by Darian Smith
“I know you have.” Brannon watched for signs of an attack. Behind the spy, he saw Taran make his way toward them from the bow of the boat, then slow as he took in the situation. Brannon kept his eyes fixed on the intruder so as not to give the priest away. “What I don’t know yet is whether you’re the one who killed Keldan Sandilar, or if you want us to find the killer. I mean, why put the dead mistress in my apartment?”
The man gave a mocking little smile. “My, what an interesting life you lead.”
“Tell us what you know and help me be boring.”
“Why would I do that?”
Behind him, Taran dropped into a surprisingly good combat stance. “Um, peace of mind?” he said. “Unburdened conscience?”
The spy glanced around, trying to keep both of them in view as best he could. “Huh,” he said. “An unexpected surprise. Where’d you come from?”
Taran blinked but stayed silent.
“How about you focus on me,” Brannon said quietly. “Put down your weapons and we’ll talk about what’s going on here.”
The spy shrugged. “Not sure there’s time for a chat, what with the boat sinking and all.”
“We’ll make time,” Brannon said.
Jessamine’s voice pulled his attention to the side. “Brannon, the captain says she can’t control the ship. The rudder’s not responding.”
“Stay back, Jessamine!” he yelled, but it was too late. She’d stepped too close and the dark-haired spy seized her, one of his knives at her throat before she could scream.
Her eyes were wide and Brannon could see she was trembling. “What’s going on?”
“What’s going on,” the spy said, “is that you gentlemen are going to back away and let me go or I’ll kill your pretty friend.”
Brannon felt his teeth clench. He put his sword on the deck. “Yeah, that’s what’s happening. Taran, back away.”
“But . . . ”
“Let him go.”
The spy was already moving away, pulling Jessamine with him as he went. “Keep your distance, gentlemen. These knives are very sharp and I’d hate to get startled.”
Despite his words, Brannon and Taran trailed after him as though tethered by rope. Brannon felt the rage like a tensed muscle inside him, ready to strike. His voice was low but it carried. “Jessamine is my apprentice. If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Sailors gathered around, watching the strange procession as they made their way to the middle of the boat. The spy’s grip on Jessamine remained tight and the knife tickling her throat kept everyone at a safe distance. He pressed his back against the main mast. Jessamine’s lips were moving as though in prayer. She whimpered when one of the sailors got too close and he backed off.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Brannon called softly.
“I have a question,” the spy shouted, looking around at the sailors. “Do you think the captain can get a ship with no rudder to the riverbank before it sinks?”
“Don’t you worry, sir,” one of the sailors said. “As long as there’s a sail to angle, the captain will get us safe.”
Brannon thought he saw something shift in the spy’s eyes.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. Before anyone could react, he slashed the knife across Jessamine’s throat and pushed her away. She fell onto the deck, her fingers grappling at her neck as it turned red with blood. He stuck the knife through the hook in his belt, gripped the mast ropes, and began to climb.
Brannon lunged forward, as did several others, his stomach twisted sharply, warrior and physician fighting within him. He slid to his knees at her side and rolled her over to assess the damage. Jessamine was shaking, her hands pressed tight to her wound. Blood was welling up around them, but not as much as Brannon had feared.
“Let me see, Jessamine. It’s okay. Let me see it.” He gently pried her fingers away. The slash was shallow and across the front of her neck. It had missed the arteries. “Thank the gods.”
Taran hovered at his shoulder. “Will she be okay?”
“Yeah.” Brannon’s attention had already shifted to the man in the rigging. “Yeah, she’ll be fine. Help her keep pressure on it. And see if you can sort out a bandage. She can tell you what to do, can’t you Jessamine?”
She nodded shakily.
“Good girl.”
The mast had rope loops tied around it and tacked into place as footholds. Brannon found they made scaling it easier than he’d expected. Ahead of him, the dark-haired spy had moved out onto the crossbeam and was sawing through one of the sail ropes with his knife. As Brannon got closer, the rope gave way and a small corner of the sail flapped loose. The man moved further along, stopped, and began cutting through the next rope.
“Why are you doing this?” Brannon called as he climbed.
The man didn’t look up. “I don’t like to leave a job half-done.”
“What job?”
There was no answer. The next rope sliced free and he shifted again.
The boat shuddered and Brannon gripped the mast tightly. He looked down. Already the people below seemed like dolls. Crowded, worried dolls. The boat was listing obviously to one side as the pressure of the water flooding into the hold took its toll. He wondered how much longer they could stay afloat.
He reached the crossbar and wrapped his legs around it, using one hand to steady himself while he drew a dagger with the other. He slid along the bar, closing the gap between them quickly. “I warned you not to hurt my apprentice.”
The spy shifted his weight then scissored his legs, twisting around so that he was facing Brannon. Then he shuffled backward to the next rope and began cutting. “How much of this do you think I need to cut to keep this Tear-stained boat from shore?”
Brannon moved into range. “I think you’ve done enough.”
His first strike was lightning fast, but the dark-haired spy was faster. He blocked and lashed out with his other hand—and a second knife of his own. Brannon leaned back to avoid it and the tip tore the fabric of his jacket. His balance took a moment to recover and the spy jabbed down at him with the first knife in a rough, stabbing motion.
