Reign of Stars

by Tim Pratt

  "I suppose," Alaeron said. "We could use it for looting, too. We're being sent in search of great treasures in Numeria, and being able to fill this, this—"

  "Black box?" Skiver offered.

  Alaeron nodded. "Yes, this black box, with such wonders, and then easily carry them away, will make everything much easier."

  "I knew a fella who had one of those magic bags, the kind that looks like an ordinary sack but can hold heaps of things, big as a room inside somehow, you know, and he used it to do burglaries from time to time, until one day he burgled the wrong people and got shoved inside his own bag. They turned the bag over and shook it out after half an hour and he tumbled out, skin blue, eyes full of burst blood vessels, like he'd been smothered or choked to death. The inside of this box is a lot more hospitable."

  "Do you know any fellas who are still alive?" Alaeron asked.

  "I'd say it's split about evenly between alive and dead just now, but dead tends to win out over the long run."

  "As long as we survive. I'd hate to become one of your stories."

  "I'd much rather tell a story than be one. Might as well begin this chapter, though, eh? I was thinking we'd get on our way first thing tomorrow."

  "The sooner the better. Adventure awaits."

  "Oh, good, another adventure," Skiver said. "Nobody's ever lost their fortune, life, limb, or sanity on one of those."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  They prepared to depart the next morning, Skiver having acquired a rather nice coach, all lacquered and black, with suspicious scratched patches on the doors where Alaeron suspected a coat-of-arms or family crest had been pried off. Someone had hit a run of bad luck at one of Skiver's gambling tables and settled their account with this conveyance. The carriage didn't come with staff or horses, Alaeron guessed, as the driver was a disreputable-looking woman in a long leather coat the color of drying dog turds, and the four horses were so mismatched and varied in color and size they seemed almost to belong to different species. While Skiver talked horses with the driver (his interest was mostly limited to racing the animals, but the two had enough common and uncommon ground to fuel a spirited discussion), Alaeron fussed around on the roof making sure the luggage was properly stowed. It was a less pressing task than usual, since his explosive compounds were safely packed away in the immovable confines of the black box, itself resting at the bottom of an elaborately trapped and secured backpack he intended to keep on or near his person at all possible times. The bags and trunks on top were mostly for show, so it didn't look like they were setting off on a long journey with no luggage at all; the trunks and bags would also ideally serve to satisfy the larcenous appetites of any bandits, pirates, or highwaymen they encountered along the way, and were accordingly full of shiny but worthless trinkets and clothes of indifferent quality.

  All parties finally declared themselves ready to depart, and Skiver and Alaeron clambered into the carriage, which smelled strongly of cloves and old smoke. After an initial bounce as they pulled away from the cobbles in front of Alaeron's house, the ride settled into a smooth one, the springs compensating admirably for the unevenness of the street. Alaeron could think of a few modifications that would make the coach better suited to the journey—for one thing, it would help if it could double as a raft for some of the river crossings...

  Skiver snapped his fingers in front of Alaeron's face. "I know that look. Plotting to put a pair of flapping wings on the carriage, to bear us to Numeria like eagles?"

  "I don't think that would work. Not flapping wings anyway. But I suppose with a sufficient wingspan we might create something that could glide. I'd want to change the shape of the craft, of course, something more like a rowboat and less like a cart—"

  "Joking, joking," Skiver said. "I've had enough of flying machines for one lifetime. Here's the itinerary I've got in mind: we'll take this fine carriage toward the border with Taldor, to the mouth of the Sellen River, where I've got passage on the nicest ship available. I know you think traveling in style is hiking all day and then sleeping in a magic box in the woods, and we could trudge up the River Road with the rest of the crusaders bound for death and glory, but I'd prefer to get to Numeria in more pleasant circumstances."

  Alaeron shrugged. He didn't care, really, how they got where they were going. He took his mind with him whether they were on a ship or on a horse or walking on his own two feet, so in the fundamental sense, he was always at home.

