Seeds of Rebellion

by Brandon Mull

  Jason narrowed his eyes at Drake. “Not yet. I bet I’ll just wake up.”

  The snow hit Jason like a freight train. Even though he knew it was an illusion, he panicked as his body tumbled amid the crushing force of the freezing onslaught. He tried to cry out, but icy snow filled his nostrils and mouth.

  But before too long he awoke.

  He was lying on cool sand beneath a gleaming moon. He could hear the waves crashing against the shore. The lurker stood beside him.

  Jason felt less rattled than he had after the previous dreams. He stood up and stared at the lurker. Just like in the dream, Jason sensed that disinterest would be his best weapon. “That was actually kind of fun. I’ve always wondered what an avalanche would feel like. You really shouldn’t have hurt that guy. It made all the rest of this less scary. I’ve got this figured out, Lurky. Seriously, if you take requests, let’s do the roller coaster next time.”

  The lurker showed no evidence of comprehension.

  Jason sprawled out on the sand, then went back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 6

  ARAM

  Late in the afternoon on the following day, while picking his way along some craggy cliffs, Jason viewed a sizable town up ahead. The cliffs descended to a flat plain of solid rock nearly level with the ocean, pitted with tidal pools. Beyond the plain, on higher ground, the city began. Many tall ships were moored to piers projecting into the water, shielded from breakers by a long brown reef. Some of the biggest vessels were painted a menacing black. Out at sea, a ship with three high masts approached the port, a huge whale secured to its side.

  The town itself extended away from the waterfront, reaching a good distance inland. The buildings were covered in stucco and roofed with ceramic tile. Dark cobblestones paved the roads. A lofty bell tower stood close to the docks, its yellowed plaster peeling. A thick crenellated wall enclosed every part of the city except the wharf.

  Jason descended the diminishing cliffs. Below, on the rocky plain preceding the town, workers gathered shellfish from tidal pools.

  Once the cliffs had almost merged with the flatness of the rocky field, the lurker stopped following. Jason walked on, glancing back every few steps. The shadowy figure stood immobile, flanked by jagged boulders. Between two glances, the lurker vanished.

  Jason strode out onto the plain. The entire expanse had the twisted hardness stone acquires after long erosion by the sea. A pair of women, one older than the other, worked in a nearby pool, loading shellfish into sacks, hair bound in rags.

  “Hi there,” Jason said.

  “Good day,” the younger one replied, looking up.

  “What are you doing?”

  She smiled as if the question were silly. “Harvesting abalones.” She held up a shell that appeared to be full of living pudding.

  “Good luck to you,” Jason said before moving along.

  Across the wide plain, other workers harvested different sea life. Jason crouched at a shallow pool, marveling at the bizarre creatures inside. He saw a black thorny starfish, conical mollusks topped with bright tufts of grasping tendrils, and fat, chocolate-colored slugs dotted with tiny yellow bumps. Part of him wished he could just sit and study all of the interesting species.

  A loud wave drew his attention back to the ocean. The flatness of the plain must allow the water to encroach hundreds of yards during high tide, which explained the abundant tidal pools so distant from where the waves currently expired.

  Jason looked back the way he had come. The lurker remained out of sight. He could hardly believe that he had finally ditched the creature, at least temporarily.

  “You there! I need to see your permit.” Jason turned. A soldier was drawing near, walking briskly. He wore the same armor as the men who had apprehended Jason after he fled from the Eternal Feast at Harthenham.

  Resisting the reflex to run, Jason watched the man approach.

  “Your permit,” the man repeated officiously. He had a crooked nose and stood half a head shorter than Jason.

  “I don’t have one. I’m not bothering anything.”

  “Be that as it may,” the man replied importantly, “nobody sets foot on the floodplain without the proper documentation. Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then we have a problem.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never been here before. I’m just coming up from the south, looking for work. Is this Ithilum?”

  “Of course it is.” The soldier stroked his chin, sizing up Jason, his stance becoming a bit more casual. “You wear strange apparel.”

  Jason used a planned response. “My uncle was a tailor. He liked to experiment.”

  The soldier gave a nod. “Times are hard. Tell you what. Trespassing on the floodplain carries a hefty fine, but if you would rather hire me to escort you across for a fraction of the fee, I might oblige you.”

  “How much?”

  The man regarded him shrewdly. “The fines can reach upward of a hundred drooma.”

  “How about twenty?”

  By the soldier’s expression, Jason knew he had offered more than expected. “A man who offers twenty can often afford thirty.”

  Jason produced one of the small drawstring bags Tark had given him.

  “Not here,” the soldier muttered under his breath, glancing around.

  “Oh.” Jason put the bag back in his pocket. “Sorry.”

  “Act like you’re showing me a document.”

  Jason pantomimed taking a piece of paper from his pocket. The soldier stepped close to him and pretended to take it. He nodded at the imaginary permit and handed it back.

  “Twenty-five?” Jason tried.

  “Thirty is much less than a hundred,” the soldier pointed out, “and you’ll get to avoid prison.”

