Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1

by Daniel J. Rothery

  When the Master bowed and left them, Welgray instructed Wissa to see his belongings taken down to his cabin, then went over to the tall, stern Collector.

  “Well met, Collector Drast,” he said quietly, turning to stand alongside him. Drast had faced out to the open sea; Welgray assumed the same posture. Together they studied the horizon.

  “Just so, Collector Welgray,” Drast replied. “These ships are fast, I’ve been told. She should be less than a tenday to Somria.”

  “Glad news,” Welgray observed. “I was not, however, aware that our course would pass near Promotory. That would be closest departure point for the Spire.” He looked back at the docks, the gesture exaggerated. “Will your prisoner be arriving soon? Or is she already below decks in chains?” He couldn’t avoid sarcasm creeping into his words.

  Drast narrowed his gaze; he didn’t like Welgray’s tone. “Collector Llory will continue to the Mount Crush under her own recognizance.”

  “I see,” Welgray nodded. “So the Chamber has decided that your skills are better added to mine in the quest to locate the Lower Valley girl? But, of course, they don’t know my intent, yet.”

  Drast was silent. He turned back to face the sea.

  Welgray should have stopped, but he couldn’t resist one more probe. He had had reason to be suspicious of Drast, and Llory too. Angry was creeping up inside him, but he held it fast. Externally, he maintained the composure of a Collector. “As a curiosity, which of the Chamber Seats issued the order for Llory’s arrest?”

  ‘Sadly,” Drast said, his voice full of ice, “I am unable to answer your question, as the Chamber Seat under who’s authority I am operating has commissioned my silence on the matter. Only the accused has the right to request that information.”

  “Collector Llory,” Welgray said unnecessarily.

  “Just so,” said Drast.

  “I see,” Welgray repeated. “So . . . tell me, fellow Collector, which of the Chamber issued the order for you to accompany me to Somria?”

  Drast turned to face him. He was at least a head taller than Welgray, and when he turned he stepped slightly closer so that he towered over Welgray. It was a twist, and an obvious one, but its effect was impossible to ignore. “I am unable to answer your question, Collector Welgray, as the Chamber Seat under who’s authority I am operating has commissioned my silence on the matter.” He walked away without saying anything further.

  I’m sure she has, Welgray said to himself.

  He went to find his stateroom.

  ・

  Master Taramos had plotted a course that took them well north of Promontory, passing just south of the Northern Islands before sweeping south to the North Province. The currents and winds would speed them along that way, and there was no danger of being spotted by Somrian scouts; the heavy cruisers would no doubt follow the same course. Lord Roxo, ruler of the Northern Islands, ran heavy regular patrols in the seas south of his land even in peacetime, so they could expect a safe journey most of the way.

  Wissa continued her odd behaviour; he attempted to coerce what was bothering her out of her the first night in a tender moment after making love, but she was impenetrable. So much so, in fact, that he was stunned by her resolve; he had never known her to be stubborn with regards to him, and her simple-mindedness had always before made her easy to delve and twist. That he suffered complete failure in the attempt perplexed, but also worried him. Had Llory somehow manipulated her already, building some sort of protection into her? Could Welgray be certain that she was not somehow twisted against him?

  Could he truly trust her anymore?

  The thoughts troubled him horribly. Wissa had always been a sort of safe haven for him; though he did not really trust any of the other Collectors at the Spire of Rising, or even the Chamber Seats—especially not the Chamber Seats!—he had always warmly anticipated his return after a long journey because of Wissa. He could look forward to lying in her arms, and allowing her to pamper him . . . to care for him as no one ever had. In a way, she was lover, daughter, and mother, all rolled into one beautiful and simple package.

  Not so simple now, though. He disliked himself for questioning her, but his Collector training was absolute, and he couldn’t ignore it; trust nothing and no one completely. Question everyone and everything. Know the outcome by making it your own.

  She remained, at least, sweet and kind to him. That much, he had still.