  Admittedly, long stretches on horseback made his rear end hurt, which did detract from his ability to concentrate.

  "I know it's been a few years since you went up that way, and I've never been so far north myself," Skiver went on, "but I hear it's not as treacherous a journey as it used to be, since there are so many high-and-mighty crusaders heading up to the Worldwound to fight the demons and keep the world safe for innocence and purity and all that. Of course, even if the trip isn't quite so perilous anymore, once you get to the north you're likely to die at any moment, but we'll deal with that when we get there." Skiver leaned back and pulled his hat low on his head. "So just relax, exercise your mind, and we'll be in Numeria before you know it."

  "Oh, certainly," Alaeron said. "With our shared history of peaceful and pleasant journeys, why would we expect anything but the smoothest of sailing?"

  Chapter Six

  River Pirates

  The vessel that Skiver rented, or chartered, or held part ownership in, or intimidated the captain into loaning him—Alaeron never got a clear understanding of the situation—was a single-masted cog called the North Wind, a name Skiver chose to interpret as a good omen, even after Alaeron pointed out that a wind blowing from the north would naturally push them to the south, which was not the direction they hoped to go. If Alaeron had his way, all ships would have useful names like Quite Fast Medium-Sized River Conveyance Number One Hundred and Sixty-Five.

  The ship was mostly weighed down with barrels and crates to be delivered upriver, but the captain had rather lavish quarters and the first mate slightly less lavish ones, and Skiver and Alaeron were given use of those cabins with only the slightest show of displeasure on the parts of their intended occupants. Alaeron would have been happy enough in a cupboard, since he spent his evenings sleeping in the four-poster bed heaped with furs he'd installed in the black box, but the mate's quarters had a door that locked (and quite securely, once Alaeron was done modifying said lock), which helped him relax.

  During the long slow days on the wide river, Skiver chatted with the crew and wandered off for a while at every stop to load or unload freight—improbable as it seemed, he appeared to know people at various ports of call. Alaeron asked how he'd come to have so many far-flung friends when he essentially lived within a few square miles in Almas, and Skiver shrugged and winked and said, "A lot of my business involves certain items crossing certain borders, and for that to happen, you have to know people on the other side of the borders. Usually those people come to Almas for our meetings, but I thought I'd pop in and surprise a few on the journey. Gives them a little jolt of the unpredictable, you know, seeing me saunter into their taverns or warehouses or springhouses or cellars. Knowing I can just, poof, appear out of nowhere like that, it keeps them honest—or at least within acceptable parameters of dishonesty. I don't expect perfection. Demanding the thieves who work for me never steal at all would make me—what's the word? You know, like a politician who says he hates liars, or a card sharp who says she hates cheats?"

  "A hypocrite," Alaeron said.

  Skiver nodded. "Nothing worse than a hypocrite."

  Alaeron, who had been pursued by assassins, stalked by strange denizens of ancient tombs, nearly dissolved by ambulatory slimes, and had once narrowly escaped the lair of a sleeping linnorm, thought many things were worse than hypocrites, but he'd grown used to Skiver's rhetorical style of random assertions and didn't bother with a refutation.

  The alchemist stayed in his cabin most of the time, sketching designs for devices he might build with the
increased access to skymetal he would have in Numeria, and jotting down chemical formulae that he thought would interest Zernebeth, or that would hybridize well with some of the rare solvents and solutions that oozed from Silver Mount and other wreckage from the Rain of Stars. He emerged to eat with Skiver, and often watched the moon shine on the waters—leading to many thoughts about the movement of light in the water, the propagation of waves through air and fluid, and the distance to the heavenly bodies, which interested him more and more in recently years—but he'd done this journey once before, and remembered it well enough to have little interest in the sliding by of the same landscape years later. He lived in his mind, and found the accommodations marvelous.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Skiver wasn't having quite so pleasant a trip. Granted, being bored was better than being hungry or terrified, but it was a lot less pleasant than having fun.