  “I need something to live on until I find work.” Jason had plenty of money for now, but didn’t want to give the impression that paying thirty was no sacrifice.

  “Fair enough. Come with me. Pretend we’re talking.”

  “Why don’t we just actually talk?”

  “Good idea.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Tell me about your work,” Jason said.

  “I’m stationed out here to prevent poaching. This tideland is an important resource. If any vagrant could wander out here and pilfer shellfish, soon none would remain. The harvesting must be controlled.”

  They were walking past a circular pool. Leaning over it, Jason could not see the bottom.

  “That one’s deep.”

  The soldier nodded. “Those are tide wells. Specialists dive deep to retrieve rare delicacies. Dangerous job. Fierce predators prowl the deep ones. In fact, some of them intersect far underground. There’s a whole system of tunnels and grottos.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure as I’m standing here. See those two pools?” The soldier indicated the ones he meant, which were separated by maybe fifty yards.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re connected. Some of the divers try to make it from one to the other. I’ve seen two divers succeed, and one drown in the attempt.”

  Jason had his hand in his pocket. He managed to open the drawstring bag and work several drooma into his palm. Based on the soldier’s previous reaction, he figured it would be better to pay without displaying his bag of money. “What sort of predators are down there?”

  The soldier squinted. “I don’t know all the names, but I’ve seen some ugly injuries. One poor woman came up with a big chunk missing from her side. I heard she died. And I saw another fellow who got tangled with some kind of jellyfish. The thing was wrapped around his leg. You should have seen it. His leg was as red as my tongue and had swelled to three times the size of the other one.”

  “Ouch.” Jason slid his hand partway out of his pocket. In his palm were three bronze pellets, two copper, and a silver. He kept the three bronze and fished for different drooma. “Your job sounds exciting.”

  “On occasion. Most days it g
ets tiresome, same as any job. Where are you from?”

  “A puny no-name village to the south.”

  “Seeking excitement in Ithilum, are you?”

  Jason shrugged. “Not so much excitement as a better life.”

  They continued in silence for a few minutes.

  When they neared a long flight of stone steps that led up to the town from the floodplain, the soldier cleared his throat. “Well, good luck to you. Now that you know about floodplain regulations, have the sense to stay away without a permit.”

  “Count on it,” Jason said. He held out his hand. Five bronze drooma were cupped in his palm.

  “How about twenty?” the soldier said, taking four of the pellets. “You seem like a good enough sort.”

  “Thanks,” Jason said with a nod and a smile. He had not experienced much courtesy or kindness from the soldiers in Lyrian. The small discount left him feeling a surprising amount of gratitude. Pocketing the extra bronze sphere, he mounted the stairs toward a gate in the wall encompassing the town.

  The Dockside Inn sprawled along the southern periphery of the wharf, the front door opening onto the worn planks of a long dock. From the window of the upstairs room Jason had rented, he watched the bustling piers grow quieter as the sun descended toward the west.

  Jason had inquired about Aram, and the innkeeper had confirmed that he worked exclusively at night. Which had left Jason with little to do for a few hours. In the common room he had ordered some raw puckerlies, a shellfish he had sampled during his previous trip to Lyrian. They had tasted even better than he remembered and had left him feeling very sleepy.

  A hammock stretched from one wall to the other. Abandoning the window, Jason reclined in the hanging bed, swaying gently. The prospect of sleeping without having to endure invasive nightmares seemed absolutely delicious. As he drifted toward sleep, Jason tried to program his mind for a short nap.

  Had it not been for the music vibrating up through the floor, Jason might have slept the night away. He awoke to a raucous chorus sung by harsh, male voices accompanied by various instruments. His room dark, Jason rolled out of the hammock, shaking his head and slapping his cheeks. Opening the door, he passed down the hall and descended the stairs.

  The spacious common room was thronged. All of the tables were full, the bar was crowded, and numerous patrons stood against the walls. There seemed to be at least five men for every woman. Many of the men sang along to the rollicking music provided by three women performing on a small stage in a corner of the room. One of the women strummed a lute; another squeezed squealing notes from a concertina while a third kept time on an oversized tambourine. As the chorus ended, the men fell silent, allowing the women to render the verse in three-part harmony.

  His ship went down in a violent storm

  Amid the booming thunder,

  But he held his breath and scoured the sand

  In search of hidden plunder!

  When he arose from the briny depths,

  His pockets full of pearls,

  He found the tempest had drowned his wife

  So he kissed all the local girls!

  The audience joined in on the chorus.

  Old Ingrim was a man of the sea,

  The sort you’d hope to know.

  He’d buy you a drink

  If you shot him a wink

  Then tell you he had to go!

  The women ceased playing and then curtseyed to rowdy applause. They moved off the stage, and an announcer took their place.

  “Give us another one!” a strident voice demanded.

  The announcer, a small man with a thin mustache, held up his hands. “They may be back,” he hollered over the din. “Our next participant is Wendil the Fantastic, who traveled all the way from Humbid for our competition.”

  A scrawny man with a round face, holding a wooden lyre, mounted the stage. He cleared his throat, his demeanor rigid. “This is a song I composed,” he explained, casting a bitter glance at the women who had vacated the stage, apparently to remind the crowd that they had not performed original material.

