by A Van Wyck
So much for there being nowhere to hide out on the open sea, he reflected absently.
“But as it happ’n,” the captain continued, “cocky bastards went it alone – fer all the good it done ’em, soil-grubbin’ sots tha’ they were.” The anger was apparent in the captain’s tone now. He felt his chances of survival grow slimmer by association.
“Now,” the captain said loudly, “I carry only the best merchandise, mind. Ye don’t keep a girl like the Spear afloat by sailin’ stup’d. Me men be loyal an’ well paid an’ well do they know it. A better crew ye will nae find betwix Quincaan an’ Rasrin. So, believe me when I tell ye, Davin No Name, tha’ the seven hands w’ lost will be mighty hard tae replace.”
Moustaches curled like the tail of an angry cat around one impeccably manicured finger. Cold anger, at odds with a merry smile, danced like demons in the captain’s eyes. “Look askance a’ tha’ sort o’ thing, does the crew. So I’ll nae be lying tae ye when I say they be fixin’ tae hang themselves a pirate t’day!”
The captain flashed him a glinting canine.
“Please, sir! No! I’m not a pirate, I swear!” Begging always came easier when your life was on the line. He’d feel disgusted with himself later but he’d be alive to do it – hopefully. “Just a stowaway, sir! An innocent stowaway, sir! In the wrong place at the right time, sir!”
He was aware he was overdoing it but desperation would substitute for inspiration in a pinch and he was feeling plenty desperate. And he hoped the subtle reminder that he’d helped in the battle and probably saved the captain’s life hadn’t gone unheard.
“Ha!” The captain scoffed, sitting back in his chair. “Innocent stowaway,” he mused to himself. “Now there’s a concept fer ye.”
There was a knock at the door. The first mate stuck his head out again. There was more whispering. He resisted the urge – at an unsubtle reminder from his ribs – to turn and look at the speaker. The whispering seemed to go on forever.
Salt and silver, if they’ve found that kit…
Finally Master Lenk closed the door. Unable to look around, he watched the captain’s face to see how Master Lenk’s new information would be received. His guts twisted and the skin across his back twitched like someone had brushed him with black cactus’s beard.
“Well, now!” The captain didn’t sound surprised. “Stowaway ye be indeed! I fear me I’ve misjudged ye, Davin No Name.”
Relief threatened to topple him from his feet and he had to stiffen his knees.
“However,” the captain added, arresting the half-formed sigh of relief in Jiminy’s throat, “stowaway ye be. By ships’ law, I should hav’ ye tossed o’erboard an’ hav’ done wid ye.”
The captain dusted beringed hands nonchalantly as if prepared to drag him over the rail then and there. His every muscle that was able – and a good many that weren’t – tensed at this pronouncement. The impulse to defend himself bounced red hot on his tongue but he bit it back, sensing that the seafarer hadn’t finished.
“But,” the captain mused, “I find meself seven hands short. And a long way fra’ port on a sea suddenly infested wi’ pirates where nae pirates should be.”
He allowed himself a glimmer of hope.
“Nae sailor ye be,” the captain said, appraising him, “tha’ much be plain. But fight ye can,” came the grudging admission, “and as I said, in need I am o’ a willing pair o’ hands. Be it that ye may hav’ such a pair o’ hands, Davin No Name?”
He blinked. The captain was asking him to help crew the ship? Was the man blind? He was halfway dead, wearing more bandage than clothes and his aforementioned hands were absolutely useless. But if it kept him alive and dry…
“Yessir!” he tried to scrounge some enthusiasm, making an effort to stand up straight.
The captain studied him intently.
“Good. Then I hav’ a proposition fer ye, Davin.” The captain smiled thinly. “Me next port o’ call be Harbarth and Toriin after tha’. Small ports they be and stop in there I do only tae take on fresh water an’ green. After tha’ we dock a’ Genla. Now, if’n ye’d asked tae be passenger on m’ship, an’ assumin’ tha’ ye had nae coin, insisted I would that ye work ‘till a’least Genla tae cover ye debt. An’ tha’ s’me offer tae ye. Stay wi’ the ship until Genla and call it e’en we will. Work alongside the crew ye will and hav’ yer meals and hammock wi’em. Otherwise,” the captain folded his arms, a smile pulling into one cheek to expose a golden fang, “ye can always swim tae shore.”
