Lessek's Key

by Rob Scott; Jay Gordon

  The barge captains had all developed a healthy, if wary, relationship with the region’s customs and naval officers: Prince Malagon’s army needed daily shipments to stay well-fed, well-supplied and ready for immediate deployment. The barge captains didn’t skim too much off the top or forge their papers and in turn the officials looked the other way if a few extra crates of wine, beer or tobacco were unloaded at an unscheduled stop somewhere along the river. Those who ran weapons or who cheated the military simply disappeared; their ships still made the river run, but with a new captain at the helm.

  Millard had dabbled a little in extra trade, but as he looked down at his new crew members nervously marking the naval cutter, he worried that he had allowed his desire for a quick score to cloud his judgment.

  ‘Round that next bend,’ Millard said to himself, ‘and he’ll see where I’m bound. He’ll tack off towards the centre of the river. Good rutting monks, but there’s Sal and the Black Water. You rutters know he’s got at least two crates of root in there. Go follow him for an aven or two.’ But Captain Millard didn’t need to watch to know the cutter was staying right behind him as the River Prince sailed north to the Welstar docks.

  As he navigated the last turn before coming into view of the Welstar military encampment, the captain nodded to a young woman, who hustled up the creaky wooden steps and rooted around in a box beneath the binnacle. She pulled out three small banners, one yellow and green, one blue and white and one bright orange. The captain nodded.

  ‘Run those up, Bree,’ he ordered. The flags that flapped noisily in the brisk wind would tell the cutter that he meant to dock at Welstar and offload crates of vegetables.

  ‘Up in the bow with you, Bree, and keep an eye peeled for our mooring colours.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The girl scurried through the hold and up onto the bow platform. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she watched until one of the dock stewards ran up the same set of coloured pennants. ‘Three, sir,’ she shouted, pointing at the third wooden dock from the end.

  The twenty-one wooden piers jutting from the wharf at Welstar were a hive of activity during any season, but on most winter runs, Millard and his crew never saw Pellia, for the army normally bought everything he carried; he expected them to take all his vegetables this time as well.

  He had promised the strangers two opportunities to take in as much as they could of the Welstar Palace encampment; if the supply officer striding officiously out the dock to greet them cleaned him out today, he would see if the military needed anything hauled downriver to Pellia. If they didn’t require his services, Millard would allow the barge to drift with the current past the old palace while his crew made a few minor repairs – to what, he had no idea yet, but the River Prince was an old tub and there was always something that needed fixing. Then, once the strange foursome had enjoyed their second look at the castle and its grounds, he’d begin the arduous task of tacking back upriver to the narrows north of the Welstar docks. There, Millard would hand over the Mareks to lash on to the next available oxen team, and try to ignore the inane drivel of their driver as the River Dancer was towed upstream to the swirling, deep-water eddies above Treven.

  And if his new crew members were unhappy with that arrangement, he would have them thrown overboard; that was quite sufficient risk for one journey. Millard looked forward to pocketing his silver and being done with this business for good.

  As he headed the barge towards the long row of evenly spaced wooden piers Captain Millard discovered that the cutter was shadowing the River Prince into port.

  ‘Now why would he be coming in here after me?’ he asked the empty bridge. ‘I’ve run up my colours, is all, even a blind man can see I’m shipping winter vegetables. What’s wrong with winter vegetables?’

  He barked orders and the small team of sailors scampered over mountains of wooden crates and boxes, untying tarps and loosening cargo lines. The girl, Bree, remained in the bow, a length of rope in one hand, until they were close enough for her to toss the line to the dock steward waiting near a stanchion.

  The captain felt his hull bump against the wooden dock with a muted thud as the cutter closed in at flank speed. His hands trembled a little as he reached inside his tunic and withdrew his shipping papers. Something was about to happen, but he didn’t have a clue what, or why; instead, he’d behave as normal. If he went along as if everything was normal, producing his manifests, greeting the supply officer, chatting with the customs officials, the pending trouble might somehow pass them by.

