by Darian Smith
He ran a finger along the scar that ran from his earlobe across his cheek. “Well, this is the most obvious one and you probably know the story behind that.”
“People say you got it fighting a Nilarian commander after infiltrating his command tent in the middle of their camp. That you killed him and kept the sword that cut you, as a souvenir.”
Brannon shrugged. “That’s pretty much it. I have a few others but they’re just from being in a battle. Everybody gets a few cuts on a battlefield. Some of them scar.”
“What about tattoos? Got any of those?”
“No.” Brannon raised his eyebrow at her. “Did you ask Draeson about his dragon tattoo?”
She stuck her lip out in a mock pout. “Yes, and he told me to mind my own business.”
Brannon laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like Draeson.”
“He put it more, uh, colorfully than that, though,” Taran said, causing Brannon to laugh even more.
Jessamine set down the deck of cards and picked up the hand she’d dealt herself. “What about your tattoos, Ula? Do they have a special meaning?”
Ula shifted in her seat and held out her arm to show the symbols inked into her skin. “They be rune magic taught us by the earth spirits. They keep this body from being home to kaluki.” She tapped her temple. “Knowledge of shamans too dangerous to give kaluki. All shaman have runes to keep kaluki out even after death.”
The tattoos twined extensively over her limbs and Brannon was willing to bet there were more that where hidden by her clothes. It must have hurt to get them done. That showed real commitment to learning to become a shaman. Would he have become a physician if Master Jordell had required tattooing before he could be taught?
“Fascinating,” Brother Taran said. “I wonder how it works.”
Ula shrugged with a little half-smile. “If you want to know, you must first get tattoos.”
The sound of raindrops pelting down on the deck above grew loud and the conversation stopped while they waited for the summer squall to pass. Jessamine and Taran concentrated on their game, but with the sound of the rain and the boat’s gentle rocking, Brannon found himself drifting into a doze. He woke when one of the sailors walked through the room. The rain had stopped and Ula was gone. The other two were still playing cards.
“Sorry to disturb you,” the sailor said. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and pale skin. “Don’t mind me. Just passing through. Do you need anything?”
Brannon shook his head and the sailor left by the other door, toward the ladder that lead down into the cargo hold. As he closed it behind him, Brannon noticed a couple of almost healed scrape marks on his neck.
“Glad you could join us again,” Jessamine said as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
Brannon stretched. He still had the soldier’s trick of snatching sleep anywhere he could, but it no longer meant a comfortable body when he woke. “How long was I asleep?”
“Oh, not long,” said Taran, collecting the cards from the table. “We just finished the game.”
“Good timing then.” He stood up and dragged the chair he’d been sleeping in closer to the table. “Jessamine, with everything that’s been happening, I’ve been failing you as a teacher. I’m supposed to be expanding your medical knowledge and helping you treat patients.” He turned the chair backward and dropped onto it, folding his hands over the back. “So . . . let’s make use of the time we have. What questions do you have?”
Jessamine sat back and fiddled with the end of her ponytail. “Actually, there is something I’ve been wanting to ask you. But it’s not really medical. At Physician College, they say no one can progress beyond apprentice level without taking the oath. But you have, haven’t you? How come?”
Brannon let his chin rest on his hands. “I’m something of an anomaly. I’m still King’s Champion but I wanted to be a physician. They agreed that I couldn’t take the oath under those circumstances because it refers to doing no harm. A physician’s knowledge is a lethal weapon and part of my role as King’s Champion is doing harm—either in trial by combat or, gods forbid, if we go to war again. That wouldn’t apply in your case, for instance. If there’s a war, you’ll be a physician only. No one will expect you to fight.”
“I know,” she said, looking at her hands. “It’s more the part about treating anyone who needs it. Mostly that’s okay, but what if there’s someone I can’t bring myself to save?”
“You mean like the murderer?”
Her head gave a little shake. “A murderer I could treat and then the justice system would deal with him. It’s just . . . ” She swallowed and took a deep breath, her fingers knotting and unknotting together. “My mother died when I was young. She worked for a man in Trallene but she was very poor. When she got sick, I begged him for help. There weren’t any physicians in Trallene, but Duke Roydan had one in Sandilar who could have been sent for. My mother had no money to pay for it and her employer refused and she died.” Jessamine glanced up and there were tears in her eyes. “I don’t think I could treat that man if he came to me dying himself.”
“Nor would I,” Taran said, gripping the deck of cards very tight. “Let the bastard die.”
Brannon shot him a frown. Not a very helpful attitude from a priest! He tried to keep his voice soft. “I’m sorry about your mother. That was horrible. Especially when you were so young. I think every physician has someone in their past that they feel that way about. It’s not supposed to be an easy oath to take. But being a physician is special. It’s not like other jobs. We’re a gift to everyone and we help keep life alive. It’s not ethical to pick and choose who we’ll deal with and who we won’t. It’s not as if we were sailors or . . . Blood and Tears!” He felt as though a chill had blown right through his clothes to bite into his skin.
Jessamine half stood as if to steady him. “What is it?”