“Nosir!” he said quickly. “I’ll crew, sir!” He came disgustingly near saluting.
The part of him that had jeered desert princes to their face and had stood toe to toe with blackeyes riled at the injustice. But that part of him was stubborn-stupid and he kept it carefully bridled. He knew when to play the mouse. He also knew not to ask about his knives. He’d either get them back or he wouldn’t and now was not the time to ask.
“Thank you, sir!” he gushed. He thought he sounded properly sincere. Any grimace on his part might be construed as the pain of his injuries.
“Very well. Then I’ll leave ye in the capable hands o’ Master Lenk. Welcome aboard Master Noname.”
The captain waved a cheerful goodbye and bent back to his desk, instantly forgetting all about him.
He followed the first mate from the cabin on jellied legs, heart pounding at this small victory. The feeling lasted all the way until he snuck down to the hold in the dead of night, on the third day after accepting the captain’s offer, to find the little cranny under the stairs empty.
CHAPTER 9 – A DARK RIPPLE
Amazing…
He’d known, of course, that the centermost tower in the palace housed the royal apartments but he never thought he’d actually be able to see inside! He took a good look now as he made his way back toward the main stairs. He’d been too nervous to take in the spectacular tapestries and paintings when he’d come this way a bell earlier, all but clutching at the skirts of one of the princess’s ladies. Members of the Royal Guard were stationed every twenty paces along the curved corridor, still as statues in their carved niches. He’d yet to spot one twitching so much as an eyelid but he felt their hard gazes sweeping him along the corridor like dust before the broom. Under the pressure of those stares, he didn’t have the nerve to stop at any of the interesting artworks, so he walked as slowly as he dared, letting his eyes rove.
The lady, Clarett, had found him at dinner. The only thoughts in his head, as he’d trudged wearily from the dining hall, exhausted from a day’s scribing and an evening’s study, had been of his bed. The hand that had briefly gripped his elbow had come as a complete surprise.
“My mistress was wondering whether you’d care for some tea.”
Caught off guard, he’d stared at the unfamiliar lady stupidly.
“Your mistress?”
“A certain swan,” the lady had raised an eyebrow at him, obviously suppressing a smile.
He’d recognized the lady from the hawking trip then – the stalwart one who hadn’t fainted.
“Where are we going?” he’d asked only once.
“You’ll see.”
She’d led him along darkened back passages and servants’ stairs until they’d finally arrived in this airy, well lit corridor. Even if the plush carpet, tall windows, vaulted ceiling and wealth of art hadn’t identified it as the royal apartments, the guards, resplendent in their Royal Guard half-plate and chain, would have. He’d halted in his tracks, shocked, as soon as he realized but the lady had towed him along and his only option except to follow would have been to rudely drag his arm from her grasp, run the other way and hope to find his own way back through the maze.
But he hadn’t run. Despite the anxiety of being where he’d known he shouldn’t be, he’d been relieved. After three weeks of absence, he’d begun to believe he’d never see the princess again, that her sister’s presence that day in the stable yard somehow signaled the end of their short lived friendship.
He’d been absolutely delighted to see her again, presiding over a tea table in the reception area of her private rooms. She’d gently taken him to task for his formal greeting, shaking her head as she poured him some tea.
“What about your sister?” had been his first worried question.
“Villet?” she’d enquired archly – as if she had more than one. “This evening, she finds herself completely and totally swamped. Something about an important fee brokerage with the masons’ guild I seem to have neglected some detail of.”
The way she’d said it left no doubt she’d neglected it on purpose.
“Won’t you get into trouble?” he’d asked, horrified at what she was bringing down on her head to make time for their little tea party.
She’d shrugged, daintily lifting her cup to her lips.