  When the cutter furled sheets and dropped anchor off the slip between docks three and four, Captain Millard knew his hopes were for naught: the River Prince was boxed in. He swallowed an order to cut the dock lines and break free, even though his barge could easily smash the cutter to splinters.

  As a squad of soldiers approached at a quick march, the crew began to mill about nervously, looking at the captain for answers; Millard gestured for them to stand down, trying to convey reassurance: it’ll be all right. We’ll be back on the river soon.

  ‘Captain?’ A supply officer he recognised approached along the pier.

  Millard searched for the man’s name, and replied cheerily, ‘Lieutenant Warren,’ waving his manifest again. ‘What’s happening, sir?’

  The officer gave him a look that said he had no idea why the military had taken a sudden interest in the River Prince. ‘Captain, join me on the pier.’

  ‘What’s happening, Lieutenant?’ Millard repeated, moving warily towards the rail. ‘I’m hauling vegetables, and I’m happy to sell them right here.’

  ‘Join me up here, Captain, I need you to comply right away,’ the official said. ‘On orders, I am impounding the River Prince and its cargo until further notice. You and your crew will be placed under arrest.’

  The soldiers lined up along the port rail, weapons drawn. Captain Millard looked back towards the river and saw two ranks of bowmen, arrows nocked, lining the cutter’s rail. There was no escape; he leaned forward and whispered, ‘You are not taking my boat, Warren.’

  The lieutenant did the same, checking to be certain none of the soldiers along the pier heard him. ‘I’m sure it’s all right, sir. Please come with me. The major has been grumpy all this Moon. His foot has been bothering him again.’

  Millard nodded imperceptibly, then shouted to his crew, ‘All hands, up here now. Follow me.’ He jumped ashore and started down the dock.

  ‘They need to relinquish their weapons, sir,’ Lieutenant Warren said, as firmly as he dared.

  ‘They don’t carry weapons, Lieutenant. They’re sailors.’

  ‘The knives, sir.’

  Millard shrugged, irritated, but shouted down regardless, ‘Leave your knives, and anything else you might have on you.’

  Everyone complied; no one said a word. Once everyone was ashore, Captain Millard gripped his manifests in one hand and followed the lieutenant towards the wharf and the major’s office. Halfway down the pier, he had to sidestep the mangiest dog he had ever seen. Its paws were caked with dried blood and it had lost an eye and part of an ear. One of its hind legs appeared to have been broken and mended crookedly. The animal watched him pass, peering at him until he crossed the wharf and entered the customs office.

  When the River Prince made her final turn into the Welstar Palace encampment, Hoyt cursed. ‘I can’t believe he’s going to dock,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t he see them? What’s he thinking?’

  ‘He’s thinking that there is no way to run for a great hulking barge laden full of winter vegetables with little breeze and barely a current. We’d be run down, strafed with arrows, holed and boarded in time to save the cargo before we went down.’ Alen watched past Churn’s shoulder as they were followed towards the docks that reached out into the river like so many skeletal fingers.

  ‘We should run,’ Hoyt insisted.

  ‘Captain Millard makes this stop every time he comes down the river. If he deviates from normal practice, he might as well shout out l
oud that we’re up to something. His only choice is to tie up and go about his business.’ Alen stood and stretched; it was clumsy and awkward, but it did enable him to get a long look at the cutter in the distance. ‘We’ll follow Millard’s orders, but we will keep our wits about us; we did not come all the way down here to get arrested because some halfwit bargee has fennaroot stashed somewhere between the potatoes and the greenroot. Keep your heads down. Speak only when one of them asks you a direct question. We don’t need any additional attention drawn to us.’

  Hannah said, ‘So you think they’re after Captain Millard?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Alen said. ‘Maybe this is standard procedure.’

  ‘Look at Millard,’ she said. ‘He’s too stiff; he hasn’t looked at them, not once. This isn’t standard; he’s sweating like a guilty pig.’

  ‘Either way, we can’t fight our way out of this, so until we know what’s happening, we play along. Agreed?’

  The others nodded, Hoyt somewhat hesitantly.

