Sheyra's mouth dropped open in shock. “Did you just agree with me? Maybe there is hope for you,” she laughed.
“Let's just get this over with,” Brosen sighed.
Docked at pier eighteen, The Water Skipper was a rusty old cargo vessel that had seen better days. The crew was a bunch of filthy looking older men; some of them appeared to be drunk as they wove their way unsteadily across the deck. Brosen felt his hope fading, but Sheyra wasn't fazed.
“I'd like to speak to the captain,” she said, walking confidently up to the nearest man. He was tall and wiry. A scraggly salt and pepper beard adorned his chin, bits of his lunch caught in the strands.
“That's me,” the man made a whistling sound as he spoke. “Hener Dei'Brenen, at your service,” he smiled, revealing that he was missing more than a few teeth.
“Very good,” Sheyra stood up to her full height, attempting to look important. “I must purchase passage for my slaves to Renenoors. I saw your ad on the departures board. It is an emergent situation. They would be willing to work along with what I can afford to pay.”
The captain looked them over thoughtfully for a moment. “Are they willing to do more than work?” he asked, his eyes lingering on Impyra.
Brosen started to step forward but Sheyra stopped him. “Absolutely not, and I will be assured that no harm will come to them during the voyage.” She held up the White Energy gun and handed it to Brosen.
Captain Dei'Brenen took a step back. “Well now, slaves ain't allowed armaments, lady,” he said.
“I can take my business elsewhere, but it appears you may be in need of the credits.”
The man thought it over, scratching his beard. “Well now, I don't want to get raided and have it discovered I'm transporting armed slaves.”
“Very well, we'll be on our way,” Sheyra turned and began walking back up the pier.
“Now hold on there, lady,” the captain said hastily. Brosen couldn't believe it had worked. “All right, but if I get my boat sunk for helpin’ murderers or somethin’… jus’ know that I’ll be takin’ my revenge.”
“Understood,” Sheyra smiled menacingly. “And if my slaves are harmed I'll be taking mine.” Despite her cheerful nature she could still be intimidating. “Now, shall we talk the price of the fare?”
“One hundred and fifty each,” he said.
“One hundred each and they will work, as I said.” Sheyra countered.
Brosen shook his head slowly. Haggling must have been her hobby, he decided.
The captain frowned. “All right, but they bring their own food.”
“Deal,” Sheyra said.
They followed the captain into a small shanty at the edge of the pier. It functioned as a small office. He swiped Sheyra's card and smiled.
“Two hundred credits approved,” the happiness in his tone was laced with relief. Sheyra was right, he had needed the credits.
While they were preoccupied Impyra tugged on Brosen's sleeve.
“I don't want to cross the ocean with Captain Whistles,” she whispered.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise when he laughed. Sheyra glared at them over her shoulder.
Still smiling he said, “I don't either but it's better than nothing.”
She didn't look like she believed him but she nodded anyway. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, but he didn't say it out loud.
“We leave right at fifteen hundred hours. Be on board or we sail without ya.” The captain growled. “No refunds.”
They walked back to the car and Sheyra breathed a sigh of relief. “That went well, don't you think?”
“Yeah, as long as we don't sink or get murdered,” Impyra muttered.
“Grizzly old seafarers are worse than they look,” Sheyra offered sagely.
“Easy for you to say,” Impyra frowned. “Now we just have to wait.”
“It's only a few hours. We should get some rest while we can,” Brosen suggested.
Sheyra let out a dramatic sigh. “Hopefully once you're in Renenook you'll both be a little happier.”
Brosen doubted it. Although he wasn't pleased with the ship he did feel as if a weight lifted from his shoulders. He didn't know why the Emperor had halted the pursuit but he was starting to feel hope for the first time. Renenook was only partially controlled by the Empire. He'd heard of the Far Lands far to the north. They were territories free of Imperial rule, but also offered a suitable place to hide in the remote wilderness. All that remained was finding a way there while continuing to evade notice.