  He had not seen Drast since their departure. Welgray enjoyed spending time on deck chatting with the men, and watching Wissa hang over the rail to see the water race below her. Drast, however, remained in his cabin. If he came out to eat and use the privy, Welgray hadn’t seen it. When he mentioned this to Wissa, she giggled and wondered aloud how his stateroom might stink. He enjoyed hearing her high-pitched laugh; at least her dark mood hadn’t taken that away, either.

  Welgray accepted an invitation to dine with the Master of the Sweet Song on the evening of the third day. They were, by the master’s reckoning, about halfway to their destination, depending on the weather patterns ahead and along the coast. It was a good opportunity to refresh and refocus their minds on the task ahead.

  In any other circumstance, it would be appropriate to leave Wissa in their quarters, but Welgray took advantage of his privilege as a guest, and brought her along. She was quite excited, her quietness evaporating as she dug through all her belongings and produced the most dazzling, provocative dress he had bought her. Welgray went to suggest something more suitable, then thought better of it. It would prove a distraction to Master Taramos, at least, so he wouldn’t notice the banter between the two Collectors. If he was lucky, it might even put Drast off.

  Welgray was both pleased and disappointed when he arrived at the Master’s cabin and discovered that Drast was not attending. Taramos had invited him, but he had politely declined; Welgray detected a touch of animosity when the Master told him this. Though he would not have the chance to battle wits with Drast in an attempt to learn more of his relationship with Llory, he would be able to enjoy a relaxing meal with the Master, who was a pleasant enough man.

  The cabin was small, but large enough for a wooden table that would comfortably sit six; only the three of them would be dining, however. The chairs were wood as well, with sewn, padded seats. Two oil lamps burned on the wall with a porthole between them, though only darkness showed beyond.

  All in all, it was a simple enough setting, but cozy.

  Taramos was impressed with Wissa’s dress, and made no attempt to hide it. “If I may say, Collector Welgray,” he burst out on seeing her, eyes wide, “your companion is such an astounding seductress that I may find it difficult to concentrate on the meal.”

  Wissa tittered at that, and Welgray laughed. Taramos knew how to loosen a mood; it was almost worthy of being called a twist. He drew out a chair for Wissa, then did so for the Collector as well before he sat down himself. Welgray complimented the Master on his hospitality and congeniality; Taramos accepted graciously, and the scene was set for a pleasant dinner.

  The Master’s aide served the meal, which was simple but delicious. Taramos produced a glass bottle when they were done and poured its contents into small metal cups that sat before each of them. Welgray accepted gratefully, raising his cup in a toast to their host; surprisingly, Wissa stood and curtseyed. He would not have expected such knowledge of etiquette from her.

  The drink was very strong; some sort of concentrate made from boiling wine, which Master Taramos explained came from the Wastelands. It was wonderful, and Wissa became intoxicated almost immediately, placing her hand on his thigh under the table. Welgray produced The Contented Scholar as a mask, and endured. He would deal with her later.

  “Master,” he said to Taramos after taking a sip from his second cup of the beverage, “I wonder if I might inquire regarding something that has left me curious.”

  “Certainly, Collector Welgray,” Taramos inclined his head, causing his golden earring to swing forward. The w
ine had not dulled his sharp gaze, Welgray saw; clearly the man could handle his drink.

  “We are a fleet of fast, light craft, with minimal weapons and only a few soldiers aboard,” Welgray observed.

  “True,” Taramos agreed. “My favoured design in wartime. We can execute quick, lightning strikes and be gone before the enemy can respond.”

  Weglray nodded. “I understand. But in this case, we are to capture a town, and offload troops. What if there is naval resistance?”

  Taramos smiled softly, nodding as he examined the Collector. “You have some understanding of tactics, I see, Collector,” he offered.

  “Minimal, at best,” Welgray replied quickly. He reached down to push Wissa’s hand lower on his leg; she was becoming a bit too flirty. She cooed at him, then brought both hands up and placed her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her knuckles. A moment later he felt a foot going up the inside of his calf, and repressed a sigh. He would definitely have his hands full tonight.

