The Dim Continent: Series Finale (The Legend of the Gamesmen Book 3)

by Jo Sparkes

  “But - why?”

  Kirth latched onto Marra’s arm and marched her out of the cavern.

  She stopped when they reached the first cave with the fire pit and the worktable. And sat herself down on the lone stool.

  “Marra, there is a harmony to life that we must honor. A proper, natural balance. The essence of Agben is discovering how to restore the body to its perfect balance. Rain’s witch-work seeks to rip that apart.”

  “But we cannot counter such powerful creations with healing balms!”

  “Did you not use healing mixtures to cure the Prince of a most powerful evil?”

  Marra shook her head. “I was just lucky.”

  “My child, any discipline, any endeavor can be pursued with the intent to do good, or otherwise. Pursuing good causes with bad actions is no different than pursuing bad causes. You cannot achieve good through bad actions. You’ve already tainted the very goal you seek.”

  Arguments sprang to Marra’s tongue, but she did not speak. She knew from past experience that Kirth would not be moved.

  And there was another topic hovering on the elder Skullan’s lips, one that had been there for some days. Even now her teacher hesitated.

  And then the question came. “Marra, what do you remember of Britta’s last days?”

  It was early afternoon when the heavens seemed to burst open. Sheets of rain hurtled from the sky, shrouding the city in a dense wet veil.

  Lump strode the cobblestones quickly, welcoming the downpour and the wind. Less Misseans trod the streets in such weather, which meant less eyes observed him pass. He didn’t know how much the Elite Guard had guessed - Kratchett had continually underestimated their abilities.

  He couldn’t now afford the same mistake.

  South of the Warehouse District and farther from the Old Gate, the oldest area of Missea seemed to crowd in upon itself, as if the newer parts had shoved these buildings too close together. Here there were only three tiers, and the bridges swayed on ropes instead of the solid wide paths constructed through the rest of the city.

  It was home to the dock workers, day laborers and the like. What Kratchett often termed the common man. The streets had been cobblestone once, but not so firmly made. Now gaping holes peppered the road, and the sodden dirt produced deep mud pools for the unwary.

  Shops were few and far between. Most did not bother with signs to declare their existence - some from lack of need to advertise, and some from lack of will. The second story door, accessible only from a teetering stack of old crates, fell into the latter category.

  Lump scanned the area carefully before ascending the makeshift stairway and slipping inside.

  Fenna’s front room consisted of a pallet, a three-legged stool, and shelves of pottery jars. It was supposed to be a healing place, but as no broom nor dust cloth had touched it in many a day, the atmosphere was more desolation than hope.

  There was no sign of Fenna.

  Lump reached into his hidden coat pocket to grasp the dagger handle, and then crept towards the first opening. Fenna’s place, as others in this district, was laid out in tiny rooms linked like beads on a bracelet - door after door leading to room after room, until you wound up back at the beginning.

  Weapon ready, he slipped the latch - which was ominous in its silence - and passed into the next room. Her main store of herbs filled this chamber.

  On his guard now, Lump paused to check the larger containers, scanning any place just deep enough to hide a small woman. He always thought Fenna to be merely Rain’s pigeon, but in his experience, well-oiled doors in otherwise unkempt places hinted at dark deeds.

  A long crate lay in a far corner. He stepped carefully to it, making sure it was too close to the wall to hide anyone behind. And then on impulse, he removed the sacks covering it and lifted the lid.

  What he saw chilled him to his core.

  “Climbing crates to enter a shop? She must not get many visitors,” Marra frowned. The stack seemed unstable, and she feared for Kirth’s safety.

  Kirth, however, never hesitated. When the elder reached the top and opened the door, Marra reluctantly followed.

  The interior looked no more inviting. It wasn’t the dirt so much as the smell. And the faint noises - somehow ominous.

  “Mistress…” Marra began, but Kirth waved an impatient hand and stepped on to the next room.

  Marra stayed where she was, puzzled by the smell. It was familiar and not unpleasant, which was odd for such a dingy place. It reminded her of…Tryst.

