long pipes, watching.

  Every man had a cutlass, but no one made a move to draw them. Argus barreled past, reached for the tavern door, and hopped back as it flew open.

  “There you are, you bastard!” The burly man ran right into him.

  Argus steadied his Rivannan friend, who was considerably drunker than when he'd left him. He lurched forward, caught himself, and burst into a song.

  “Molly is a mare of mine, and a faithful mare is she. Hoo hoo hoo!”

  Argus finally escaped Siggi's hairy arms. “You sure that's not a woman from one of your bawdy jokes?”

  “You know, now that you mention it—”

  “Come on. Let's get out of here.” Argus didn't like the look of those pirates. Not one bit.

  “I knew you'd come. Time for the open sea, my friend. Everything's already loaded and stashed away, though. Hope you brought your own breakfast.”

  Argus patted the sardines wrapped in his pocket. “Enough for now.”

  “Fine, fine. Let's get off this rock. The ale's too expensive.” Siggi led them onto the dock, studying the scant selection of boats like he couldn't remember where he'd left his. “She's around here, somewhere. Surly little fellow's taking us to Azmar. Not cheap either. But what can you do? Davos isn't what she used to be—ah! There.”

  Argus cringed as the Rivannan narrowly missed a rope lying across the dock. He steadied his friend to make sure he didn't tumble over the edge. Ah, he thought, just like the old days.

  They kept walking until they reached the end, where a surly man waited. He wore a triangular leather hat, fancying himself a pirate, though he looked about as exciting as a Garvahnish bureaucrat. “You're late,” he said, in an accent Argus couldn't quite place.

  “I'm late?” said Siggi. “I'm paying you, you nitwit! Don't you remember how this works?”

  “Easy,” Argus said, and put a hand on the Rivannan's back.

  The captain—if one could call him that, his ship was hardly larger than a glorified fishing boat—scowled. His mood went from cranky to downright bellicose when Siggi explained he'd be taking on another passenger.

  Yet in the end, the dragons won as they always did. When the price was right he relented. Siggi shoved some coins in his hand as he and Argus stepped aboard.

  They sailed northeast, for Azmar.

  * * *

  It rained the entire journey, but by luck or some sorcery Argus didn't yet understand, their rickety boat docked in Azmar four days later.

  “Gods,” said Siggi, stretching his arms into the air. “I can't wait to get off this heap. If we hurry I can make it to the Atheneum before nightfall.”

  Argus glanced at the captain, who'd spent most of the voyage yelling at his single crew member—a boy of about ten—for being lazy and Siggi for drinking so damn much. His brown eyes smoldered.

  Good that we're leaving now. If we stay much longer he's bound to put a knife in Siggi's back.

  After an eternity baking in the sun, they reached the head of the customs queue. Argus and Siggi gave the officers aliases, paid the fees (or whatever Lord Syrio called them these days), and moved on. They'd spent years crafting backstories and false identities. The hardest part was remembering whom they were supposed to be, and when.

  Soon they found themselves engulfed in the bustle of Azmar. They bumped elbows with dockworkers clad in scarlet—the color marking them as debtors—and swarthy merchants. Passed whores of every different homeland and skin tone, all of them reaching and a few blowing kisses. They even skirted a Nalavacian with a stack of wood beside him; a crowd gathered to watch him split larger and larger logs with a single swing of his ax, sometimes throwing a spare dragon into the hat he'd laid out.

  “Ah,” said Siggi, “it's great to be back in Azmar.” They left the docks and passed through the southern gate. He inhaled deeply, savoring the potpourri of manure and poplar trees and burning coal. Azmar had an aroma that clung to you. It afflicted debtors and the palace dwellers alike, though the latter tried—and failed—to cover it up with expensive perfume.

  Argus caught a whiff of it and nearly retched. A deluge of memories flooded him, some good, most bad. Meeting Janna for the first time—though she'd introduced herself as Christine. Wandering the desolate alleyways, raving for powder like a man gone mad.

  Siggi led them to an elderly woman selling fruit from a cart. He bought a handful of strawberries and tossed some to Argus. They walked a while longer up Urbek Way…

  Until the Rivannan devoured the last of the berries and squeezed Argus's arm.

  “What are you doing? You're getting berry juice all over my—”

  “Look.” Siggi nodded toward the tannery, where a smattering of posters were tacked outside on the wall. “Think you're still up there?”

  “Only one way to find out.” Argus edged closer to them, feeling very stupid for forgetting. The Five Branches had swallowed up the last of his common sense. They passed by the posters of Azmar's most-wanted fugitives without slowing down, not stopping until the next intersection, when Argus pulled Siggi close and said, “Shit.”

