“I’ve taken a few liberties, but I doubt you’ll find any of them disagreeable. A friend of mine is a spice broker from Sorsetta—far past the Sun King’s land to the south—with business all over Geadhain. Ran into him down at the docks when I was barely one foot out the door, and it just so happens that he is having some troubles of his own, and plans on staying at The Silk Purse, staying low, for a while. He’s a man that doesn’t particularly want to be himself right now, which leaves the opportunity for someone else to fill that vacancy.”
Maggie cinched the fabric at Thackery’s neck with a silver clasp and then clutched his shoulders. “When I said he has business all over Geadhain, I meant that, literally: from Eod to the Iron City. With his papers, which he was kind enough to provide me with, you can walk right into Menos.”
Part of Thackery wanted to laugh, but the dread awareness that he would be stepping again into the Iron City choked the excitement. He was somber as he said, “That’s brilliant, my dear. You’ve saved us so much trouble. Ages ago, I took your kin out of the Iron City, and here you are returning me to it. A certain poetry to that, I suppose.”
“Wait,” said Caenith, and strode over to join them. He had figured out the cloak, even if it was a tad lopsided. “How will this work? Do these men even look the same?”
Maggie smiled. “I mean this as kindly as it can be said, but all old gentlemen tend to look alike. Jebidiah is bald and thin, and Thackery has a hood to conceal what differences there might be. As long as you don’t go shaking hands with any acquaintances of his, I suspect no one will know any better. His vessel, which you’ll be sailing on, is privately manned and the captain has been instructed of the ruse.”
Caenith still wasn’t entirely convinced. “If he is a spice merchant, who am I, then?”
“His muscle, obviously,” answered Maggie.
She reached into the folds of her dress, pulled out a leather packet, and handed it to Thackery. “Jebidiah Rotbottom is your name. Unfortunate, I know, and I imagine he never had much fun around the playground. Well, that’s not true, actually. Before turning to the spice trade, the Rotbottoms were herbalists. In the South, there’s a rather famous disease called rotbottom where everything comes out the…you can imagine. Anyhow, it’s Jebidiah’s ancestors who put the sickness on the run through their herbs and remedies. That’s how they got their name, and it’s a prestigious one, so it will get you places that many can’t go.”
“Who is this Rotbottom on the run from?” frowned Caenith.
“A supplier in the South, with whom business arrangements have soured. Far south, in the Sun King’s lands. No one you should run into from here and Menos, and I imagine you can defend yourself against a few thugs, if it came to that. He wouldn’t say much more. In any case, speed and silence will be your allies. Don’t stay in one place for too long, and don’t go making any noise. You never know who is listening, especially in Blackforge or beyond, where the ears of the Iron Queen are plentiful.”
Maggie rustled in her prestidigitator’s pockets and removed a jangling purse. She passed that to Thackery as well. “There’s some folds in your overcoat to hold all that. Along with Jebidiah’s papers, you have one hundred fates and one hundred crowns, which should see to any expense. Don’t worry about losing Rotbottom’s papers; I’m sure that’s not his only set or the only identity he values. The man sheds skins like a snake.”
“I don’t know what to say. It sounds as if you’ve thought of everything,” exclaimed Thackery, and hugged Cordenzia’s blood with gratitude.
Maggie’s embrace was as heartfelt as his was. “I may not have done all the things my mum and Gran wished of me: never took a man, put down the needle so I could run a house of leisure, even moved back into the old neighborhood—good for business, having a hero’s name attached.” She chuckled. “But I never, not for a speck, forgot the story of Whitehawk. So I would thank you for giving a girl dreams and fancies to occupy her. For teaching her the value of maintaining integrity and honor, even if you never taught those lessons directly.”
They held each other awhile longer, and knew that they were delaying an already late farewell. Finally, they pulled apart. Thackery found the pockets that Maggie had mentioned and placed his valuables inside them.
“Let’s get you two on your way,” said Maggie.
Down into the tavern they went. As they were leaving the loud room, the Wolf noticed a scrawny old man drinking by himself at a table. That must be Jebidiah, he knew, for he detected a comparable scent between the leather wallet in Thackery’s possession and that man. I guess all old slow-walkers do look the same. Outside, the air was thick with afternoon heat and sweaty, packed bodies, yet being close to the waterfront brought relief in on-and-off gusts of wind. They did not talk as they walked, and Caenith allowed his heightened senses to rove a little off their leash: to teasing tangs of seaweed and fresh fish, the crisp calls of gulls, and the rocking lure of the waves. It was incredible how much his perceptions had grown since the Fuilimean, and while he had never said so to Thackery, his ability to cross Kor’Khul in days was a feat that he could not have accomplished a week ago. His great strength had been made greater through Morigan’s blood. Soon, my Fawn. Soon I shall have you, and I can thank you for how you have changed me. A man who thought he was too old for any change.