  On the day of the attack, he sat in his cabin chatting in a desultory way with the captain—a boorish man who told the same stories over and over—and tried not to think about how long they had to go until they reached Numeria.

  Skiver was arguing the superiority of Andoren beer over the varieties available in Absalom—not because he necessarily believed it, but just to pass the time—when one of the boys who loaded and unloaded crates burst in, shouting. "Captain, there's a ship moving to intercept us!"

  The captain leapt to his feet, swearing, and told the boy to alert the rest of the crew. "Skiver, are you any good in a fight?"

  "I mostly have people to do my knifing for me these days, but I might have a blade or two about my person." He patted his body absentmindedly. "Pirates, then, eh? Is it going to come to fighting, you think?"

  The captain winced. "It depends. Usually with something like this, it's just a thug who wants a bribe to let you pass—that's all part of the cost of doing business in the River Kingdoms. There's a whole pirate city that operates along one of the river's tributaries, the Dagger, but there are miscellaneous independent operators, too. Piracy is what they have here instead of an economy. There's a law around these parts: ‘You have what you hold.' If you can't hold on to it, why should you get to have it?"

  "That's always been my personal philosophy," Skiver mused, "but it seems a peculiar system of government."

  The captain grunted. "Ships flying the flag of one of the River Kingdoms get attacked less often—they have the backing of powerful local interests, after all, and wars are bad for business—but foreign traders nearly always have to pay. Or fight, which is often more expensive. The pirates usually want less than it costs to keep a contingent of fighting men on board to repel their attacks, so mostly we just shrug and pay the toll."

  "Why not just fly a false flag?" Skiver listened for the ring of steel on steel but didn't hear much of anything except shouting sailors on the upper deck.

  The captain frowned. "Because we're not pirates? And because if we were caught running under River Kingdom banners that we didn't have a right to use, we'd risk angering the powers behind those flags, and as much as I love coin, I love my life better."

  "Hmm. So when you figured out how much to charge me for riding with you, you took bribes into account, then, and passed the costs along to me?"

  The captain, a Taldan with long drooping mustaches and expressive eyebrows, made all the hair on his face waggle in outrage. "Charged you? You're riding for free! And I had to change my route to accommodate you!"

  Skiver wrinkled his nose. "I'm giving you a very generous break on the interest you owe, though, and letting you chip away at the principal directly, which is money out of my pocket, isn't it? You said usually it's just a sensible pirate asking for a reasonable bribe—so what else could it be?"

  The captain made a face like he'd smelled Chelish cheese. "Most of the pirates are reasonable men—they don't want to destroy the river trade, they just want to feed off it, skim a little without taking too much. But there are some bandits who are more...enthusiastic, or less cultured. They have funny ideas about how to do things. Comes from hearing too many stories, I think, about daring outlaws and bold acts, so they get their hands on a ship and some like-minded idiots and come up to the wild River Kingdoms, where they can be free men, preying on the masses who live like sheep—you know the type."

  Skiver nodded. You found that sort trying to join the gangs from time to time, all ambition without sense or skill, convinced they knew best because they were the smartest one in their little gutter back home. Once they got to the big city, they either smartened up or got cut down.

  The captain continued. "The daring sorts don't last long—they get hunted down by those sensible pirates I mentioned—but they can do a lot of damage before they're stopped. Ships have been sunk because the captains didn't willingly hand over all the valuables on board, unnecessary murders happen, things like that. Some of those pirates like to make a point about how serious they are by killing someone right away, and when that happens, sometimes it all gets out of hand, you know." He shrugged. "I'll go up on deck and see what's what. With luck, there won't be any need to fight, but...best to be ready."

  "I'll lend a hand. Nothing gets my blood pumping like the prospect of spilling someone else's." They went out on deck, and Skiver took in the landscape. Not much help there—forest pressing in on the river from both sides, without any signs of habitation. Skiver figured he could probably roll over the railing and swim to either shore, provided no pirates noticed him. He'd call that his contingency plan.

