“That’s a list of the ships we insure out of Porte Oliva. If I have to find you again, offering yourself to the magistrate is the best thing that could happen.”
The breeze shifted and the smell of burning pitch filled the tent and spoiled the taste of the sausages. The leather walls chuffed like tiny sails. Rinál opened the papers.
“If the ship’s not listed here…”
“Then it’s no business of mine.”
“I’m not the only ships on these waters,” he said. “If someone else…”
“You should discourage them.”
The color was starting to come back to Rinál’s cheeks. The shock had begun to fade and the old righteousness return, but it was tempered now. The voices coming up from the water were brighter now, laughing. Those would be Marcus’s soldiers. A wagon creaked. It was time to move on.
“You’ll travel with us as far as Cemmis township,” Marcus said. “That’s not too far to walk back from before your people get sick from thirst.”
“You think you’re such a big man, no one can take you down,” the pirate said. “You think you’re better than me. You’re no different.”
Marcus leaned against the field desk, looking down at the pirate. In truth, Rinál was a young man. For all his bluster and taking on airs, he was the same sort who tripped drunk men in taprooms and groped women in the street. He was a badly behaved child who, instead of growing to manhood, found a few ships and took his bullying out in the world where it could turn him a profit.
A dozen replies came to Marcus. When you’ve watched your family die, say that again and Grow up, boy, while you still have the chance and Yes, I’m better than you; my ship isn’t burning.
“We’ll leave soon,” he said. “I have guards posted. Don’t try to go without us.”
Outside, the little two-masted ship roared in flame. Black smoke billowed from her, carrying sparks and embers up to wheeling birds. Marcus walked down the rise to where the carts were lining up, prepared to head back home. One of his younger Kurtadae was in the medical wagon, his arm being shaved and bound. Beneath the pelt, his skin looked just like a Firstblood’s.
Three of the enemy sailors were laid out under tarps. The rest, bound in ranks with arms bent back, were sullen and angry. Marcus’s men were grinning and trading jokes. It was like the aftermath of a battle, only this time there’d hardly been any bloodshed. The wet sand was smooth and even where the waves washed their footprints away. The mules, ignoring the smell of flames and the banter of soldiers, pulled wagons filled with silks and worked brass back toward the road. The smells of salt and smoke mixed.
Marcus felt the first tug of darkness at the back of his mind. The aftermath of any fight—great battle or taproom dance—always had that touch of bleakness. The brightness and immediacy of the fight gave way, and the world and all its history poured back in. It was worse when he lost, but even in victory, the darkness was there. He put it aside. There was real work to be done.
Yardem stood by the head wagon, a Cinnae boy on a lathered horse at his side. A messenger. As he approached, the boy dropped down and led his mount away to be cared for.
“Where do we stand?” Marcus asked.
“Ready to start back, sir. But might be best if I led the column. The magistra wants you back at the house as soon as you can get there.”
“What’s happened?”
Yardem shrugged eloquently.
“An honest war,” he said.
Entr’acte
The Apostate
The apostate groaned, rolling over on his thin mattress. The first bare light of dawn outlined the stable door, and in his blood, the spiders shuddered and danced, agitated as they had been for weeks now. In the twenty years he had traveled the world, the taint in his blood had never troubled him as much as these last weeks. Around him, the others still slept, their deep and regular breath reassuring as a thick wool blanket. The stables were warm, or warmer at least than sleeping in the cart would have been. He wouldn’t have to break a skin of ice off the water bucket before he drank. When he sat up, his spine ached. Maybe from the coming winter, maybe from the years weighing down his shoulders, maybe from the restlessness of the creatures that lived in his skin.
One of the horses snorted in its stall, shifting uneasily. From the shadows, there was a tiny gasp. He went still, straining to hear.
“I won’t finish,” a familiar voice whispered. “I swear I won’t finish.”
The apostate closed his eyes. It never changed. All through the world, likely all through the ages and epochs of humanity, some things simply never changed. He swallowed, readying his voice. When he spoke, the words carried through the stables and out into the yard.
“Sandr! If you get that girl pregnant, I will be sorely tempted to tie off your cock with a length of wire, and I swear it will not improve your performance.”
The voice that had gasped squeaked in alarm, and Sandr rushed into the dim light, pulling at his tunic to cover himself.
“There’s no one here, Master Kit,” the boy lied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Which performance do you mean?” Smit asked in a sleepy voice. “Seems to me that if you’re talking about stagecraft, tying yourself down might be a decent exercise in concentration.”
“Help him play a hunchback,” Cary said through a yawn.
“There’s no one here,” Sandr said again. “You’re all imagining things.”