  As the barge got blocked in, Hoyt whispered to Hannah, ‘This is bad.’

  When the squad formed along the port rail and drew their swords, Hannah replied, ‘I think it just got worse.’

  ‘You’re not joking.’ Hoyt forced a half smile.

  ‘Look,’ she said under her breath. ‘It looks like the captain knows that one.’

  ‘He’s a supply officer. I’m sure they know each other.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll tell Millard what’s going on.’

  ‘And maybe he’ll have us all hanged for treason.’

  Hannah shivered as a sharp wind blew off the river. She stepped closer to Churn; maybe being near the Pragan giant would help her feel more at ease. She welcomed the feel of his massive hand on her shoulder as she whispered, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not good,’ Churn signed with one hand. ‘Stay near me.’

  Hoyt dropped his knife when ordered, but retained the silver scalpel; he’d been able to hide the small blade before. He hoped the search was cursory. They followed the River Prince’s crew along the pier, all careful to avoid eye contact with any of the soldiers escorting them towards a rank of stone buildings. The wharf marked the riverside entrance to the village that supported the palace and the military encampment. They were all silent, until Hannah passed by the filthy dog padding back and forth along the pier excitedly, its hind leg oddly out of rhythm with the other three.

  ‘My dog,’ she blurted suddenly, but quickly fell silent again.

  They were herded to the customs office, then left outside under guard while Captain Millard went in to find out what was going on. None of the crew spoke; Hoyt and Churn wandered off a few paces and then turned to face the others.

  Hannah, following Churn’s directive to stay close, moved to join him, until he signed, ‘wait there’.

  She looked at them: to an observer, they were just crewmembers, nervous, shuffling their feet and waiting to see what was about to happen, but with a few paces separating them, they could each check the area for possible routes to freedom, should the discussion going on inside the major’s office go badly.

  Hoyt nodded pleasantly to one of their guards and signed, ‘What dog?’

  It took a moment for Hannah to understand, but after Hoyt repeated the gesture several times, she finally got it. ‘Sorry. My dog. Back there, the dog from my …’ She didn’t know the sign for dream, or vision, but they appeared to understand what she meant.

  ‘That was Alen’s dog. The dog from my …’ Hoyt gestured as if he was waving flies away from his face; Hannah guessed that was Churn’s sign for dream.

  ‘It’s real?’ Churn asked.

  ‘It is a real dog, but it isn’t mine, and it wasn’t Hannah’s.’ Alen joined the conversation.

  ‘Branag’s!’ Hoyt exclaimed out loud, then hid his outburst behind a feigned coughing spasm.

  ‘What?’ Hannah asked.

  Hoyt’s hands moved quickly, but he punctuated his comments with coughing fits, hoping to cover the curious way he was standing alone waving his hands about. ‘It’s Branag’s dog, the old dog that follows him everywhere. That’s his dog.’

  Churn turned to look along the dock; the dog was coming towards them. ‘You’re right!’ Churn agreed. ‘That’s Branag’s wolfhound. Remember?’

  Now Hannah remembered: Southport, and the dog that padded back and forth down the short hallway between the saddlery shop and the workroom in the back. She, Hoyt and Churn had hidden in there for days after Churn killed the soldier along the road above the village. The dog had made for pleasant company. She signed, ‘Why is it here?’

  ‘It must be following us. That’s why we were stopped. They knew we were coming.’

  ‘How can that be?

  ‘You came through the portal. Nerak knew.’

  ‘So he sent a dog to follow me?’

  ‘Not him, no.’

  ‘Who?’ Hannah was confused now.

  ‘I think I know who.’ Alen turned towards the palace which rose above the army encampment and the village.

  ‘It came this far? How can that be?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Look at it. The thing is a mess,’ Hoyt signed. The wolfhound limped over to Alen and nuzzled the old man’s palm; Alen patted it on the head, leaned over and whispered into the animal’s remaining ear, ‘You tell him I’m here. It’s Kantu. You tell him, wherever you are. Tell him to come out here and meet me. I’m waiting.’