  “You'll be fine, my friend. You don't look a bit like you do in that poster. Surprised it's still up there, though. I figured once we killed Eamon…”

  Argus sighed. “Well, we're already here now. Let's try not to do something stupid.”

  “Come to the Atheneum with me. I'm sure you could find something about magic.”

  “I'll pass.” Argus patted his pack, which contained copies of the Five Branches. “I have everything I need in here.”

  “Until tonight, then. I'll book a room at the Hydra and the Fox. It's a ricke
ty little thing with red windows on Cann Street. Good ales. Great women.” Siggi smiled.

  Argus left the Rivannan with a handshake and good luck wishes. He wandered awhile, thinking, allowing himself to be swept up in the teeming masses.

  In the end he resolved to finish what he'd set out to do—why he changed his mind and came to Azmar. He would leave tomorrow morning, with a full belly and after sleeping in a nice featherbed. The thought of boarding another ship that day was unbearable.

  Argus looked up. He found himself at the Hydra and the Fox, went in and reserved a room.

  * * *

  Siggi didn't meet him until after nightfall.

  “There's my boy!” he roared over the sound of the lute. He shouldered past a few patrons and joined Argus at the bar.

  “What's all that?”

  “This?” The Rivannan held up a leather-bound book the size of his head. “Notes from today. About the old gods. You have to come to the Atheneum with me. It was marvelous.” He glanced around, and lowered his voice. “Almost like that library we visited on the Cradle.”

  “I've seen enough books these past few months to last a lifetime.”

  “I need you, my friend. Join me tomorrow. Help me make sense of all the big words.”

  Argus shrugged. “I'll think about it.” In truth reading was the last thing he wanted—at least logically. He'd felt the itch all afternoon. To tear open his pack and disappear into the Five Branches. But he had made a point to resist the temptation. After some lamb and a lithe Harlockian girl and too much wine to count, nothing had eased it.

  “Two ales,” Siggi said, pounding on the bar. Apparently he'd decided to use his stump as some kind of makeshift knocker. A raven-haired woman laughed from the end of the bar. Siggi winked at her, turned back to Argus and smiled. “That one got her attention, friend.”

  The rest of the night passed like many others. They ate and drank and laughed, mostly at Siggi's tales of growing up in a brothel in Rivanna. The lutist played to people singing, swaying, clinking glasses with friends. To Argus they seemed far away—not quite real. Like he was watching them through a dirty window. Gradually they filed out, until the barman went around and started snuffing out candles.

  “Guess it's just us,” said Siggi.

  “Not quite.” Argus pointed to the enormous orange cat that had jumped onto the end of the bar. It glared at them, then resumed lapping up the ale they'd spilled.

  “Well, isn't she just the little priss?” Siggi said, laughing, sloshing more ale. He drained his glass and asked for another.

  “Can't you tell when enough's enough? I'm the barman, not your wet nurse.”

  Siggi retorted with some choice Rivannan curses and nearly leaped over the bar. Argus pulled him away, and handed the man a few more coins instead. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  They stumbled upstairs for their rooms. Slurring a goodnight, the Rivannan staggered into his. Argus kept going until he reached the next room, wandered in, and flopped onto bed.

  He sighed, listening to the sound of clinking glasses down below. The room spun. Shutting his eyes didn't help. He wondered why the hallway was so quiet, and figured they were the only guests.

  Argus sat up and groaned. In his old life he would have just passed out, but in this new one his mind raced. There were too many unanswered questions. Meanings to tease out of endless spells. All the evening's hedonism had done was to dull the edge, and now it cut him again, sharp as a dagger point.

  He looked at his pack.

  Next thing he knew, it was upended on the bed. He rummaged through the contents, tossing aside tunics and stockings and pieces of lint. He swore. Then he went through them again, stomach tightening, ale pressing against the bottom of his throat and threatening to burst.

  “No!”

  Argus lunged for the window and leaned out. He vomited, clutching desperately onto the stone wall, but when he was done the pain remained.

  I packed them. I swear I packed them.

  But they weren't there. Either he'd gone completely mad or someone had stolen the Five Branches. Argus had only meant to bring a copy (one of the first things he did after returning to Davos was write out a dozen copies of the originals he'd found on the Cradle.) Yet the sting was still unbearable.

  Suspicion burrowed inside him as he stared blankly at the bedspread. At first he wrote it off, but, like a mosquito bite once scratched, the more he fought it the worse it got.

  There was only one other who'd spent any significant time with him lately. A man whose eyes had widened when they reunited, a man who moved around him a bit more carefully now and spoke in a softer voice.