  Assuming a sad-eyed expression, the musician began plucking the strings of the lyre and singing in a tremulous vibrato. The pace was much slower than the previous tune, each word drawn out to hang quavering in the otherwise silent room.

  My love is as the lilies,

  Her eyes like sapphires shine.

  Harmless as a lamb is she,

  Her countenance divine.

  “Is this a punishment?” a harsh voice shouted. Several others chuckled.

  The singer paused, glaring.

  “Humbid has declared war on Ithilum!” added another heckler. The laughter increased.

  “Hold!” the singer cried, raising a hand. “Hold, let me give you the chorus.”

  “Don’t do it,” Jason murmured to himself.

  The ruckus subsided somewhat. Plucking the lyre, the man went into a high falsetto.

  But she was taken, taken, taken away

  Stolen away, oh so far away …

  “I wish someone would take you away!” yelled an onlooker.

  The crowd became riotous, hurling objects at the stage and shouting taunts. The singer turned his back to the shower of vegetables and insults. The announcer hurried onto the stage, waving his arms and shouting over the commotion.

  “By popular demand, Wendil the Fantastic Waster of Our Time, will be shipped back to Humbid in a barrel of rotten fish.”

  The crowd hoorayed. Wendil slunk off the little stage.

  From his position near the bottom of the stairs, Jason scanned the room, wondering how he would identify one person among the boisterous multitude. Aram was supposed to be big and strong. Jason looked for men who might be bouncers. Sooner than expected, he spotted a likely candidate—a hulking mountain of a man leaning against the bar, primitive features set in a scowl. The only space along the bar not crammed two or three deep with patrons was to either side of him. The man did not look very approachable, but he fit the description Tark had supplied.

  While the announcer introduced the next act, Jason descended the remaining stairs and shouldered his way through the crowd. “I present another newcomer to our venue, who also journeyed from afar to be with us, Hollick, son of Mathur.”

  A skinny man with a long face and big ears mounted the stage, holding a recorder that forked into two tubes. Placing one hand over the finger holes on each tube, he began to play a catchy melody, the instrument harmonizing with itself.

  Jason reached the vacant space surrounding the goliath at the bar. He could better appreciate his size up close. The man stood more than seven feet tall. His massive shoulders were bloated with muscle, and a sleeveless tunic revealed thick, bulging arms. He carried no visible weapons, except for a set of iron knuckles on one huge hand. Oily hair pushed back from his brutishly handsome face dangled almost to his shoulders. The man regarded Jason disapprovingly as he drew near.

  Even leaning against the bar, the man stood more than a head taller than Jason. “Are you Aram?” Jason asked.

  Aram gave a slight nod, his squinted eyes roving to survey the room.

  “I need to hire your sword.” Jason thought that sounded like a professional way to approach a mercenary.

  Watching the piper, Aram spoke in a deep voice. “You can’t afford my sword, let alone me along with it.”

  “I have a lot of money.”

  The man continued to watch the performer. “In that case, go wait out back, I’ll send some men to rob you.”

  “I’m not carrying it with me,” Jason lied, thinking of all the money and jewels currently in the pockets of his jeans.

  “I’m no longer for hire at any price.”

  “You were recommended to me by Tark the musician.”

  Aram glanced down, making real eye contact for the first time. “Of the Giddy Nine?”

  “The sole survivor.”

  “They were the most talent this place ever saw. The room would overflow. Is Tark
well?”

  “Depressed, but holding up.”

  Aram’s scowl deepened. “He knows I no longer accept assignments.”

  “He said you owe him some favors, and gave me enough money to tempt you.”

  “Tark supplied the funds to hire me?”

  “We’re working together. Is there a place we could talk privately?”

  Aram snorted. “I’m at work right now. Leaving would draw attention. Meet me out back of the place tomorrow after sunset, and I’ll listen to your proposition. I’ll turn you down, but I’ll listen.”

  The piper onstage stopped playing, and the onlookers applauded, though not as vigorously as they had for the three women. The man bowed and left the stage.

  “My request is urgent,” Jason said.

  “Look, kid, if you must, wait around, enjoy the entertainment, purchase some food. We might talk later.”

  The announcer declared an intermission.

  “You want anything?” Jason asked.

  Aram shrugged his bulky shoulders. “If you’re paying. You have enough?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hey, Sandra,” Aram called.

  “What?” answered a barmaid.

  “This character wants to buy me a triple order of sand scuttlers prepared Weych-style.”

  Several heads swiveled to look at Jason.

  “Did he just come into an inheritance?” Sandra laughed.

  “Something like that.”

  “He want anything?”

  Aram looked at Jason.

  “I’ll take an extra order of what he’s having,” Jason called.

  “You got it, Your Majesty.” She winked.

  At a nearby table, one man roughly overturned the chair of another, depositing him on the floor. The fallen man bounded to his feet and pushed the other guy, growling a threat. Faces near the pair turned toward Aram. The big man coughed loudly into his fist.