The scrape of a board at the stable’s back marked the girl’s escape, whoever she was. The apostate rose to sitting. Hornet lit a lantern, the warm light chasing away the darkness. With groans and complaints, the company came to life. As they always did. Charlit Soon, the new actress, was looking daggers at Sandr. Yet another irritation the apostate would have to soothe. He wondered, and not for the first time, how anyone without the spiders could keep an acting company together for any length of time. But perhaps they couldn’t.
“Up,” he said. “I’m sure there’s work to be done that will make us more money than lying here in the dark. Up, you mad, beautiful bastards, and let us once more take the hearts and dreams of Porte Oliva by storm.”
“Yes, Mother,” Cary said, rolled over, and fell back to sleep.
The first time he’d met Marcus Wester, the apostate had given him a private name: the man without hopes. In the last year, the despair had faded a bit, but sometimes Wester would still make his little jokes—I’m too stubborn to die or You don’t need love when there’s laundry to wash—and the people around him would chuckle. Only the apostate knew how deeply the man meant what he said.
It was what made the mercenary captain interesting.
The taproom near the bank had the advantage in these cold months of keeping food and a warm fire. Cary and Charlit Soon would set up in the common room some nights, singing songs from the lighter comic operas and making between them enough to feed the whole company for three days.
“Always best to keep your political assassinations discreet,” Wester said. “Really, that was where I went wrong. Well, it’s not the first place I went wrong.”
“One of the places, sir,” Yardem Hane said.
“Will it keep Northcoast from violence, do you think?”
“They poisoned a man so he’d vomit himself to death,” Marcus said. “That’s violence. But with his claim disposed, I don’t see any swords taking the field, no. So that’s good for the Narinisle trade. And apparently Antea’s decided not to descend into civil war either.”
“I didn’t know they were on the dragon’s path,” the apostate said, taking a sip of his ale. During winter, they kept it in the alley under guard, so it was as cold as the rooms were warm.
“Didn’t either. This new notary gets reports from everyplace, though. It’s one of the advantages of being part of a bank where the bank people know about you. Anyway, it seems the only thing that kept the court in Camnipol from turning on each other like a pack of starving dogs was a religious zealot
from the Keshet.”
“Really?”
“Well,” Wester said, “he’s a real Antean noble, but apparently he spent time in the Keshet and came back with a bad case of the faith. Exposed some sort of plot, turned the court on its ears, and built a temple just down the street from the Kingspire to celebrate.”
“There’s nothing sinister about building temples, sir,” Yardem said. “People do it all the time.”
“Not in celebration,” Wester said. “People go to God when they’ve got trouble. Things are well, there’s not much point sucking after the divine.”
Yardem flicked a jingling ear and leaned toward the apostate.
“He says these things to annoy me.”
“Always works.”
“It does, sir,” the Tralgu lied.
“And the Goddess of Round Pies seems especially dim.”
“Round pies?” the apostate asked.
“The cult’s got a symbol. Big red banner with a white bit in the middle, and what looks like eight bits of pie all stuck together.”
“Eight points on a compass,” Yardem said.
No, the apostate thought, dread pouring into him like dark water. No, the eight legs of a spider.
“You all right, Kit?” Wester asked. “You’re looking pale.”
“Fine,” the apostate said. “Just fine.”
But in his mind there was a single thought:
It’s begun.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is never as solitary a job as I expect. This project especially has benefited by the time and attention of people besides myself. I owe debts of gratitude to Walter Jon Williams, Carrie Vaughn, Ian Tregillis, Vic Milán, Melinda Snodgrass, and Ty Franck, who were there when the lightning struck, and Jim Frenkel, who did what he could. Also my agents Shawna McCarthy and Danny Baror, who have been better than gold on this as on everything. And I would especially like to thank the crew at Orbit. My editors Darren Nash and DongWon Song have made working on the project a joy, and the deep professionalism and consideration I’ve seen from everyone on staff in New York and London have continually impressed. This would be less of a book without each of them.
Any errors and infelicities are entirely my own.
Publications by Daniel Abraham
THE LONG PRICE QUARTET
A Shadow in Summer
A Betrayal in Winter
An Autumn War
The Price of Spring
Leviathan Wept and Other Stories
Hunter’s Run (with George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois)
THE BLACK SUN’S DAUGHTER
Unclean Spirits (as MLN Hanover)
Darker Angels (as MLN Hanover)
Vicious Grace (as MLN Hanover)
Killing Rites (as MLN Hanover) (forthcoming)
THE DAGGER AND THE COIN
The Dragon’s Path
THE EXPANSE
Leviathan Wakes (with Ty Franck as James S. A. Corey)
Praise for the Novels of Daniel Abraham
“Abraham is fiercely talented, disturbingly human, breathtakingly original and even on his bad days kicks all sorts of literary ass.”
