Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  Now she was weaving her way through the crowds along the boardwalk, the quickest path from the private seaside apartments Welgray had accepted and those occupied by Llory and her servants near the Library. The wind tossed her hair and crept up under her arms, prickling her skin as she shivered.

  She turned up from the docks into an alley between a shipping warehouse and a dockside clothier. The narrow alley, running between two multi-story stone apartment buildings, was cobbled in grey bricks and rose up gradually to a steep flight of several hundred steps, at the top of which Wissa knew the Library courtyard was to be found. A healthy climb, but her slim legs were well muscled and easily up to the task.

  She was almost at the foot of the stairs, her teeth nearly chattering as the temperature dropped sharply in the shadows, when a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out from a crook where two walls met, in front of her in the narrow space.

  His dirty, striped tunic and unshaven face identified him immediately as an off-duty sailor, probably from the Coastlands. He smiled at her, revealed a mouth of more gaping holes than teeth. “Well to meet, young lady,” he slurred. Wissa detected the powerful odour of strong spirits.

  “Y’ pardon, g’sir,” she replied with a brief curtsey. “B’ I’ve important business, please t’ allow m’ pass.”

  “Ah,” he breathed, taking a step forward. “As’ve I.” He reached out with his right hand to her breast and seized her nipple, which was protruding prominently through the light fabric of her blouse, between his thumb and second knuckle. He squeezed it sharply, making her twitch in pain. “Importan’ business. Don’ ya worry, a joy’ll be in it for ya.” His left hand came up toward her face, and the stench of his breath enveloped her.

  Wissa caught his left hand with her right before it touched her face. Digging her fingers into the meat of his thumb, she drew it down to her right hip, twisted outward suddenly, then lashed out with her left thumb, stabbing it into the side of his throat. With a surprised grunt, he lost his balance and toppled sideways against the stone wall. She drove her left knee into his sternum and heard a crack. The man dropped to the ground, moaning.

  Briefly Wissa considered taking the man’s heavy shirt for warmth, but she quickly decided that the stink of it would be unbearable. Besides, she could hardly attend the summons of a (former) Chamber Seat of the Spire wearing it, unkempt as it was.

  With a sigh, she started up the stairs, trotting to keep warm.

  The Library was quiet, as it mostly was, but there was activity in front of the apartments Collector Llory occupied. Four horses were being teamed to a passenger wagon and personal travel chests were being loaded on top; Wissa recognized them as Llory’s. She circled around the wagon and bounded up the stairs to the entrance, wondering where the Collector was going.

  Llory’s luxurious apartments, granted her by the Council of Lords, took up half of the second floor. Wissa passed two porters carrying small wooden crates on her way up the stairs. When she entered the hall, which was short and ended in an ornate, knarlwood door at each end, she saw that the one leading into Llory’s apartments was open, and boxes were stacked along the wall just inside it. Wissa wondered what was in all of the boxes; Llory had sent for several chests upon arrival at Benn’s Harbour, but what she saw being carried down the stairs amounted to much more.

  Llory was standing in the main sitting room with Drast, the Collector who had arrived the previous day. Wissa hadn’t met him before his arrival, but she knew he was Llory’s man.

  “Ah, Wissa,” Llory purred, strolling immediately over to her. She was obviously quite happy about something, and reached out to stroke Wissa’s cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Wissa smiled at her, then lowered her eyes and curtseyed. “Collector Llory, it please me t’ see y’ well,” she said.

  Llory chuckled, closing the door behind Wissa. “I’ll never get used to that title again,” she mused as she appreciatively caressed Wissa with her eyes from head to toe, then back up.

  “It is wise to use it, for now,” Drast replied flatly. “You must appear to be following protocol.”

  “Yes, I know, Drast,” Llory said impatiently. “You don’t need to lecture me on such trivialities.” She glared at him briefly, then turned back to Wissa. “My beautiful little boxcat, have you any news for me?’