  The dog growled and Alen stood back up, turning away from it.

  ‘What did you say?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘I told it goodbye.’ Alen’s face was angry; he mouthed a few words, nothing anyone around him could hear. Then feigning an itch on his opposite shoulder, he gestured towards the animal as it backed away across the wharf. Almost immediately, the dog began to cough, raspy and laboured. It started panting for breath and it turned to yelp in their direction, then, dragging its crooked hind leg, Branag’s old wolfhound, emaciated and scarred, slunk behind a stack of pallets.

  The door to the customs house flew open and an angry Captain Millard stepped into the street growling. ‘Gouty whoreson, no wonder his foot’s bad.’ He waved his copy of the River Prince’s manifest at the upstairs window, an act of defiance. Lieutenant Warren followed closely behind.

  ‘Tell them, Captain, and make sure they come peacefully. I would hate to have your crew—Well, you know.’ It was obvious that the major had just berated Lieutenant Warren for allowing the furious captain anywhere near his private office.

  ‘Oh, shut up Warren,’ Millard said, ignoring the fact that he was insulting a Malakasian officer with a squad of armed soldiers standing by.

  ‘What do we do?’ Hannah signed, her hands shaking.

  ‘Wait,’ Alen replied. ‘Just wait.’

  Lieutenant Warren’s response shocked all of them, Captain Millard most of all, as he drew a short sword and levelled its point at Millard’s throat. ‘Soldier!’ Warren barked, and the squad immediately stood to attention.

  ‘Sir!’ shouted the man nearest.

  ‘Bind this man. If he speaks again, bind his mouth. If he resists at all, kill him. Understood?’

  ‘Sir!’ He pulled a length of rope from his pocket and gestured at the captain, who was still gripping his winter vegetable manifest.

  For the first time Millard looked scared as his hands were bound behind his back.

  ‘They aren’t going to kill us,’ Hoyt signed.

  ‘How do you know?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Because they’re tying him up, not hanging him.’

  Lieutenant Warren gestured to five soldiers from the squad. ‘Take the crew and get the barge unloaded.’ As the soldiers started moving, the lieutenant interrupted, ‘Not those four. They’re coming with me. Bind them hand and mouth. If they resist or speak out of turn, kill them. We need only one of them alive. Confine Captain Millard to his cabin, bound, until he learns to control his tongue or until I order his release. Understood?’

  ‘Sir,’
the squad responded in unison.

  Hannah heard a rush of sound, like a great blast of wind that drowned out the noise of the docks and she began to shake. ‘Not inside the palace,’ she said. ‘They can’t take us in there. Please, no.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Alen signed. ‘It will be all right, but you have to be quiet.’ Then they tied his hands.

  Churn looked to Hoyt, his hands still free. ‘Now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not now. Inside.’

  The big man relaxed, dropped his arms to his side and allowed the soldiers to bind his wrists. One of them prodded him in the back of the knees with the flat of a sword. ‘Kneel down,’ he ordered, and Churn complied quietly; the soldier was not tall enough to reach his mouth.

  Before they could gag him, Alen called out, ‘Lieutenant, please.’

  Warren cocked an eyebrow at the old man.

  ‘Can I speak?’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘Prince Malagon’s daughter, Bellan, can you tell me if she has changed yet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Changed. Begun wearing gloves all the time? Maybe taken to her chambers and not been seen for days?’

  Lieutenant Warren looked at him in curiosity. ‘Because the chances are slim that you will live through the day, old man, I’ll tell you that I have never been above the lower level of the palace, and I have only been in there once. I don’t like going up that hill, and since you are the reason I have to go up there today, I don’t like you. I have never seen Princess Bellan, nor do I care what she wears. But I will tell you that if you speak to me of her again, I will run you through myself. Do you understand?’

  ‘One last question?’ Alen dared.

  Lieutenant Warren shook his head in mock-despair and put his band on his sword-hilt. ‘I told you, old man, I would—’

  ‘Get word to the palace; let them know that Kantu is here. They’ll know who I am. Just let them know. Kantu.’