Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  Carpello checked out the room; he had no idea where he was. A bedside table matched a chest against the wall. No carpets on the floor, no tapestries on the walls: this was a guest room. An inn, maybe? He hoped there were plenty of guests that night: he would wait for dawn and then, when he heard someone moving outside, he would cry for help. It wasn’t the best strategy, but it was the best he could do right now. His head ached and he longed for sleep.

  ‘I want you to pay attention,’ Brexan said.

  His eyes shifted to Sallax, and Brexan slashed him across one thigh.

  Both his cry of pain and sobs were muffled. His pulse quickened and his breathing was laboured as he heaved back and forth in the chair he was bound to with leather straps. He stared wide-eyed back at Brexan.

  ‘That’s better. I want you to pay attention. When you don’t, I am going to cut you. Does that make sense? I’m keeping it simple.’

  He nodded as quickly as he could, never taking his eyes off her, trying to ignore the feeling of warm blood trickling across his lap.

  ‘Very good.’ Brexan leaned forward until her face was close to his. Carpello thought that if he had any flesh left on the end of his nose, it would be pressing against hers. ‘I will ask you a question, and then I will loosen your bonds enough for you to reply. If you say anything that is not a direct response to my question, I will tighten them back up, and I will cut you. Make sense?’

  Again Carpello nodded vigorously.

  ‘See? You’re doing fine.’ Still face to face with him, Brexan asked, ‘What are you shipping to Pellia?’ She reached up and loosened the bandage around his mouth, which hung limp beneath his lower lip, damp with saliva and blood.

  Carpello breathed deeply for the first time since waking and took a moment to regain his composure before answering, ‘I’m not sure what it does, but it comes from Rona. There’s a forest outside Estrad Village, and another along the South Coast, forbidden forests, closed off- they have been for almost a thousand Twinmoons.’

  Brexan raised the knife. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  Carpello whimpered, ‘I am, but I don’t really know what it is. It’s wood, processed wood, but not lumber – bark and shavings, leaves, and roots and stuff. I don’t know what he wants with it, but he wants as much as I can ship. He pays anything I ask.’

  Sallax stood. ‘I know that forest, near the old palace. We hunt in those woods; there isn’t anyone in there harvesting any trees.’

  ‘I’m trying to save my life,’ Carpello said, ‘what chance do I have if I lie? I’m telling you the truth.’

  Brexan pressed her lips together; she believed him. ‘My platoon used to patrol the edge of those woods. Every now and then we would hang a poacher, but most of the time, we looked the other way.’

  ‘Did you hear of people cutting down trees?’ Sallax’s scepticism was evident.

  ‘No, and it isn’t possible that wagons of timber could come out of there without us knowing. You need to do better than this, Carpello.’

  The fat man spoke rapidly, filling the air with as much information as he could. ‘It doesn’t come out in wagons; then everyone in Rona would know. Prince Malagon is aware that patrols along that forest are token; it’s the end of the world out there, and anyway, no one really cares what happens in Estrad. The cargo comes via launch to my ships – my captains moor off the peninsula. The loads are ferried out. There hasn’t been a Ronan boat around that peninsula since Prince Marek closed the forest five generations ago; not even the bravest fishermen go out there, for fear they’ll be sunk immediately by the Malakasian Navy.’

  Sallax shook his head. ‘Versen and Garec have hunted that forest since we were kids. It’s a competition with them, who can get the most deer. They would know if there was cutting going on.’

  ‘How far out do they go?’ Carpello asked, glad for the excuse to keep the two partisans talking. ‘Is it all the way to the coast? Do they go out onto the peninsula?’

  ‘I would guess …’ Sallax hesitated, looking at Brexan. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can we loosen these a bit more?’ Carpello ventured, warily.

  Brexan’s hand moved so swiftly he barely saw it. Blood seeped through the new gash, parallel to the first. ‘Don’t stray from the topic, or I will gut you right now.’

  Carpello whimpered; he was almost paralysed with fear. His eyes were red with fatigue.

  Brexan worried that he might pass out on her. ‘Stay awake,’ she ordered. ‘I need you focused on the conversation.’