  Argus crept across the room. He opened the door quietly, checking the hallway up and down. Empty. He stalked across the creaky floorboards, Reaver in hand.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Siggi was snoring when Argus crept in. He lay sprawled on his back, still in the same clothes from earlier. The mattress sagged inward to support his weight.

  Argus crept closer, watching the Rivannan all the while.

  Next he rummaged through everything he could find. He left heaps of clothes and shoes and jewelry from Rivanna. Unlike him, Siggi actually traveled with items a burglar might find valuable. Argus tossed them aside like weeds.

  He kept searching for the only things that mattered, but he didn't find them.

  Siggi stirred, flopped onto his side and revealed his disfigured arm. Argus pointed Reaver at his chest. Another idea came to him. He put down his sword and rushed forward. Got a nice hold of the mattress. With all of his strength he lifted.

  The mattress tipped and Siggi slid down the incline, landing with a thump so loud it shook the windows. “Wh-what in the name of…”

  Argus heard him wiggling around somewhere on the other side of the bed. He couldn't see him, though, because he had his head buried beneath the mattress. He reached around in there, feeling for books.

  His fingers landed on something soft.

  He pulled it out.

  “Damn!” It was nothing more than a nightshirt. Probably belonged to a prostitute who'd met her customer downstairs. He could still smell the perfume on it.

  Argus threw it down and picked up Reaver instead.

  “Argus of Leith? What's going on?”

  He pointed his sword at the Rivannan, who leaned against the bed. “What'd you do with my books?”

  “Your books—what are you on abou—oh! I get it. Must be some kinda…” He hiccuped. “… prank. Was it something I said downstairs? You know how ale loosens my lips, friend.”

  Argus inched the blade closer. “Don't play coy with me. You may be drunk, but we both know the only reason you came to get me on Davos was because you were worried.” He looked around, and suddenly the room felt tiny and oppressive. “Worried I'm going mad.”

  Siggi held up one stump and one hand. “Aye, I won't deny it. The books are changin' you, friend. Thought it'd be nice if you… got some fresh air.”

  “So that was your plan? Steal me away from Davos. Dump my books in the sea and find a diversion to keep me here until it all passes over.”

  “No plan. Just a man looking after an old friend. I didn't take them, though. Didn't even know you had them with you.”

  Argus watched his sword quiver. The walls kept pressing in. This room was squeezing the life out of him.

  “Go on,” Siggi said. “Turn the place upside down. Looks like you already did.”

  Argus went through the closet and a couple of drawers in the nightstand. He found nothing except stale smells and mouse droppings. While he continued his search, he felt Siggi's eyes boring into his back.

  Because he didn't know what else to do, he fell to his knees and went through the clothes again. What if he's telling the truth? Then, a moment later: What if he isn't? An endless battle between equally-matched opponents. The search continued until Siggi's snores filled the room again.

  Some time later—Argus wasn't sure if it'd been minutes or hours—he lef
t, closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  Sleep was out of the question.

  The only thing left to do was keep moving. Argus crept through the empty tavern and into the street. The night air was unseasonably cool. Wind lashed his face, whistling through the narrow street, lifting signs and making him feel a bit more sober.

  Not any closer to answers, though.

  Argus let his legs choose where to wander. He wanted to believe his mercenary brother, but he also wanted to trust himself. He had put those books in that pack, hadn't he? Although the street was empty he imagined eyes peeking out at him through every darkened window.

  He kept walking and found himself on Urbek Way, which was mostly empty at this hour. A pair of Olive Cloaks strode past. They talked quietly and kept their hands close to their sword hilts. Argus forced himself to walk like a man who hadn't had so many ales. The Olive Cloaks scowled at him, then kept walking.

  When they disappeared around a corner, Argus finally let out a breath.

  Sometimes carts crisscrossed his path. Most hauled crates, others carried produce, and one even transported a wealthy woman huddled under a fur coat. Everyone creaked past without paying him any attention.

  That was one thing Argus missed about Azmar—the invisibility of the place. Feeling like he could disappear into the cobblestones and never be found.

  He passed a drunken minstrel with a fiddle slung over his shoulder. Sailors singing in the Tokati tongue. At one point footsteps pattered behind him and when he turned he found a woman chasing her lover with an iron poker.

  Argus paused, and only then did he realize where he was.

  Old habits died hard.

  He found himself deep in the eastern outskirts, in a maze of countless debtors' hovels. These streets didn't have the dignity of names but he knew them well. They were busier than the others. At this hour they teemed with powder fiends.

  Just a little. To ease my mind.

  Argus sighed and kept on.

  First came the groans. Silhouettes slumped against walls, trembling. Hands shot out as he hurried past. Men and women and children. He slapped them away, knowing that in their state they wouldn't feel a thing.