* * *
With a few hours to spare before the princess's celebration, Lethel took the time to complete her assigned task. Taking the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor, she found herself in the small lobby of the administrative archive. It was an uninteresting room with gray walls and gray carpeting. A collection of soft chairs was gathered around a low table sat empty to her right. In front of her a tall gray desk blocked the path to the door that lead into the records room beyond.
Seated behind the desk was a young Enforcer. He sat up straight at her approach to mask his obvious boredom. This was going to be far more amusing than expected. She observed the cloud of discomfort that passed across his face as he realized she was of similar blood. These Imperial Dreave were pathetic; nothing more than lap dogs with the fight bred right out of them. Lethel was a wolf by all standards, and she enjoyed toying with her prey.
“The Master Keeper requires the complete file on Brosen En-Harn and the file of Treve En-Harn,” she said coldly, pinning him with her eyes.
“Everything the Emperor has approved was already delivered to Master Garinsith's apartments,” the young man replied.
He was doing his best to look stern. How cute. She imagined the noise he would make if she cut off his nose. Unfortunately, she had promised to be on good behavior. Pity.
Lethel lifted her hand, showing her palm to the Enforcer. He stared at it, confused. “The Master Keeper requires the complete file on Brosen En-Harn and the file of Treve En-Harn.” she repeated, her words slow and deliberate.
The Enforcer's eyes took on a glossy sheen and his face became expressionless. “Yes, of course,” his voice was flat and monotone as he spoke. He began typing on the computer. “Do you want that printed or the original?”
“The original,” That would be far more interesting.
The door to the record room buzzed before it opened. He moved as if he was pulled along by a string. Lethel waited patiently for him to shamble back out, manila folders tucked under his arm. He placed them on the desk before her.
“Is there anything else you need?” He asked.
Lethel considered his questions. She would like to leave him unconscious, but she knew that would not be tolerated. “That is all,” she said, releasing his mind.
The Enforcer was dazed. He shook his head and took little notice of her as she returned to the elevator. Once he’d regained his senses he wouldn’t even remember their interaction.
On the sixtieth floor, Garinsith was seated at a table near a window, a cup of coffee in his hands. She unceremoniously dropped the files onto the table with a thud before falling into a chair beside him.
“Done,” she said. “I hope we're leaving soon. This place is tedious.” Leaning back, she laced her hands behind her head. “They've diluted the bloodline so much that the Dreave are barely more than glorified Ekar. It's insulting.”
She despised the idea of her people being turned into slaves, and it disgusted her to know they had been stripped of their true power.
“It is not what I had envisioned for the Empire,” Garinsith agreed in his roundabout way, already engrossed in the pages of the file.
Lethel sighed. “I doubt he's the Counter Balance. These Dreave can barely even swat a fly. They don't even try to resist having their mind's turned.”
“Being the Counter Balance is not about raw power,” Garinsith said quietly. “If it were, Kevie or Tyn could be the Counter Balance. You could be the Balanc
e,” the Master Keeper paused, “but you are far too cruel.”
“Kindness makes you weak,” Lethel scoffed.
“Perhaps, but it is a quality that Syerset has always demanded in the Chosen.” Garinsith frowned.
She sighed, it didn’t make sense to her how an inanimate object could demand anything. Ancient artifacts were not her area of expertise, however; and Garinsith had been studying the mysterious talisman since his youth. Lethel did not understand his obsession with the thing. He was powerful in his own right. There should be no need for trinkets to bolster his strength. Sometimes she feared his obsession with the thing bordered on madness.
“Ah,” Garinsith's voice rose in surprise. “This is most intriguing.” Lethel raised an eyebrow. “Brosen was born in the early spring of 1027,” Garinsith continued, “a mere eight months after I was banished form Sa'Toret-Ekar. That alone would be coincidental. However, his mother's name is Lasha,” Garinsith pointed at the page. “His father is listed as Norsten,” he continued.