  ‘Whatever you say, just please don’t cut me,’ he pleaded. ‘Please don’t cut me again.’ His body shook, great rolls of fat quivering as he sobbed.

  ‘How much have you shipped?’

  ‘Twelve vessels in the last eighteen Twinmoons – as fast as they can harvest it.’

  ‘What are you paid?’

  ‘Five hundred silver pieces per ship.’

  Brexan did a quick calculation. ‘Six thousand pieces of silver! You have done well, haven’t you? You could live like a prince on that much – for eight or nine lifetimes.’

  ‘I have costs,’ he said, a little sulkily. ‘Ships are lost, sailors die, cargoes sink. There are always risks.’

  Another slash, this one deeper, in line with the first two. ‘Did I ask about your overheads?’

  The merchant emitted a high-pitched whine. He kept it going, without a break, for a surprisingly long time, until Brexan slapped him hard, drawing blood from his lip.

  ‘Stop that squealing – you sound like the pig you are. I’m losing patience. What happens in Strandson?’

  Carpello stopped shrieking and after a moment replied, ‘It’s where we pick up shipments from the South Coast. I transport the cargoes via wagon to the village.’

  ‘Why not moor and ferry them out from down south?’

  ‘No good anchorage off the coast where Prince Marek closed the forest. It’s easier – cheaper – to run the wagons into Strandson and pick them up there.’

  ‘What happens in Pellia?’

  ‘I’ve never done that leg of the journey. I don’t do well at sea.’

  ‘I recall.’

  ‘Right, um, I’m told that there is a deep-water dock. The cargo is unloaded onto barges and towed upriver to someplace near Welstar Palace. That’s all I know. I swear it.’

  ‘Who pays you?’

  ‘A general, here in Orindale, who deals with the prince’s financial affairs in the Eastlands, but he was killed in an explosion. He was living in the old imperial palace – where they took the spy after his encounter with you two. I don’t know if he’s still there. I don’t know who will pay me now, for these shipments, or the next.’

  Brexan frowned. ‘There will be no more shipments.’

  Carpello, afraid of being cut again, bit down on his tongue in an effort to control his sobbing. In his peripheral vision he could see the sun coming up, but he dared not look out the window. Instead, he kept his gaze focused on the bridge of Brexan’s nose. He was too frightened to look into her eyes; nothing he saw there gave him any hope that he would live another aven. Warm blood continued to ooze out and trickle down his leg, puddling on the floor beneath his chair. He thought for a moment that he could smell it, but in truth all he could smell was his own excrement.

  Brexan left his side and moved to the window. ‘Have you ever been lost at sea, Carpello?’ she asked him, conversationally.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever been submerged in water so cold that you can’t feel your toes or fingers? That you forget your extremities – ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever feared what might be waiting for you at the bottom of the ocean?’

  ‘When I was young, I was afraid of the—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Brexan turned back and glared at him. The lines across her brow and at the corners of her eyes were deep slashes in the dim light. ‘I don’t want to hear it, do you understand? The sound of your voice only makes me
want to kill you even more.’ Tears welled in her eyes and her voice cracked as she shouted, ‘You don’t have any idea what it was like! I held him up, I carried him, and he was bigger and stronger than I am, but I did it anyway, because he was so tired and so cold. And do you know why he was that cold? Because you dragged him behind your ship; do you remember that, Carpello?’

  He said nothing.

  Brexan turned back to the window and watched dawn colour the salt marsh. ‘But then we were saved,’ she whispered. ‘We were saved and I thought I would live for ever. We didn’t have anything but a big, smelly fish, but I didn’t need anything. We were alive, and we were free, and we were together.’

  She wiped the tears away and returned to the shaking merchant’s side. She bent down and asked quietly, ‘Do you know what happened then?’

  Still Carpello kept silent. He could read his death in Brexan’s voice, in her stance, in the air. Begging would do nothing but hasten that eventuality.