Brannon grabbed his wrist, stopping the blade before it reached his torso, and twisted. His assailant gave a satisfying yelp and pulled back. Brannon kept hold of the arm and yanked it to one side, hoping to throw him off the beam. The spy threw his weight in the other direction and they both gripped hard with their legs to stop the momentum.
Shouting from the sailors below distracted him for a moment and he glanced down to see them pulling a lifeboat from its cover. Ula was already with them, helping. The ship was clearly going down now, the back end of it very low in the water. Taran was still with Jessamine. Draeson had finally left his room and was looking around as though uncertain where he could be the most use.
“Help with the lifeboats!” Brannon yelled.
He felt, rather than saw, the shift in his assailant’s body that meant a swing at him with the knife, and parried it quickly. Almost as quickly, the man jabbed again. Brannon scooted back on the beam, not letting go of the man’s arm, and stabbed his own knife at his thigh. It was blocked.
The return strike aimed at the arm holding the man’s wrist. Brannon let go to dodge, then thrust his other arm up and hooked him around the elbow, pulling him back and trapping the other arm instead—and his own knife hand with it.
There was barely a breath and the spy lashed out with his newly freed hand. Brannon jerked him to one side, pulling the aim away from its target. He felt the trapped hand twist, and the tip of the knife it held gouged into his side. This was no ordinary thug. This man had excellent training.
Brannon loosened his grip enough for the trapped arm to pull away, then dropped his own dagger and grabbed the wrist when it came close.
He drove his fist into the spy’s stomach and when he grunted, followed it up with another punch to his throat. The second knife was ready though and scored a long slash across Brannon’s forear
m. He ignored the sting of the blade and rolled his hand around the other man’s wrist. Now he had both wrists and they grappled, the fight quickly turning into a test of strength.
Keeping one arm out and high, Brannon concentrated on bringing the other one down and bashing the man’s knuckles against the crossbeam. The man fought it, sweat dripping from his face, but Brannon was stronger. Blood covered his fingers before they loosened and the dagger fell to the deck below.
Brannon tightened his grip around both wrists. “Let go of the other one too,” he growled. “Or it’ll get the same.”
The spy winced. “Okay, okay. You win.”
There was a loud scraping noise and a splash from below, followed by loud swearing. Brannon risked a glance downward. The lifeboat had been launched and was rapidly filling with water. It slipped beneath the river, leaving sailors clinging to ropes to be pulled back up.
“Oops,” said the spy, and laughed.
“What did you do?”
The man shifted his weight and swung his leg into Brannon’s side, knocking them both off balance. Brannon gripped hard with his legs, refusing to let go of the other man as they both slipped off the beam. They hung there, Brannon upside down, ankles locked around the beam, the spy dangling from his grip. Below them, the ship shifted again and Brannon felt gravity trying to slide him along the beam toward the sail ropes. He squeezed his legs tighter.
“Hang on!” His fingers felt slick with sweat. If he lost his grip, the spy would be lucky to survive the drop. He needed to keep him alive if he was going to get answers. The sail flapped against his ear, one corner cut free, the rest still held in place. If he could grab it, perhaps he could use it to pull them back to safety.
“You are determined,” the spy said. “I’ll give you that.” He pulled one hand free of Brannon’s grasp, swung himself closer to the sail and grasped it. The other hand twisted and Brannon felt the edge of the knife it still held against his forearm. He swore and let go.
The spy slid down the sail, cutting the canvas as he went, leaving Brannon watching helplessly.
“Stop him!” he yelled as the dark-haired figure reached the end of the strip of sail and began to swing at the end of it like a trapeze.
No one was listening. Those on deck had abandoned the lifeboats—no doubt they’d all been punctured like the first. Some were gathered around the captain, others made their way to the bow of the ship, the highest point out of the water.
Draeson stood at the rail, his arm outstretched over the river. Even from this distance, Brannon could see the darker patch around his wrist that was the dragon tattoo. Mist jetted from his palm, down into the water. Where it touched, the river turned to ice. The mist spilled onward, circling the boat and freezing it in place.
Brannon swung himself back up to the crossbeam and scurried back toward the mast. He knew he would be too late. He slid down the mast, barely touching the rope footholds as he raced toward the deck. He barely felt the friction burn or the splinters.
The wooden deck hit his feet like a hammer. “Hey!” he yelled, pointing up at the saboteur who was swinging in wider and wider arcs on his strip of canvas. “Stop that guy!”
Even as they turned to look, the spy’s swing took him out over the water and he let go, disappearing into the river with a splash. A moment later, Draeson’s mist iced over the spot and he was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
Ylani gave the page a moment to announce her before stepping through the door to King Aldan’s private audience chamber. She wore her hair up, pinned under a small trilby with flowers on the side, with just a few loose ringlets to soften her face. Her dress was maroon silk with panels of burnished silver in the skirt and a flattering, low-cut bodice. The Kalan king was a man, after all.