Brannon stood and stared toward the door that lead to the cargo hold, finally seeing what his sleep-fuddled brain had missed. Dark hair. No tan. He wasn’t one of the white-blond Malon family and he hadn’t been working outdoors. Scratches on his neck. Lady Latricia had said she’d scratched the man in her garden.
The boat made a horrible groaning sound as if something was scraping its bones.
“That sailor isn’t a sailor,” Brannon said. “And we need to find him. Now.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ylani felt the eyes of the mourners digging at her like hot needles. They didn’t think she should be there, that much was clear. Hated her, in some cases, despite never having met her before. She made certain not to let any emotion register on her face. She’d had plenty of practice. Kalans were never shy about their dislike of her kind.
She kept her head lowered in respect. She’d been careful to research Kalan funeral customs. Her mere presence at the funeral of a murdered nobleman was challenging enough. She couldn’t afford to stir up more trouble.
The ceremony was much as she’d expected for a church funeral service. The bishop led from the old stone altar at the front and offered comfort to the family as well as acknowledging the gods for their contributions: Ahpra for her gifts, Valdan for protection, and the Hooded One for mystery and the afterlife. The king spoke of the role Keldan held, as a member of the royal family and in Kalan society. Then family and friends were offered a chance to speak about their feelings and memories of Keldan.
Ylani, who had only known Keldan Sandilar briefly as a potential business partner, felt very out of place. Back home, she might have attended the funeral of a business associate as a mark of respect and an opportunity to network. Here, she thought she was probably doing her reputation more harm than good.
She tried to make herself seem as unobtrusive as possible. Her slim frame took up little space in the crowded pew and she’d chosen somber colors to reflect the occasion. Her hat was a small brown box with a fabric swirl on one side and one long feather. She’d considered it appropriately formal without being flashy. Nevertheless, she felt like a
black mark on white silk and was still no closer to understanding why she was here. It seemed like a very long time before the ceremony came to a close.
The bishop urged everyone to stand as the family escorted Prince Keldan’s remains from the church. Surprisingly, Duke Roydan had bucked family tradition and insisted that his son be cremated. King Aldan picked up the ornate box of ashes and led the way down the aisle to where priests waited at the door to take the remains to either a graveyard or family crypt. Ylani hoped she wouldn’t need to push her way into that part of proceedings. She couldn’t see it being well-received.
She fingered the note in her pocket as the box of ashes went past. It had arrived yesterday morning. The elegant script on thick paper made it look like a formal invitation, but the words were simple; a personal plea. “Please attend the funeral of Keldan Sandilar. I need to speak with you in private.”
The sense of importance that she got from touching it was still strong. Importance and sincerity. As soon as it had arrived yesterday morning, she’d known she was going to ignore good sense and do as it asked.
She let her breath rise and fall in a slow, deep rhythm, trying to find a place of calm where the instinct could speak to her. Somewhere in this church was the person who had sent this note.
“You’ve caused quite a stir being here today.” She turned and saw Lady Latricia Sandilar had made her way back down the aisle. Her face was hazed by a thin veil of charcoal-gray. “In Kalan tradition, only the widow or mother wears a hat at a funeral.”
Ylani licked her lips and nodded. She’d known that. “I don’t mean to give offense. In my culture, we must always wear something on our heads.”
“So I heard,” Latricia said. “People say it’s so you can try to hide from the gods when they look down on our world.”
Ylani could tell there was no malice in the words. “Not at all. Actually, it’s out of respect for them. We give them something pretty to look at.”
There was a pause, as if Latricia was weighing up her answer. “Follow me,” she said, and walked away.
Ylani moved swiftly after her. The widow was stopped several times by those who wanted to express their condolences, and Ylani kept her distance, not wanting to intrude. Each time, Latricia moved on, moving toward the back of the church until she slipped through a stone arch doorway.
“We won’t be able to stay here for long,” Latricia said, “but I need to ask you something important.”
Ylani pushed the door closed. “Okay.”
“Did you have any silk samples delivered to Duke Roydan in the last week?”
Ylani watched her face, trying to see a hint of the expression behind the veil. In the dim light of the small side room, it was impossible. Good sense insisted she could not tell a stranger, the widow of one potential business partner and the daughter-in-law of another, any information about trade negotiations at all. But she could feel the urgency coming off this woman in waves.
The last time she got a sense this strong was when she’d opened her mouth about additional murders to Sir Brannon Kesh. That’d been a mistake. The man hadn’t known about them at all and now wondered how she did. This had the feel of digging herself into a similar hole. But a hole that needed to be dug.
“No,” she said, truthfully. “Why?”
“Because some were delivered without your seal.”
Ylani’s head jerked up. “Silk? Nilarian silk?”
“Yes.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. Someone back home was bypassing her. Someone on her staff was probably helping them. The knowledge clicked in her mind: True. She took a deep breath and forced herself not to swear aloud. “And?”
This time it was Latricia who took a deep breath. “And I think there were weapons hidden in it. And more are set to be delivered to Duke Roydan’s manor.”