  If Taramos noticed, he hid it well. “You are very correct; we will be exposed while at dock. This will leave us vulnerable to both land and sea attacks. However, our scouts report no enemy ships in the northern seas at all. What navy the North Province has at its disposal is busy in the south. We also have little expectation of resistance at Picho itself; it’s just a shipping and fishing town, and a small one at that. There are always risks in war, but in this case, we have every reason to feel quite secure,” he concluded.

  Welgray nodded. “What if they knew we were coming?” he asked.

  Taramos stared at him for a moment. “That would be very bad. Is this something I should be concerned about, Collector?”

  “I don’t have any reason to suspect a spy, if that’s what you mean, Master,” Welgray said smoothly. “As a Collector, I am simply trained to examine every possibility. And we must keep in our minds that we have already been manipulated twice by Commander-General Sherzi; once in his complete ambush of the Southern Islands, and again in his capture of Lord Perille.” He tapped his fingernail deliberately on the wooden tabletop. “We must be very careful to avoid being caught off guard again.”

  Welgray hadn’t specifically intended to unnerve the Master—it was ingrained in him as a Collector, and difficult to suppress the habit—but the effect was obvious; Master Taramos examined the tabletop in front of him for a long moment in silence.

  “Collector Welgray, I appreciate your candid words. I had already intended to have a scout patrolling the waters to our south, just in case someone in the Somrian navy noticed us.” He nodded to himself slowly, making a decision. “On your suggestion, I think I shall double that patrol, and increase their scouting radius to twice the distance. To avoid being caught off guard again,” he said, with an appreciative look in Welgray’s direction.

  Welgray returned the look. For a moment he considered suggesting that Taramos not mention his decision to Drast, but he dismissed the notion. Whatever he was, Drast was not a Somrian spy, and even if he were he would have no way in which to get word out before they arrived at their destination. Besides, he doubted that Drast would show his face before they came to dock.

  Wissa sighed. Welgray stood. “Good Master Taramos, we thank you for an excellent feast, and for so graciously hosting us. The Spire smiles upon your hospitality.” Collectors did not bow, but Welgray offered a polite nod and smile.

  Taramos stood and bowed. “My honour, Collector. If I can anyhow serve, please only ask.”

  Wissa was slow to stand; she was drunk. Welgray strode out of the master’s cabin and paused only briefly to make certain she was behind him. She was, but her path was less than direct as she traversed the hallway. He was glad that they would not need to go above decks—she might fall overboard.

  When they arrived at their cabin, he decided for once that he would not play at being the master. She was, after all, no longer his servant. He closed the door and latched it; Wissa was standing in the centre of their quarters, swaying slightly.

  He smiled at her, and then, for once, he did not let her ravage him.

  He ravaged her.

  ・ ・

  “Master, am so tired. Must I rise?” Wissa was sprawled across the bed on her belly, totally nude.

  “We are approaching the town, Wissa. I must see how the attack progresses,” Welgray replied distractedly as he fumbled with the laces on his boots. “And I told you, you will not address me in that way anymore.”

  She sighed, and rolled over. He couldn’t help but pause at the full glory of her laid out before him. When his eyes reached her face, he saw she was watching him, and smiling. “Are y’ sure? Are y’ sure ready t’ rise, Ma—Collector Welgray?”

  He didn’t like her calling him by that title much better; he would have to put some thought into what she should call him. He was tempted to suggest his first name, Lerwun, but it seemed too . . . informal. “Oh, I’m ready to rise, looking at you so, Wissa.” That brought a grin to her face. She looked genuinely happy; there was no trace of the melodrama that had haunted her of late. Whatever he had done, he needed to figure it out quickly so he could repeat it. “But I must view this action. And be ready to disembark at a moment’s notice; once the town is secure, we need to leave quickly. I am hoping—” he stopped at that. He was about to reveal something to her that could be used to condemn him. Could he trust her that much?