  “Not a’ so, young lady,” Wissa answered politely. “Collector Welgray remain suspicious of y’ plans, b’ he’s no inkling of ‘em.” She sighed. She wished that Llory was not concealing so much from Welgray. She understood the former Chamber Seat’s concerns, and it was certainly not her place to question, but she believed that Welgray could be trusted.

  “Oh, my poor, brave Wissa,” Llory droned, her lips turned down in mock sadness as she ran a finger down the exposed skin on Wissa’s side, drawing a shiver. “You’ve pity for Welgray, pawn as he is. Such a kind little spy.” She walked across the room to a wooden foot-table and picked up a metal chalice, filling it with water from a matching vessel. A ceramic bowl of olives was on the table as well; she plucked one and dropped it into her water.

  Wissa waited patiently as Llory stirred the water with her finger, sipped at it appreciatively, then placed the cup back down on the table. After a moment she came back over to the other two.

  “We can’t bring him into our circle, Wissa,” she said suddenly, as if reading Wissa’s mind. Which she might well have been, for all Wissa knew; a Collector’s talents were well guarded, even Welgray rarely speaking of them, and sparingly when he did. Then, examining Wissa’s eyes contemplatively, she added, “He is compassionate towards the Lower Valley girl. I think he may have feelings for her.”

  “Impossible,” Wissa blurted out. Then, remembering her place, “Collector Llory, he only met ‘er th’ one time. He’s simply a man o’ . . . conscience.”

  “Quite,” Llory replied, still holding Wissa’s eyes. A trace of a smile curled her lip; apparently she saw something she had expected. “Wissa, you must make certain that he keeps our priorities in mind.”

  Wissa curtseyed again, more to escape the Collector’s line of sight than to demonstrate obedience. She didn’t like Llory; she respected her, but there was nothing about the woman she found attractive. The fact that Llory had certainly guessed at the growing attachment she felt to Welgray bothered her deeply, though she wasn’t sure why. After all, they were both Collectors; they were on the same side.

  “I sh’ make certain t’ keep ‘im focused on th’ task, young lady,” she said firmly.

  “Just so,” Llory replied. “That should become easier. I shall not be joining you on the trip to Somria.”

  “I see,” Wissa said emotionlessly. In truth, she felt relief, but she didn’t want to reveal that to the Collectors. She hoped they could not sense it.

  “You will be fully responsible for locating the Lower Valley girl and returning her to me, alive and well. Or . . . just alive,” she appended after a moment’s consideration.

  “Me, Collector?” Wissa asked, surprised. “Collector Welgray—”

  “Will continue to believe that he is leading the mission. But if his . . . sensitivities threaten to interfere with that objective, you will make certain they do not. The girl must be brought to me at all costs.” She stepped closer. “At all costs, do you understand?

  Wissa didn’t answer, but simply nodded. Surely Llory was not suggesting she was to take action against Welgray if needed. Was she? “Collector Llory, I could n’ possibly stop Collector Welgray from—”

  “Actually,” Llory said quietly, turning to look at Drast, “you could.” Drast raised an eyebrow at her; Llory returned it with a shrug, then turned back to face Wissa. “Welgray will not be able to stop you if it becomes necessary to enforce my commands. I have . . . during your training . . . fostered certain—immunities in you.”

  “Really?” Drast inquired, but his tone suggested mockery, as though he and Llory shared a private joke.

  “Yes,” Llory answered, thoug
h she continued looking at Wissa. “All of your skills will remain at your disposal if you must needs challenge him, Wissa. All of them,” she added for emphasis.

  Drast was scowling at Llory, as if she had let out a forbidden secret, but the former Chamber Seat ignored him.

  “All . . ?” Wissa said slowly. Through all her years of physical, mental, and emotion conditioning, she had always been taught that Collectors could control her at a whim if she ever thought to disobey them. Now Llory was telling her that this was not actually true?