“So what?” Lethel frowned.
“I know for a fact that Norsten was killed in battle with the Tiffaran's early in the spring of 1026, it is impossible for him to have fathered a child to have been born the following spring.”
Lethel was skeptical. “How can you remember the death of one Enforcer in the middle of a war? That was over twenty years ago.”
“Very true, I wouldn't remember him except that I was acquainted with Lasha,” Garinsith smiled.
“Don't tell me you're Brosen's father,” Lethel groaned.
“No,” Garinsith shook his head slowly, “But I may know who could be his father.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “In those days my cousin Fredrick acted as my assistant. He was quite taken with the young Dreave woman.”
“Winifred's brother?” Lethel sucked in her breath.
Garinsith nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Along with Dreger telling me that Brosen was atypical in his strengths that would be a reasonable explanation.”
Lethel was skeptical. “Isn’t it possible she was matched with another Enforcer around the same time?”
“Perhaps,” Garinsith shrugged. “Fredrick would have mentioned it. He was attempting to convince Ka Elta to allow him to purchase her from the Empire.” That bolstered the theory.
The idea of being raised in the Enforcer army with atypical skill turned her stomach. “Do you think he's aware that he's different?” She asked.
“Possibly,” Garinsith stood and paced the room. “It does give plausibility to him being the Counter Balance, so long as his soul resonates at the correct frequency.”
The door of the room opened and Tyn entered, seating himself in a chair across from Lethel. She could see in his eyes that he was tired from his journey. The energy within the city was not rejuvenating, making it difficult to work magic for long without fatigue.
“Did you learn anything?” Garinsith asked.
“Winifred had a hospital of sorts set up in South Gate, and she wrapped it in a strong ward. She's heading south as far as I could tell, as you predicted.” Tyn shrugged.
Garinsith slowly turned toward his lieutenant, intrigued. “A hospital,” he shook his head, a small chuckle escaping him. “She always had a bleeding heart.”
Tyn continued his report. “The escaped Enforcer's energy was all over the place, too. He must have gone there often.” He paused. “The girl had been there, too. Her imprint is even stronger than Winifred's but it was pretty clear she wasn't there for long.”
Lethel was surprised by this information. “Do you think Winifred knows Brosen might be her nephew?” She asked.
“That is an interesting question,” Garinsith frowned. “I don't believe Fredrick knows he fathered a child from his tryst. I doubt he would have gone peacefully without Lasha were that the case.”
Fredrick had abandoned Garinsith early after the start of the Mutilator project. Lethel had vague memories of him from her childhood. The Master Keeper never shared the secret of why the separation occurred. Lethel believed it was a rare instance where Garinsith felt true sorrow.
“Winifred must have seen her potential,” Tyn said. “But they did not leave together. I don't know why she would have let her go.”
Garinsith sighed. “Winifred believes in minimal interference. We should offer our help and support but not be the driving force that shapes the world’s history. She never agreed with my designs for the Ekar.”
“There's also a sword down in the Gallery that may be worth looking at,” Tyn continued. “I know you wanted a weapon with potential.”
“White Energy guns will not be effective to deal with the girl. Besides, the little prince might prove useful if we make him feel special. Retrieve the blade while everyone is preoccupied with the celebration tonight.” Garinsith ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Tyn smiled. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was magical toys.
The Master Keeper caught Lethel's eye and gave her a reassuring look. “You’ve done well,” he smiled. She felt pride bubble to the surface, drinking in his approval. “I do believe we will be departing from this tedious place very soon.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The clock on the low Tower of Ro'Awnor-Clee chimed the hour. Standing at the bottom of the gangplank that led up to The Water Skipper; Sheyra was sad that her friends were leaving, but she also knew they wouldn't be convinced to stay.
“Thanks for your help,” Brosen rubbed the back of his neck. “Try not to get killed if a war starts.”