  A second door opened - one she hadn’t noticed. For an instant she thought Kirth was returning, until she saw the boots. Boots she recognized, boots that had dogged her path. No fox was etched on the inside leather - but these had oft accompanied that other pair.

  Lump, she remembered. His name was Lump - Kratchett’s man to do his dirty work.

  Lump was shoving something in his shirt pocket, and from both the way he handled it and the tanged aroma in the air, she knew it wasn’t good.

  And then he noticed her. His eyes widened, and then narrowed as he took a silent step towards her.

  “Marra,” Kirth called. Her voice sounded distant - too far to help her. But it was enough.

  Lump fled.

  She ought to have run to the door, to at least see which way he ran, but Marra didn’t move. She vaguely registered the sounds of those boots speeding off through the rain.

  “Marra!”

  Shaking herself, she hurried to Kirth.

  The second room was storage, although not like the storage rooms of Agben, or even Britta’s shop on the desert Flats. Here crates and jars littered the floor, seemingly left in the first spot available. It lacked the organization of Agben storerooms, and Marra wondered how anyone could locate anything they needed.

  The first true signs of habitation appeared in the third room.

  A mattress lay in the corner, and though it lacked a bed frame it was covered with a faded blue and white quilt someone had spent time stitching. A table held both an oil lamp and a teapot, with a worn kettle sitting upon a tiny stove nearby. A shelf held several jars, including one with a bunch of wildflowers thrust inside. To sweeten the air, she realized.

  The sweetness had long since died.

  The lamp was lit - which was a good thing as no windows broke the dingy expanse of wall. Kirth knelt near the stove, and as Marra approached, she saw that the flash of green on the floor was not a rug but a skirt.

  “Fetch me a clean cloth, if such a thing exists in the place.”

  The green skirt belonged to a tiny woman, face pinched, eyes closed. The tiny woman’s blouse was not of scarlet material as first appeared, for the color darkened before her eyes.

  Blood.

  Whirling, Marra sped to the clothes pegs near the mattress, which held a surprising selection of blouses, all fine linen and clean. Marra snatched a white one and knelt by Kirth.

  “Not…that one,” the tiny woman murmured. Kirth used it anyway, pressing against the woman’s chest.

  It rapidly turned red.

  “See if you can find camphor juice,” Kirth hissed.

  “Too late,” the injured woman sighed. She turned her eyes to Marra. “I was just to watch him,” she whispered. “Just to watch and apply more balm to the nostrils if he stirred.”

  Marra’s stomach iced over. The aroma, the familiar smell.

  “Never told me…but I guessed who he was. The Prince...” The last word escaped her body in a long sigh, and no more air was drawn in to replace it.

  “Never mind the camphor juice.” Kirth leaned back on her heels.

  Marra leapt up, as much to retreat from the dead woman as anything. Kirth rose more slowly. “Fenna, an old student,” she sighed. “Years back she assisted Britta on certain…things. I rather hoped to find an answer or two.” Kirth checked the kettle, and leaning over a single basin, poured the water over one hand and then the other.

  Marra drifted back to the storage room.

&nbs
p; Drying her fingers on an old dishrag, Kirth followed. “Why do you suppose she spoke of the Prince?”

  Scanning the area, Marra threaded her way round crates and large pottery jars. “Perhaps she’d heard rumors of his disappearance.”

  “But the Prince is safe in the Palace.”

  Marra struggled to lift the top off a long box where the odor was strongest. After a moment, Kirth joined her. Together they raised the lid.

  “Great Goose guide me,” Kirth breathed.

  King Bactor lay inside. For a long moment he seemed dead, until she caught the shallow rise of his chest.

  “When we first found Tryst…in that unnatural sleep…” Marra turned to stare at Kirth. “This is that same smell.”

  Kirth leaned close, resting a palm on his chest, prying open his eyelid. “And you woke a man in this state?”

  Marra nodded.

  Kirth looked at her in wonder. “You might need to do it again.”

  They dined in the council chamber.