—Junot Díaz
“Daniel Abraham gets better with every book.”
—George R. R. Martin
“The storytelling is smooth, careful and—best of all—unpredictable.”
—Patrick Rothfuss
“His quiet compassion for humanity slams hard against his clear-eyed depiction of the ruthless progress of war and the bitter choices people must often make to protect their own.”
—Kate Elliott
“An Autumn War ratchets up the tension and then delivers a stunning ending that will leave you gasping for breath, wondering what bowling ball just slammed you in the skull. Yes, it is that good.”
—Walter Jon Williams
“One of the most elegant and engaging fantasies I’ve read in years, based on an intriguing, original premise.”
—Jacqueline Carey
“Enjoyable, intelligent, original fantasy.”
—Starburst
“A compelling, emotionally brutal and edgy fantasy that’s genuinely worthy of comparison with genre heavyweights like George R. R. Martin… exceptionally well-written.”
—SFX
“[An] impressive first novel… The long outcome should be the addition of Daniel Abraham to the pantheon of major fantasy authors.”
—Locus
Contents
Welcome
Leviathan Wakes
Dedication
Extras
Meet the Author
Interview
A Prevew of Caliban’s War
Prologue: Julie
Chapter One: Holden
Chapter Two: Miller
Chapter Three: Holden
Chapter Four: Miller
Chapter Five: Holden
Chapter Six: Miller
Chapter Seven: Holden
Chapter Eight: Miller
Chapter Nine: Holden
Chapter Ten: Miller
Chapter Eleven: Holden
Chapter Twelve: Miller
Chapter Thirteen: Holden
Chapter Fourteen: Miller
Chapter Fifteen: Holden
Chapter Sixteen: Miller
Chapter Seventeen: Holden
Chapter Eighteen: Miller
Chapter Nineteen: Holden
Chapter Twenty: Miller
Chapter Twenty-One: Holden
Chapter Twenty-Two: Miller
Chapter Twenty-Three: Holden
Chapter Twenty-Four: Miller
Chapter Twenty-Five: Holden
Chapter Twenty-Six: Miller
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Holden
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Miller
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Holden
Chapter Thirty: Miller
Chapter Thirty-One: Holden
Chapter Thirty-Two: Miller
Chapter Thirty-Three: Holden
Chapter Thirty-Four: Miller
Chapter Thirty-Five: Holden
Chapter Thirty-Six: Miller
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Holden
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Miller
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Holden
Chapter Forty: Miller
Chapter Forty-One: Holden
Chapter Forty-Two: Miller
Chapter Forty-Three: Holden
Chapter Forty-Four: Miller
Chapter Forty-Five: Holden
Chapter Forty-Six: Miller
Chapter Forty-Seven: Holden
Chapter Forty-Eight: Miller
Chapter Forty-Nine: Holden
Chapter Fifty: Miller
Chapter Fifty-One: Holden
Chapter Fifty-Two: Miller
Chapter Fifty-Three: Holden
Chapter Fifty-Four: Miller
Chapter Fifty-Five: Holden
Epilogue: Fred
Acknowledgments
Books by James S. A. Corey
Free book included: The Dragon’s Path by Daniel Abraham
Dedication
Extras
Meet the Author
Interview
A Preview of The King’s Blood
Prologue: The Apostate
Captain Marcus Wester
Sir Geder Palliako Heir of the Viscount of Rivenhalm
Cithrin Bel Sarcour Ward of the Medean Bank
Dawson Kalliam Baron of Osterling Fells
Geder
Marcus
Geder
Cithrin
Marcus
Dawson
Cithrin
Geder
Dawson
Marcus
Geder
Cithrin
Dawson
Marcus
Geder
Cithrin
Dawson
Geder
Cithrin
Marcus
Dawson
Geder
Marcus
Geder
Dawson
Cithrin
Geder
Marcus
Cithrin
Geder
Dawson
Cithrin
Geder
Clara Annalie Kalliam Baroness of Osterling Fells
Cithrin
Dawson
Geder
Clara
Marcus
Cithrin
Geder
Entr’acte: The Apostate
Acknowledgments
Publications by Daniel Abraham
Praise for the Novels of Daniel Abraham
Copyright
Copyright
Leviathan’s Wake © 2011 by James S. A. Corey
Dragon’s Path © 2011 by Daniel Abraham
Excerpt from Caliban’s War Copyright © 2011 by James S. A. Corey
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Orbit
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First eBook Edition: June 2011
Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-316-13467-5
Leviathan Wakes: Book One of The Expanse Page 104