Sheyra leapt forward and hugged him. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” she said, fighting back tears. “You need to stay alive, too. Maybe we'll meet again when the Empire is free.”
Brosen patted her arm awkwardly, “Yeah, maybe.”
Sheyra turned to Impyra, who tensed instinctively in preparation for an embrace.
“I'm sorry,” the words came out before Sheyra could pounce. “It's my fault you lost your home and I want you to know that I didn't mean for it to happen.”
Sheyra took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Remember this: it's not your fault.” She pulled her forward into a hug. “If you ever want to fight back I'll be watching for you.” After a moment she released her, and Impyra stepped back toward the ship.
Impyra waved one last time and followed Brosen up to the deck. Captain Dei'Brenen stood at the top eyeing them suspiciously. Sheyra watched as they were lead away by a hulking bald man and vanished from view. Although she had only known them a few days she suddenly felt very alone.
Sitting on the hood of the car, Sheyra waited until the ship pulled away from the pier and chugged its way out into the harbor. The wind lifted her hair. It was colder than it had been only a few minutes before, motivating her to return to the car and being her search for a likely place to hear rumors.
Her plan was simple. Exaggerated information was usually derived from a single fact, which would lead her into the arms of the establishing army. The only difficult part would be discovering what was false, and what was not. It may take some time, but she believed she was capable of discovering the truth within the lies.
A few blocks from the pier she spotted a tavern, The Seafarer's Lodge. Knowing that those who drink also like to talk, Sheyra parked her vehicle and went inside.
The tavern was both familiar and completely different from where she had grown up. On the outside the building was neglected. The concrete walls had been white at one time but the paint was chipping away. The wooden sign above the door was warped by the sea air. A broken window hastily taped back together was shaded by an awning full of holes, and the entry was poorly shielded by a battered aluminum screen door that screeched on its hinges.
The inside was worse. A combined odor of ale, stew, and urine greeted her. The floor looked as if it hadn't been moped and a layer of brown filth coated the tile. There was a collection of tables at the center of the room, all in varying states of disrepair.
On the far wall a neon sign flickered; a happy man with a bottle of ale. Sheyra thought she saw a rat race across the floor as the screen door banged shut.
At the bar stood four mismatched stools, one of which was too short, but the bar itself was clean. A small screen sat above the bar, the color was faded and the volume turned down, the news was showing Empire Tower and images of Princess Gleyth. She was glad it wasn't a story about her friends.
The patrons of The Seafarer's Lodge were as she expected; five ruff men hunched around a table, half empty pints in their hands. They were reminiscent of the crew on The Water Skipper, most likely they were a crew on leave for the night. They watched her walk past with a glitter in their eyes that she knew too well. One of them muttered something foul to his fellow, guttural laughter bubbled through their ranks. She pretended not to notice as she approached the bar, behind which stood a balding man cleaning glasses.
He eyed her cautiously with the “trust no one” look that she had given all of her customers. “A bit early t'be prowling fer customers,” the man said as he set down the glass.
Sheyra noticed the faded tattoo of a snake wrapped around his left wrist. For a moment she was reminded of Brosen and Impyra. In the rare instances when a slave was granted freedom they often put ink over the ownership marks.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” she said, trying not to take offense. “I'd like a drink, barman.” She wouldn't be intimidated by anyone.
The men in the corner snickered to each other, content to stare at what had walked through the door. “Right, all we’ve got is ale,” he said, and poured her a glass.
She balanced herself on a precariously teetering stool.
The workday would be ending soon, bringing more customers into the tavern. That would increase her chance to overhear something worthwhile.
“You’re new in town,” the barman said as he picked up another glass to clean. “If you weren’t you wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes darted toward the sailors, “They’re pretty drunk, you see. And things get pretty ugly in here sometimes.”
Darkness Falling: Soldiers and Slaves Page 12