  King Ganny insisted, siting the lovely view. Tryst was not surprised, however, when his grandsire offered a different reason once they were seated and alone.

  “Here we can be sure of no accidental eavesdropping.” He dipped a soda biscuit into his creamed gravy. “So there is no knowing how long your father has been gone?”

  Tryst toyed with his swoopfish in spice sauce - but found no appetite. “I believe he was taken sometime after I became Prince again. Otherwise the need to hunt me down would not have been so severe.”

  “So, likely he’s been gone more than a moon,” King Ganny frowned. “And with no expectation of discovery.”

  “The Defense Master pursues leads in the Nirr Provence, and then sets sail.”

  King Ganny shook his head. “Send a ship now, with someone to investigate. Your Defense Master can follow.”

  “But we don’t even know which port to land...the Dim Continent is vast.”

  His grandsire eyed him in small amusement. “It is, young Tryst. But only the port of Creesby allows non-terrin.”

  A servant tapped before entering, to check the state of their meal. Tryst beckoned for more wine; King Ganny shooed him away. The old man’s eyes never left Tryst - but he didn’t speak again until the door swung shut.

  “I myself negotiated the trade agreement when I was your age. Anything we send them - every ship, in fact, must arrive at that single port. You’ll find Skullan and Trumen live there, work there. Beyond that port neither race is welcome.”

  Tryst could only gape.

  King Ganny smiled gently. “You thought, perhaps, the entire Dim Continent was part of the Skullan Empire. On parchment, Creesby is Skullan. Fifty years ago few of its citizens acknowledged that - and I doubt the sentiments have changed.”

  The door burst open and Jason came striding into the room. Furious, King Ganny whirled to see who dared approach. Tryst prepared to defend his friend - and then saw the flash in the man’s eyes.

  “Your pardon, majesties. King Bactor is found and being brought to the Palace.”

  Tryst was on his feet without knowing how he got there.

  “Alive?” King Ganny barked hoarsely.

  “Asleep.”

  It seemed Marra spent forever alone in that dismal dwelling with a dead woman and a sleeping King. Kirth had wanted to send her for help - but they both doubted she could find Fenna’s place again.

  Leah returned with the elder just a blink of the sun before the Elite Guard poured in. A heated argument sprang up around the most dignified way to carry their King, before the Guard Captain lifted the sleeping monarch in his arms. A cape was wrapped around the man - so his subjects would not see his vulnerability - and in a flash the room was empty.

  Fenna’s removal was less conspicuous.

  Marra had thought that was the end of it. To her surprise, however, she was summoned to the Palace three days later.

  “Prepare your cure,” Kirth said, and Marra did. Earlier she’d been told the Agben healers would take care of the King.

  “Apparently,” Kirth sighed, “they cannot naturally heal that which was unnaturally done.”

  So Marra prepared the inhalant, adding the Trevor seed, and plied it carefully. There was no effect.

  The next day she tried the mint brew she had first used. It was a liquid, thus difficult to administer. And no effect. That afternoon she made the inhalant without her added ingredients, and still Tryst’s father slept.

  On the third day she tried the Trevor seed inhalant again. King Bactor stirred, but never woke. Marra repeated the inhalant two more days, under Kirth’s caution to limit the dosage to once a day.

  He was waking, she could tell, but slower than Tryst had done. “Because he is older?” she asked Kirth.

  The elder rolled her eyes. “This was administered much more recently. Perhaps more thoroughly, given your success with the Prince.”

  While Marra administered to the King she stayed in the Palace. Tryst visited frequently, always accompanied by King Ganny.

  And King Ganny did not like her.

  “Are you stretching this out, girl?” he demanded at one point. “Wake him now!”

  Tryst set a hand on the old king’s shoulder. “Peace, grandsire. She is Agben, and doing what is right for her King.”

  Marra pressed her lips together. Tryst was wrong on two counts: she was not Agben, but a student. And no matter what anyone claimed, she couldn’t think of Bactor as her King. He was Skullan, and she’d never known of his existence before she arrived in Missea.

  “Kirth believes it best to wake him slowly, Majesty.”