  The ship ahead of them was a smaller, more nimble craft. The pirates had angled to cut across their path, making it impossible to pass, and there were a few figures standing on their deck, at least a couple of them holding bows.

  A booming voice emerged from the air, amplified by magic (which also served the purpose of letting their victims know there was some kind of magic-user among the pirates): "Welcome travelers! We are the protectors of this river. Unfortunately, protecting a river is expensive work, so you'll need to help out with our expenses. Drop anchor and we'll send an emissary to negotiate a fair toll." The woman's voice, even distorted by magic, was strangely familiar to Skiver, an accent that was almost Chelish, but not quite.

  "Bastards," the captain muttered.

  "Now, now," Skiver said. "Some of us bastards are perfectly nice people, and I've known legitimately born daughters who were vicious as river rats."

  The captain called for one of his crew to drop anchor. "If we can get through this ‘negotiation' quickly, we can still make our schedule."

  Skiver winced. The schedule. The bloody schedule. When Skiver had commandeered—or, rather, negotiated to hire—this ship, he'd imagined it as a private pleasure craft, but the captain had driven a hard bargain, and they had a hold full of cargo, which required slow going, lots of stops to load and unload things, and seemingly endless half-days sitting in port. Alaeron didn't care about the delays—he had his researches, and was happy to sit in his cabin absorbed in thought for twenty hours a day. Skiver was growing hungry for novelty, though. It turned out that lazing around while others did work was less diverting than he'd expected; he needed something to do.

  Skiver had entertained himself earlier in the journey by going ashore to terrorize his local contacts, but he didn't have anyone to bother this deep in the River Kingdoms, and he was growing weary of the schedule. He was ready to be in Numeria, to see the wonders and terrors, and to find new and interesting ways to get rich. Watching the nimble pirate craft draw closer as some crewman fumbled with the anchor chain, he envied the bandits their mastery of the river, their ability to go anywhere and do anything, free from the tyranny of a schedule.

  As the ships drew closer together, he saw a dark-skinned woman standing on the deck, hands on her hips, wearing crossed swords on her back and a deep red sash around her waist.

  A memory clicked into place. That not-quite-Chelish accent—he recognized it. He'd known a woman named Genthia, once, who came from the rebellious jungle colony of Sargava, wa
y off to the southwest, who'd signed on to a pirate crew in the Shackles and then eventually made her way to the Inner Sea. She was more dangerous than a devilfish in the water, and fairly formidable on land, too. They'd met while they were both having an affair with the same man, a lean and easy-smiling fella with wide-ranging appetites and a taste for slumming, and when the beautiful scum dropped them both to marry some minor noblewoman, the two jilted lovers had commiserated over drinks and become fast friends, until Genthia went off to seek her fortune by plundering the fortunes of others.

  And she always wore a deep red sash, which she claimed used to be white, until she dipped it in the blood of every man and monster she'd ever killed. Nonsense, of course—blood was a terrible dye, and smelled bad besides—but a good story.

  The ships were nearly in hailing distance, now, so Skiver cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "You there! Genthia!"

  And the reply came, booming, like the voice of an incredulous god: "Skiver?"

  He grinned. Maybe he could escape the tyranny of the grim god Schedule after all.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Genthia came aboard with her first mate, who took the North Wind's captain aside to haggle over percentages and proper tribute while Skiver and Genthia exchanged greetings in tones of pleased disbelief. After they embraced (with the customary clatter of dangling swords and knives), they sat on a pair of crates, knees to knees, leaning in and grinning at each other. Finding an old friend in the wilderness was rarer and more precious than finding a lump of gold in the middle of a dusty road.

  Skiver caught her up on the recent history of mutual acquaintances—who was dead, who'd tried to move into legitimate business, and, of course, who was sleeping with whom—and then glanced around to make sure the captain was well out of earshot. "So, Genthia...how fast could you get to Numeria?"

  "Faster than anyone would ever want to get to Numeria," she said, frowning. "The food is terrible, the weather is dreadful, and it's full of monsters and thieves."