“She never could pass up the chance of repairing my blunders,” the princess had smiled, winking at him over the rim of her cup. They’d laughed together and kept right on laughing as the evening progressed. He’d never have thought that he’d have much to discuss with any girl, not to mention a princess. His cloistered upbringing – that he’d never been aware of until he’d been thrown into the mixing bowl with normal people (as he’d come to think of them) on the caravan – should have rendered him fatally incapable of entertaining so worldly a personage. But it had become quickly apparent that princess Dailill had, in her own way, been every bit as cloistered as he. The walls that had hemmed him in were those of the Temple, hers those of the Royal Palace. But in many ways they were very much alike. They’d talked of books and history and life within their respective gilded cages, finding the similarities and the discrepancies with equal glee. The time had passed so quickly. Too quickly. The tea had been cold by the time he left.
“Say what you want about my sister,” she’d sighed, “she’s disgustingly effective. We probably aren’t safe stealing more than a single turn or so.”
Walking down the corridor, he really hoped she didn’t get into any trouble.
His swollen stomach turned lazily, reminding him the tapestries and paintings weren’t the only reason he was moving at a crawl.
He’d gorged himself at dinner tonight and had been past replete even before he’d walked into the princess’s apartments. Even so, he couldn’t have refused the sweet pastries she’d served him with her own hand. He’d had three. They lay atop his overfull stomach, threatening him with cramps at every other step. Uncomfortable heat stewed in his gullet. Finally out of the princess’s presence, he let it roll up his throat and between his teeth, venting some of the pressure quietly.
It brought no relief. He groaned to himself. Those pastries had really been a mistake. What was that he was tasting? Cinnamon? Lemon? No. Aniseed. No. What? What…
His steps slowed.
What…
What was that?
He’d come to a halt, head cocked and listening intently. There was something… like the crushing of dried leaves underfoot in the old orchard, but muted. Every building had its own song for when the heat of the day had passed. He was a stranger to the royal apartments and didn’t know its night sounds but the susurration struck an off chord with him, playing on his nerves. He shuddered uncomfortably as the fine hairs down his spine strained erect.
What is that?
He frowned.
It was growing louder, no longer the crackling of leaves but the snap and pop of twigs. Feeling nervous, he shot the nearest guard an uncertain glance just in time to see the man’s eyes flit away from him. So they did move. Just not on account of whatever that sound was. The guard did not seem overly concerned by it.
Either that, or he doesn’t hear it.
Unlikely but possible. They were all wearing chain camails and bell shaped helms over their ears.
Should he ask? What would he say? Excuse me, can you hear that? He’d sound like an idiot. No. If the guard wasn’t concerned, he need not be concerned with–
It was still growing louder, sounding almost on top of him.
He was just about to open his mouth when the source of the noise hove into view. The unspoken question came out as a gasp.
Boiling from around the bend, hugging the ceiling, came… smoke. Black smoke.
Fire! Why hadn’t he smelled it? Why hadn’t anyone raised the alarm?
And then he saw it slip through the next arch, skimming across the fresco’d vault.
That’s not smoke.
It moved as a roiling cloud, unconnected from any fire or column of smoke. It crawled across the arched ceiling like a shadow, keeping to the topmost recess of the arch where the light from the lamps struggled to reach. He watched, frozen, as the tattered shade churned nearer, fitfully flickering in and out of existence. He’d lose sight of it completely for almost a full breath only for it to reappear two or three paces further along. It made his eyes water to watch but he couldn’t look away.
It reached the next arch, dipping down from the ceiling to pass close to the lanterns. The proximity had no effect. The cloud lost none of its opacity, casting no shadow of its own on the pale ceiling. Involuntarily, he took a step back.
A smarter person would have been running by then but he stood stupidly staring as the cloud dragged its tattered tendrils closer and closer. It passed overhead. One of those tendrils, insubstantial as cobweb, swept toward him. Unthinking, he threw up a hand to ward it off. It touched him. For a single moment the crackling sound rose deafeningly in pitch, sawing at his ears like the buzzing of a million flies. A smell he remembered from a little graveyard in Tellar – turned earth and leaf mulch – assaulted his nostrils. He tasted mud and rot on his tongue.
And then it was past, leaving him unscathed.