  She was speechless.

  “It was necessary for the specific tasks I had in mind for you,” Llory was continuing. “Collectors only, you understand. The Chamber Seats retain their hold on your loyalty. This is not a free license to disobey your benefactors. You are,” she said pointedly, her finger aimed accusingly at Wissa’s breast, “a servant of the Spire of Rising, and ever shall be.”

  “Of course,” Wissa agreed instantly, and curtseyed deeply.

  At that, Llory released her to her duties and Wissa bid her good journey, then departed to finish her shopping before Welgray could return to their apartments. The sun was down and the air was even more chill, and she should have stopped to purchase some sort of jacket; certainly she could afford it, burdened with the heavy coin purse Llory had given her.

  She barely noticed the cold, however; her mind was racing. Llory had made it clear that she was free to act against the will of Collectors without consequence; an unimaginable development.

  So long, of course, as she still followed the directives of the Chamber; Llory had been explicit about that as well. The Grand Collectors, it seemed, still held her fast.

  Wissa had been raised a loyal subject of the Spire of Rising, and that would not change. The Collectors knew best. The Collectors knew all. The Spire controlled all within it’s grasp.

  But a seed of doubt had formed, deep inside her.

  36 ARAD

  It was raining. On a hot day in Somria, or in the Lords’ Lands, rain would be a welcome relief, being both calming and exhilarating. Rain on the Southern Island, in contrast, was stifling. The heat did not let up, but somehow became intensified, as if the clouds and rain were trapping hot air over the island and pressing it down. Arad heard more than one soldier coughing, as the campfires smoked heavily and sent clouds of sticky blackness into the air around the encampment to be inhaled by all present. He worried that if the rain did not relent, illness would take more of a toll than battle losses.

  He had thought to walk the camps, as his father had in his youth, to speak to the soldiers and generally show himself. There was a benefit to morale in the commander making his presence known to the troops; the common men knew he was there, of course, but for some reason direct contact always helped them in difficult times.

  Not so much in heavy rain, he discovered. Old habits died hard, and the men had their cloaks on with hoods raised in an attempt to shield out the deluge. Arad imagined that walking around in their small clothes would probably be healthier than trapping the heavy, wet air inside their cloaks. He wasn’t about to chastise them in their misery, however, and in any case the simple act of talking to them would have been difficult, with the rain thundering down and gurgling in rivulets that had formed all over the camp. So he satisfied himself with just walking, with his head bare to the elements and wearing no more than a light shirt, which ended up instantly plastered against his chest and back. He hoped his point would be made however, doubly so; fearlessness against the pounding rain might encourage them to uncover themselves for their own good.

  He forced himself to perform a full circuit of the camp, which took him longer than he had expected, with the grassy plain rapidly becoming a grassy mud pit. By the time he returned to his tent, he was sufficiently covered in muck and long yellow strands of foliage that he was probably unrecognizable.

  Captain Elsano, however, did not seem to have any difficulty singling him out. As Arad approached the command tent, he spotted the heavyset man moving in his direction, picking his way carefully across the soft, wet terrain. Elsano had chosen a compromise between a cloak and going bareheaded; he was wearing an odd, wide-brimmed hat that looked to be made of boiled leather. The rain was caught in its huge basket, which extended several handswidths from his head, and poured out a channel behind him in a steady stream. Arad wished he had thought of it; it not only kept the rain off his head, but presented a striking profile that the men could not possibly miss. He made a mental note to ask Elsano to find him a similar hat—perhaps one of unique design, so the men would know it belonged to him.

  Elsano was shouting something at him, but the rain was thrumming so heavily all around them that Arad couldn’t make it out. He pointed to the command tent and the Captain nodded. He came alongside Arad and together they half-hopped, half-waded their way to the entry flap.