  ‘Your scarred Seron happened. He came after us. It was just after dawn, about this time of day. The light was just like this; that meadow was so pretty, and I could smell the sea. It was a beautiful day.’ She took a selfish moment to allow the memories to wash over her, then she punched Carpello solidly beneath his chin.

  The prisoner tumbled backwards, crushing the wooden chair beneath his weight and coming free from the leather straps, but neither Brexan nor Sallax feared that he would be able to escape. Instead, he rolled into a foetal position and lay there keening to himself.

  ‘Gods, look at what a pathetic creature you are,’ Brexan said in disgust, and then turned to Sallax. ‘Go ahead,’ she said.

  Sallax got up from the end of the bed and stood over Carpello. ‘My sister’s name was Brynne,’ he said. ‘Say it.’

  Carpello rolled onto his back, looking like a bloody stranded whale. ‘What?’ he muttered.

  Sallax kicked him in the ribs. At least one snapped.

  Carpello screamed, a hoarse rattling cry, until his voice gave up and faded to a whisper.

  ‘I said my sister’s name was Brynne. Say it.’

  ‘Brynne.’ The word was barely audible.

  ‘My sister’s name was Brynne. Say it!’

  ‘Brynne,’ Carpello repeated, a little louder. ‘Brynne.’

  ‘That’s right, Brynne.’ Sallax almost choked. ‘Brynne: an innocent little girl, you foul beast.’ Sallax ignored the tears coursing noiselessly down his cheeks. ‘She was a child when you ruined her. You tore her apart. It took Twinmoons for her to heal physically, but she never got past what you did to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Carpello ‘s voice was a whisper. He reached out with both hands to Sallax, as if the big man might kneel down and embrace him, his apology accepted.

  But instead, Sallax placed the heel of his boot on the fat man’s jowly throat and started pressing down. ‘My sister’s name was Brynne. She was a loving, caring, wonderful person who would have done anything for anyone. And she died an angry, knife-wielding killer, because of you. Do you understand that? My sister’s name was Byrnne,’ Sallax shouted down at him, ‘say it. Say it!’

  All that emerged was a rasp, a coarse rattle, as Carpello gasped for air. Sallax removed his boot and, crying openly now, crossed the room to Brexan, who hugged him, hard.

  Seeing them momentarily preoccupied with one another, Carpello summoned the last measure of his strength and, rolling to all fours, half-crawled and half-dived for the door. He crashed into it, feeling his rib flare, and the door flew out on its hinges, slamming against the wall with a satisfactory crash.

  That ought to wake someone, he thought, but he tried to shout for help as well. ‘Please, help, someone,’ he rasped. He could barely hear himself.

  Behind him, he heard Sallax and Brexan, and pulled himself painfully, clumsily to his feet. Neither had yet grabbed him, and he revelled in a wave of adrenalin: he had a chance, freedom looked to be just a few steps away. If he could reach the front room, there might be someone who could help him … One step, then two; he was nearly there. He drew what felt like the biggest, cleanest breath of fresh air he had ever tasted, and prepared a great bellowing cry for help. How can they not help me? he thought. Look at me: I’m cut to pieces, my face is a mess, my clothes are soiled – someone will help me. He shouted, his voice still hoarse but significantly louder than it had been only moments before, ‘Please, some—’

  Carpello was silenced by a crushing blow to the back of his head. He lost consciousness immediately, but his onwards momentum propelled him headlong into the stone fireplace in Nedra’s front room. A sickening crack echoed as his head hit the carved mantelpiece and Carpello’s body fell to the floor. It twitched and jerked for several moments before stilling.

  Sallax and Brexan had reached the door in time to see Carpello take his last flying leap into the mantelpiece. Turning towards the scullery, they saw Nedra standing in mute horror. A splintered log dangled from one hand.

  Sallax reached over to take it.

  ‘Is he a thief?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t mean for him to—‘

  ‘He was an evil man,’ Brexan said, wrapping an arm around Nedra’s shoulders. ‘He was a hideous monster.’

  Nedra nodded, her eyes still wide, taking in the gruesome scene in her dining room.

  ‘We’ll take care of this,’ Sallax said, tossing the log onto the overnight embers. They watched while it caught fire and began crackling brightly.