  After the two men left she straightened, rubbing the small of her back where an ache had suddenly arisen.

  King Ganny seemed to hate her, and she found that most unsettling. Tryst - Skullan though he was - had never treated her as anything less than an equal. Even King Bactor had been kind, although come to think of it, she couldn’t be sure she’d ever met King Bactor. It was possible all the courtesy had come from the Terrin impostor.

  Later, when Marra slipped outside to walk in the garden, a young Skullan girl approached. Others did take in the beauty of the Palace grounds, but none had ever approached her before.

  “You are the healer to the King?” she asked, her eyes alight with something. The girl seemed younger than Marra, though of course she towered over her. Her long black hair cascaded down her back in Skullan fashion, and her dress was a vivid blue.

  Marra found herself envying both her dress and her poise. “Yes, lady,” she nodded.

  “Wake him soon,” the girl grinned. “So that heavenly prince will notice my new wardrobe.”

  Marra realized her mouth was gaping - and snapped it shut.

  “He’s too wrapped up in that,” the girl explained, as if talking to a friend. “Even at dinner he’s distracted. My name is Karna.”

  “Marra,” she replied, once she realized Karna was waiting for her to speak. No Skullan outside of Agben had ever asked her anything. Except Tryst.

  “Prince Tryst is gorgeous,” Karna giggled, “even if he is short. Though I guess he’s not short to you. Do you like Skullan men?”

  “Marra,” Kirth called from the balcony.

  “I…I have to go,” Marra apologized.

  The girl nodded, her eyes friendly. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  A young Skullan lady, treating her as an equal while confessing her admiration for the Prince. Seemingly both warm and kind.

  For some reason Marra disliked her.

  Catching this Lump fellow was not difficult. Jason faced the man in a Palace dungeon within three days.

  The dark cell had its usual effect. The man’s shoulders were slumped, eyes watering at the unaccustomed torchlight. Still, he wasn’t broken.

  Jason’s next step usually employed an Agben Woman or Zaria priest. He reluctantly discarded them, though he hated to do so. Both had a way of intimidating prisoners, and Zaria swore it had Truth Diviners able to detect lies. />
  But Zaria often had an agenda of its own, rarely providing everything promised. He’d been relying on the Tower less and less.

  And Agben appeared just a little too often in this trail of conspiracy. Tryst had a fondness for Marra and trusted her - but she was a mere apprentice and not privy to the plots of the elders.

  As it turned out, however, the prisoner was more than ready to talk.

  “My orders were to pick up a sleeping man in an herb shop on the Flats of Beard,” he said without prodding. “Didn’t know who he was - didn’t care to ask.”

  “So you committed high treason without knowing why.”

  “Never touched him at all. He was gone afore we took him.”

  “Why the desert? Such a long way to send the Prince. And where were you taking him?”

  Lump leaned back against his cell wall, too relaxed for Jason’s taste. “Orders were to board a vessel in Port Leet. When we failed to secure him, that Agben wench canceled the passage - leaving us high and dry. Wound up sleeping in a cargo hold on a small schooner.”

  “Agben?” Jason kept the word casual.

  “Catrona, she called herself. Waiting for us in Port Leet. She threatened the little Brista, but not well enough.”

  That Lump’s words cleared Marra made it easier for Jason to believe him. The little herb girl was guileless and had had many chances to betray Tryst if that had been her goal.

  But yet another Agben name. They would have to tread carefully with the Women.

  “Was this ship sailing for Missea? Or for the Dim Continent?”

  For the first time emotion flashed across Lump’s face.

  “I was never told. Expected a lesser port on the Great Continent. If I’d known ‘bout that hairy beast…”

  Jason stepped close, studying the man’s face. When Lump looked up, traces of horror roiled in his eyes.

  “Suppose to sail with them a fortnight back. From Borden Harbor in the Nirr Provence. First time I ever saw one of those.

  “Big it was, a true monster. Long, spindly legs. Figured I’d likely be caught staying behind - but better that than trapped in a ship with that thing.”