  Arad had wondered why the command tent had a fabric floor; he had imagined that it would tear easily, and would be more trouble than the comfort it presented was worth. Now he understood its purpose; though the ground was spongy underneath at the edges, the dense canvas prevented the water from coming through, and for most of the tent’s floor the ground was solid underfoot. It was an odd feeling to walk upon it near the edges, however; Arad imagined he was walking on water, and partially expected to suddenly plunge through and find himself sinking into the mucky earth below.

  Elsano had lit candles in the command tent. It offered a cheery glow in contrast to the dark skies outside, though the light was not needed. Arad quickly stripped off his wet clothes, then opened his personal chest and dug out a dry outfit. He wrinkled his nose as he noticed that even those smelled musty, as though the tepid air had seeped in through the cracks to infuse the cloth with the local moss.

  “Best hang your clothes instead of packing them, Master Arad,” Elsano offered, noticing his displeasure. “Nothing keeps out the air, and bugs will eventually find their way in as well, no matter what you do. Hang them out and they’ll stay fresh, at least.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Arad said. “I’ll do that.” Pulling on his vest—it seemed likely to be more comfortable than a shirt, despite being made from thicker cloth—he motioned at the map covering the table in the centre of the tent. “Any new developments?”

  “None, Master Arad. Our scouts are keeping a careful eye on the enemy, in case they see the weather as an opportunity. But nothing so far. Perhaps they are hiding under cover as we are,” he surmised.

  “We mustn’t assume so,” Arad chided, immediately regretting the words; the rain was making him twitchy. He quickly added, “Though I’ve no doubt you and the other Captains are taking every precaution.”

  Elsano didn’t reply, but acknowledged the vote of confidence with a slight incline of the head. “I understand you wished to see me this morning, Master Arad?”

  Arad sighed. “Actually, Captain Elsano, it is Captain Lukos I wish to speak with. But I thought to ask your advice, first.”

  Elsano brightened. The high regard in which he held Arad, as a master in the art of krakar as well as the Commander-General’s son, made him nearly impossible to offend and easy to please. Arad strove not to take advantage of this, but it was, nonetheless, a boon that he couldn’t ignore. It made Elsano a trusted man, something he was in short supply of.

  “How can I serve, Master Arad?” the squat northerner asked, straightening.

  “It seems Captain Lukos and I got off on the wrong foot. I was hoping you could enlighten me as to what is important to the man, so I can avoid insulting him and enjoy his cooperation.” Arad turned away as he asked the question, reaching for his second set of boots. In actuality, he couldn’t face Elsano as he misled him; his true goal was to uncover Lukos’ weakness, so he could exploit it and trigger the man.

  Elsano didn’t hesitate; either he knew Lukos well, or he had been ready for the question. “Lukos was a proud man before he came to this island,” he began. “He always sought to play a major role in any con
flict, preferably on the front lines. An exemplary leader and officer, if at times a bit foolhardy.”

  Arad nodded, though he frowned slightly. Lukos certainly hadn’t come across as the type to charge into battle at the front of his cavalry; he thought to point this out, but thought better of it, deciding to let Elsano continue.

  “Since he came to the island, things started to change, though. He, ah,” Elsano paused at this, choosing his words carefully, “has spent a great deal of time in the forests, chasing down runaways and colonists gone bandit. The cavalry hasn’t faced any real battles since arriving. To be frank,” he went on, watching Arad cautiously to see if he was overstepping his bounds, “I think he’s not entirely happy in his role here. In my mind, he wanted a stand-up fight and didn’t get it. Now he’s, ah, frustrated. He doesn’t even really want to discuss new tactics; he tends to just dismiss everything, exec. Master Arad, I mean.”

  Arad disregarded Elsano’s error in address, though he appreciated the respect offered by it. Nothing the Captain told him contradicted what Josel had said; more importantly, he had learned that the other captains were not pleased with Lukos, either.

  But he needed a specific bone to pick. “If Lukos wants a fight, why not just charge up into the hills and take it to the enemy?”