Aldan sat alone with a checkered board and what looked like a chess set in front of him. As she approached, she noticed that only the white pieces were on the board. Aldan carefully moved a knight forward, then gestured to the seat opposite.
“Welcome, ambassador. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you for a while.”
Ylani settled in to the chair. “Why’s that, Your Majesty?”
He shrugged as the page came forward and handed her a goblet of wine, then refilled his. “With everything that’s going on recently, I thought perhaps you’d be laying low.”
“There’s no reason to,” she said, taking a sip. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
The king pressed his lips together. “Of course.” There was an odd silence for a moment and he gestured to the page and the game board. “Check with Ralvin.” The page nodded, stared at the board for a moment, then left the room.
“That’s not chess, is it?” Ylani said, intrigued.
Aldan shook his head. “It’s similar, but the players are in different rooms with only their own pieces. You only get to know small amounts of what your opponent has done via a go-between. You have to try to think about what the other player will do, and respond accordingly. Then you hope you’re right and that your pieces survive. Much like politics.” He gave her a very direct look.
“It sounds like a difficult game. Easy to make a mistake.”
“It is. But I find that it’s often best to assume the worst scenario based on the information available at the time.” He lifted his goblet to his mouth.
Ylani bit the inside of her lip as she searched for the right words. This wasn’t going to be easy. How could she tell a king who was already suspicious of her to be suspicious of his cousin instead? “You’re worried that I had something to do with Keldan Sandilar’s death. I’ve heard the talk. But there’s no reason for me to have done something like that.”
Aldan shrugged. “Perhaps it would benefit your government.”
She met his eyes and tried to put as much sincerity as she could into her words. “I can assure you, there is no official Nilarian plan at work here. My government would never sanction something like this.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he said coldly. “Given that the Nilarian government paid for an assassination attempt on my life only a few years ago.”
Ylani sighed. “There are always elements within any government that are . . . unpredictable.” She wished she could like Aldan. He was a likeable man, but his walls were high when it came to her people. “I’m sure you know what it’s like. Politics isn’t really like a game. You don’t always know what your own pieces will do, let alone your opponent’s.”
“You’re accusing one of my people, are you?” There was an edge to his tone.
“I’m saying that I’m willing to entertain the idea that a Nilarian might do something foolish without official sanction,” she said carefully. “And I’m asking if you’re willing to consider that the same might be true of the people close to you. What if the real threat is somebody you trust?”
The king set his goblet down abruptly and stood up. “Thank you for your concern, ambassador, but it’s unnecessary. No Kalan would do something like what you’re suggesting. We have never been the aggressors in a war. You can rest assured that I will keep control of my people as long as you are able to do the same with yours.”
Ylani felt her hands clench and forced them to relax. The sad truth was that they had both already lost control of their people. What Lady Latricia had uncovered was clear evidence of a plot, but, just as clearly, King Aldan was not going to listen. Instead, she smiled politely, nodded graciously, and stood to leave. “Of course, Your Majesty. I can only hope this unpleasantness is resolved soon and doesn’t do any further harm to the new relationship between our two countries.”
In one of the gardens outside the palace, she found Latricia waiting. She had set aside her mourning gown and veil in favor of a day dress, and sat with a lace parasol next to a fountain in the shape of a dancing fish.
“Well?” the widow asked as Ylani approached.
Ylani shook her head. “There’s no way he will hear it from me right now. Anything I said against Roydan would just make him
dig his toes in more. He needs proof and he won’t look for it on my say-so. We need to go to plan B.”
Latricia snapped the parasol shut. “And what is that?”
Ylani perched on the edge of the fountain and let her fingers trail in the cool water. “We’re going to pick up where your husband left off. You and I are going into business together.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was hilly, grassy terrain, speckled with large rocks and broken away cliff sides, but despite all that, what stood out most as being different to Alapra was the lack of water birds. This far from the river the familiar gulls and ducks were replaced by sheep and occasional cattle.
The journey from the wreck site had taken longer than Brannon would have liked. Draeson’s magic had iced a path across the river for them to get to shore, but there was no town or pier for at least several days’ walk in either direction and no hope of catching another ship without one. The sailors had split into three groups and sent one in either direction, with the third setting up camp where they were to keep an eye on the boat. Draeson had assured them it would stay partially afloat but couldn’t say for how long.
Faced with the prospect of walking up river to Trallene, then inland as planned, or simply cutting across on the diagonal, headed straight for Sandilar, Brannon’s group had decided on the latter. It was rough going, but a shorter distance to travel overall.
“I grew up in Trallene,” Jessamine pointed out. She still had a bandage around her neck, but the cut was healing up nicely. Whoever he had been, their attacker had not intended to kill her. “Other than the port, we’re not missing much.”
“How far to Duke Sandilar’s territory?” Taran asked as they trailed along a row of boulders.
“Already in it,” she replied. “From about a day’s walk south of Trallene, up to Fargrate, and then inland all the way to the mountains, is all Sandilar land. But Sandilar village and the manor are over that ridge ahead.”
Behind him, Draeson tripped on a rock and swore. Brannon quickened his step to bring himself closer to Jessamine and Taran. “How long has it been since you were here last?”