“Blessed goddess!” Ylani covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the woman before her. If this were true and came to light before she could do anything about it . . . any hope of building on the fragile relationship she’d built between Nilar and Kalanon would be shattered. There was only one reason a Kalan noble would receive Nilarian weapons. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“That my father-in-law is planning to depose the king. Or, I think so, anyway.” Latricia shook her head. “Do you understand why I came to you?”
“If you accuse him in public he will disown you and everyone will think you were trying to discredit him so that you could control Sandilar for your son. You want me to unmask the conspiracy in your place.”
“Yes.” The widow pushed the veil up from her face, her eyes boring into Ylani. “I don’t think you knew. Your seal wasn’t on the box. But that just means you have as much to lose as I do. Your people are betraying you and if King Aldan finds out about this he won’t believe you weren’t involved. You won’t get out of Alapra alive.”
The door opened suddenly and a balding priest blinked in the candlelight. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Lady Latricia, Duke Roydan is looking for you.”
“No problem. I’ll come now.” The widow pulled the veil back into place. She brushed past Ylani, clasping her hand for the briefest of moments. “Do we have an understanding?”
Ylani nodded, her chest tight. “Yes, I believe we do.”
Chapter Sixteen
Brannon thumped on the locked cabin door again. Muffled giggles could be heard on the other side.
“Draeson, get out here!”
This time the mage called back. “Kinda busy right now. Come back later.”
The ship shuddered and groaned, the sound coming from deep below Brannon’s feet. “Hooded Blood, Draeson, this is urgent!”
“Then you deal with it!”
Brannon took a deep breath, his jaw clenched hard. He couldn’t waste any more time on this. “Jessamine, go and tell the captain that there’s a stowaway on board who may try to sabotage the ship. Taran, stay here and try to get through to Draeson. Maybe he’ll listen to a priest.”
Jessamine blinked once, then turned and ran for the steps leading up to the deck.
Taran’s mouth moved silently for a moment before he found voice. “I, um, I’m not sure I want to interrupt him while they’re doing . . . um . . . you know.”
Brannon was already walking away. “Get him out of that cabin!”
He reached the other end of the ship quickly, found the ladder down to the cargo hold and took it two rungs at a time. He drew his long knife and held it in a loose, easy grip. It was dark and he let his eyes adjust for a moment, then felt his way forward carefully. The sound of rushing water was loud here, with the river directly beyond the straining timber of the hull.
In the dim light that spilled down from the hatch above, he could make out the hook where a lantern should have been. It was empty. Brannon felt around beside it for the matches that were kept there. He took one and struck it. The flare of light showed crates stacked and webbed in place. Nothing seemed amiss.
“I know you’re down here,” he called. “Why don’t you show yourself and we can talk this out.”
The match burned down to his thumb and went out. He got the next one ready but didn’t strike it. Instead, he took a few steps forward, listening intently for any hint of where the sailor-spy could be hiding.
Something shifted to his left and he turned, knife ready. The shadowy shape of crates gave no hint of what might be hiding there. He moved closer and his feet made a little splash when he stepped, suddenly wet and cold.
“What are you doing here? You might as well tell me. You’ve been following us around. Who do you work for?” The noise came again and he struck the match in time to see several large rats scamper away, squealing.
Brannon carefully controlled his breathing and held the match out as he looked at his feet. They were submerged almost to the ankles in water. He looked behind him—there was water there now too.
“Ahpra’s Tears!” He dropped the match and lit another, pushing past the crates an
d heading further into the hold as the water deepened. As he reached the hull, he realized that what he had first taken to be the sound of the river rushing by was in fact the sound of water pouring in through a hole the size of a man’s head, in the side of the boat below the waterline.
The sound of splashing came from the other side of the hold as a dark figure dashed toward the exit. Brannon dropped his match and raced after him.
The figure was halfway up the ladder when he caught up to him. Brannon grabbed at the fake sailor’s ankle, missed, and lunged at the man’s leg with his knife. The foot lashed out and connected with his knuckles, hard. Brannon swore as the knife flew from his fingers.
The foot vanished to the deck above and Brannon followed after drawing his sword in case of ambush. His quarry hadn’t waited. Brannon heard the door slam as he disappeared down the hall.
Cursing, Brannon started after him, then stumbled as the ship shuddered. The water pouring into the hold was already having an effect. He wondered how long it would take for a boat this size to sink at the rate it was filling. He hoped the captain could get them to shore before that happened. The only bright side was that this stowaway saboteur—and there seemed no doubt that he was the spy they’d seen in Alapra—was trapped on the sinking boat with them.
He ran through the empty common room and past Draeson’s (still closed) cabin door, following the spy up the stairs to the open deck. “There’s nowhere for you to go,” he called. “You might as well give up.”
The spy turned to face him and Brannon was vaguely surprised at how ordinary he looked. Even with the scratch marks on his neck, had it not been for the blondness of the family of sailors that ran this boat, he would never have stood out. His face was round and bland, lips just a fraction thin. His hands both held knives. “Don’t you have a hole to plug or something?”
Brannon crept forward. “Who are you? Why have you been following us?”
The man shrugged. “You think I’ve been following you?”