  ‘The tide will be high soon,’ Nedra said, almost in a daze. ‘I get rid of pallen and lobster shells, gansel bones, whatever. I just leave it a few paces below the high water mark. Half an aven later, it’s gone.’

  Brexan looked over at Sallax, who nodded. ‘That should do just fine.’

  As the tide turned, the three of them stood together among the skeletal stalks of winter cordgrass. Almost everything on the marsh had died, but the remains were still there, frozen and delicate, like finely blown glass. The water had come up, taken Carpello in its frigid embrace and carried his corpulent form out to sea. They could still see him, floating in the distance. Brexan watched closely, hoping to see the inky waters pull him down into the darkness.

  Sallax put an arm around her shoulders. ‘We got what we needed.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s at the old imperial palace.’

  ‘It will be difficult to get in, even more challenging to get back out,’ Sallax lied. He knew it would be suicide to try to assassinate Jacrys in the Barstag family residence.

  ‘But he won’t be expecting us.’

  Alen belted his tunic tightly and pulled his cloak loosely about his neck. Communicating with Fantus, even for those few moments, had drained him noticeably and he had slept like a dead man for the rest of the night. He could have done with another aven or two in bed, but with Churn, Hoyt and Hannah already out and about in Treven, investigating safe passage down the Welstar River, he felt compelled to rouse himself.

  In the bar he armed himself with a flagon of tecan, a hunk of bread and some cheese, then dropped some copper Mareks next to the bread basket. He waved to the innkeeper, gesturing that he would return the flagon later; the innkeeper, absorbed with repairs to a torn leather satchel, nodded in understanding.

  Alen stepped into the street and felt the cold work its way inside the folds of his cloak. Winter was upon Malakasia; this far north it had been for much of the past Moon, but it was colder along the river than it had been descending the foothills and crossing the arable plains south of Treven.

  Treven was more of a large town than a city, but it had a very healthy economy, thanks to its position as the first major settlement upriver from Welstar Palace. Treven’s shipping and merchant fraternity were kept busy running goods in and out of the military encampment next to Prince Malagon’s hilltop residence.

  Hoyt was out searching for a barge captain willing to sign them on – as crew, they’d have legitimate papers to get past the customs officials who checked everyone on the river a
round the military base. Alen wanted an opportunity to reconnoitre, and floating by the encampment was the only way they could come up with to gain even a cursory look at the defences through which they would have to pass to reach the palace.

  As he walked down a steep hill towards the docks, Alen was troubled. The news from Fantus had been disappointing: Nerak was not in Malakasia, so there would be no final battle between the two of them, at least not yet, and there was no password to Welstar. He was still determined to get into the palace, and to kill the magicians who had forced him to remain in hiding since Sandcliff fell.

  You did that to yourself, his conscience chided him.

  He wanted to kill them, and he wanted to kill Bellan. He tried to convince himself it was because she was Nerak’s only opportunity to continue ruling Eldarn from Welstar Palace, but the truth was, Alen wanted Bellan dead because she was Malagon’s daughter. Alen wanted to be the one to look into the girl’s eyes and watch as her life faded. It wouldn’t bring Pikan or Reia back, but that didn’t matter: what mattered was vengeance.

  Fantus had had other troubling news, though: if there was no far portal in the palace, there was no reason to take Hannah, Hoyt and Churn with him – there was certainly no sense risking their lives to achieve his own selfish goal of vengeance for his wife and daughter. He would have to find some way to trick them, to break away and sneak inside the palace alone – perhaps masked by the same spell he had used to hide their horses and satchels outside the forest of ghosts. He smiled at the thought of Hannah’s reaction: she would be furious, she would rave like a madwoman for avens. He hoped news of Steven Taylor and his Larion far portal would persuade her to leave Malakasia and to go with Hoyt – Churn would probably remain behind – to the Eastlands to find Fantus and the other foreigners.

  As he picked his way towards the river, he spotted Hoyt and Churn emerging from a dockside tavern, each carrying a flagon of something. The Pragan giant saw him and raised his in greeting.