He staggered. Cold sweat had sprung from his every pore. His knees were shaking and he was gulping at the air like a drowning man.
He spun to keep it in his sight, as one would a circling wolf.
It moved with purpose... and it was headed for the Princess Dailill’s rooms.
“No!”
The nearest guard, the one who assiduously hadn’t been watching him, jumped at his sudden shout. The man took a step towards him, hand raised as if to grab at him but was too late. He tore off up the hallway, back the way he’d come, sprinting after the shadow as it made its flickering way down the corridor. He was only vaguely aware of the guard behind him raising the alarm. The shadow was just ahead, moving faster now but he could still keep up with it. He was at a loss for what to do. Desperately, he grabbed the nearest thing he could – a squat ceramic pot off a niched pedestal. Turning his sprint into a sideways shuffle, he took two steps run-up and let fly with the heavy urn. His aim was slightly off but he hit it, the little pot passing close to the center of the roiling blackness – with no discernable effect – before smashing against the high ceiling. Shards of pottery rained down amid swirls of grey dust. The shade continued, unimpeded.
Oh, no.
A gauntleted hand tangled in his over robe as the guard, blind to the shade, caught up to him. He shrugged out of it, maintaining his pursuit. There was a lot of shouting going on now as guards from other posts converged on the noise. He paid them no mind except to dodge them, their heavy armor and unwieldy weapons proving to be his greatest advantage. He couldn’t risk stopping to explain to them what was going on. They were obviously blind to the threat in their midst and, with even a moment’s head start, that deadly shadow would reach the princess first. That could not be allowed to happen.
Not again, the thought bubbled up against his will.
He vaulted over a tackle that would have winded him, leaving behind a clatter of curses and armor. The cloud closed inexorably on the princess’s apartments. He could imagine it slipping through the crack between her door and jamb like smoke. And then all would be lost. He stood no chance at all of getting past the two Royal Guardsmen stationed outside her locked door. He would sound like a madman, trying to explain that an invisible shadow had just snuck past them and was trying to k
ill their princess... if they let him live long enough to try and explain. These halberds were decorative but that didn’t mean the things weren’t lethal. He had to stop the cloud before it got that far.
A guardsman appeared in front of him, holding his halberd lengthwise to block him. He grabbed at it with both hands and his body took over.
Shove. Reverse.
The bell helm’s noseguard cut into the top of his scalp as he head butted the man. But he’d been prepared for the pain and the guardsman hadn’t. The man stumbled, armored knee folding beneath a well placed kick.
Twist. Turn. Shift.
The guard went flying, leaving the halberd in his hands. The polearm was heavy, not meant for throwing. He put every bit of his strength behind it. His aim was even worse this time, passing through the outer edge of the shadow with as little effect as the pot. Through some vagary of chance the heavy point found a join in the brick beneath the plaster and stuck in the ceiling. The shadow moved on.
He cast around desperately as he ran after it, searching for ideas or just anything else to lob at it, not knowing what he could do other than keep pace with it. It didn’t seem to be affected by anything he did. There had to be something! Some way!
Think! Think!
He was in front of it now, back pedaling.
There had to be something he could do! What had been the use of all that training if, the very next time a friend was in danger, he could do nothing?
Again.
Hands grabbed at his wrist and his robes, yanking him to one side. Deafening boot falls pounded from both sides of the corridor. Too many.
No!
From the depths of his panic rose Master Crysopher’s voice, thundering through his skull. His body reacted to it like it had been drilled to.
Rising up, he struck at the hand tangled in his robes with the heel of his palm, knocking it away. He pulled as hard as he could on his wrist. He had no chance of breaking the grip of the burly guardsman by brute force. His leg flexed beneath him and he launched into the air, pulling himself up by the guard’s grip. He twisted his hips in a blinding flash and his knee cannoned into the man’s unprotected chin. He twisted again, foot lashing out to crack into the neck of the other guard. Both staggered away. He let his fingers curl in the collar of the stumbling guard’s breastplate. His feet briefly skimmed the carpet and then he was climbing the man like a ladder, stepping on thigh and chest before shoving off hard from the solid shoulder.