  She sat up so that she was kneeling on the bed, the blanket covering her legs. “Hoping, Mast—Collector? Hoping f’ what?” Her eyes were innocent, still full of sleep, and full of warmth. Wissa had stayed in his room for half a year without him, awaiting his return, when her time at the Spire had already transpired. Didn’t that prove she loved him? That he could trust her?

  But . . . what if she stayed because the Chamber ordered her to? What if she had gone through all she had at his side only out of duty? Duty not to him, but to the Chamber? To Llory?

  “Master?” Wissa asked, forgetting his instructions, her eyes full of concern. “Wha’s wrong?”

  Welgray turned away. She had seen the conflict within him. Was he completely failing to hide his emotions, now?

  He was off balance. She had him off balance.

  He was a Collector. He couldn’t allow her to influence him. Welgray turned back, steeling himself to do what he needed to do. Remove the distraction. Remove the danger that she couldn’t trust him. Command her to remain on the ship; he would proceed into Somria without her.

  Then, when he looked at her, her eyes transfixed him. He had not said a word of his plans, but there were tears in her eyes. She was sad, but not for herself; not for being left behind, or for being rejected.

  She upset out of worry for him.

  Could she fake that? Could she?

  He didn’t believe that she could. His heart melted. He went to her, and put his arms around her, and she started crying.

  As he held her the cries became more intense, turning to wails, and she pulled back, clutching his robes with shaking hands and tears smearing her cheeks, her face twisted with emotion. He realized she wasn’t crying for him anymore; the anguish on her face was desperate, tormented.

  She held a shaking hand up to his face and stroked his cheek. “I love you,” she said.

  No Master, and no Collector. He should have been angry; he should have chastised her. But somehow it just felt like honesty, and he couldn’t bring himself to condemn her for that.

  “I love you,” she repeated, her eyes locked on his. She was certainty, resolve, and absolution—emotions he had never seen in her. She shook her head slowly. “I can’t continue this. T’ lie t’ you.”

  “You’re a spy,” he said quietly. It only just leapt into his mind, but instantly he knew it was true. It explained her disappearances, her odd moodiness. Llory’s magical capacity to know where he was at all times.

  “Ya,” Wissa replied instantly. “I love you.” Her hands were still shaking; he could feel them against his chest. Her breath was rapid, but slowin
g.

  Suddenly he realized he could delve her again. He looked deeply into her eyes, and asked himself what he saw there. “Who are you?” The question was as much for himself as it was directed at her.

  “A spy f’ the Chamber,” she said, her expression becoming more confident. “F’ Llory.”

  The Chamber! She didn’t use Llory’s title either, he realized. Would it have been Collector or Chamber Seat?

  “Are you here to stop me? Or eliminate me?” The second question produced a ball in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

  “Na,” she answered, shaking her head, still looking at him fixedly. “I’m here t’ make certain y’ bring the girl back. At all cost,” she added.

  He stood up, strode to the door, contemplating, then turned back to her, straightening his robes. He noticed the front of it was wet with her tears. He couldn’t ignore how that made him feel.

  “What will you do now?” he asked slowly.

  Wissa stood up, the blanket falling away, standing completely bare before him; but in that moment her presence was, for the first time, not at all erotic. What he saw was. . . honesty. Taller than him, glorious, her body looked sculpted of white marble. “I am yours, Lerwun,” she said quietly, innocently.

  She had said it—she had used his first name. The simple-minded, worshipful Wissa could not have done it; if he had instructed her to, it would have sounded wrong. But this Wissa—he hadn’t determined exactly who she was yet, but she was surely a different person—had used it perfectly. It sounded right. It sounded exactly how he would have hoped it would sound, when he first imagined her saying it.

  He believed her. More importantly . . . he loved her.

  The ship shuddered as it made contact with the dock. He had completely forgotten the attack. The infantry commander’s voice bellowed a charge, and anything further they might have said was drowned out by the thunder of feet across the deck, and screams of war.