When they had crossed the large promenade and come to the wooden planks of the harbor, Caenith’s moment of tranquility was ruined by a twinge of familiar scent: metal and musk, the oily fragrance of a woman who wielded steel so often as to smell like it. His puffing nostrils took control of his head, and he stopped, turned, and scanned the crowd hundreds of strides deep. There, everything paused, and he saw an image as clearly as through a pane of glass. A woman. She wasn’t in armor, but her broad carriage and stern brown jaw betrayed her, despite her heavy cloak.
“The sword of the queen,” he muttered.
“Pardon me?” said Thackery, who hadn’t quite heard.
Caenith pulled him aside and pointed down the boardwalk. At first, Thackery could not make out who or what he was looking for. However, Caenith’s whisper of Rowena acted like a magik charm in assisting him, and he spotted the woman—along with a blond companion who appeared familiar—strolling toward them through the masses.
“By the kings!” he exclaimed. “What is she doing here?”
“Looking for us, I suspect,” grumbled Caenith.
Maggie added herself to the huddle. “Who? Who is looking for you?”
At that moment, Rowena’s gaze drifted in their direction and widened; although only Caenith could see this. She noticed the three of them crouched as conspirators and whispering, with the smith’s size declaring his identity. Rowena elbowed her companion and the two broke into a run.
“They’ve seen us! The ship! Where is the ship?” demanded Caenith.
Maggie answered. “Three piers down! The Red Mary. Red as a whore’s bottom. You can’t miss it! Go! I shall delay them!”
With a pinched look of remorse, Thackery was hauled away by his large companion. Their pursuers were closing quickly, knocking over pedestrians in their haste, and she had few specks for a plan. Think, Maggie! Think! She saw some crates and contemplated knocking them over, as pitiful a delay as that would cause, when suddenly a dripping shadow fell over her. She looked up and grinned at the netted haul of the Feordhan, and then followed the arm of the rickety crane and raced toward its source. In a toll-booth-shaped cubicle, walled in glass and wood, she found the operator of the machine: a mariner so tanned and creased that his age was indeterminable. She rapped on the glass for his attention. He brushed under his bristly chin in the universal sign for fuk off until she produced from her bottomless skirt another purse and promised to give him all of it if he only did as she asked. Taroch’s Arm was a realm of free commerce, where no good deal was denied, and even as she explained the ridiculousness of what he was to do, he did not back down from the bargain. Maggie whipped around to the crowd and fo
und Thackery’s speeding pursuers. She held up her hand, fingers spread—waiting, waiting, just a few more steps—and then snapped it into a fist. Somewhere in his booth, the mariner flipped a switch, and without warning or fanfare, the bulbous net, swaying like a fat cloud over the boardwalk, released its binding cords and dumped its slimy cargo. There were screams and noises of hysteria, which calmed to laughter for the most part, as people slid and flopped about in the fish pile as if they were fish themselves. The cloaked woman and the blond man were among the downed, though she was quickly hitching herself to stand using a shining blade. She reached for her sopping, cursing companion, and he ended up pulling her back into the mess, where they rolled about like jesters and Maggie lost track of them.
Maggie stayed a speck longer to make certain that the rain of fish hadn’t injured anyone too seriously, and then left her coin for the cranesman and thought it best to disappear. While fleeing, she cast a look to the east and was happy to see a red shape cutting through the waters.
Safe travels, Whitehawk, she prayed. May you bring another lost soul home from the Black City.
VII
The waters of the Feordhan smelled of briny, ancient freedom to the Wolf: of years and secrets greater and older than his. He found the salty bluster an inspiration to their journey. It was like a wind pushing against his sails, encouraging him to move on, promising him that Morigan and he would be united soon. From the prow of the Red Mary, Thackery watched the river with his companion. They had not spoken after arriving on the boat, which was as easy to locate as Maggie had stated. Only the blind could miss a long steel ship, lacquered red as a concubine’s fingernails and inscribed with the name Red Mary along its hull. Jebidiah had a proclivity for whimsy. They saw more of this as they were welcomed aboard by groomed seamen onto a deck that was clear of sailing apparatuses, rigging, or masts, and was decorated like a pleasure vessel with bolted benches and awnings for shade, and stairs leading to a second deck where lounging sun-chairs were set. Once the anchor was raised, the hirsute and handsome captain introduced himself to the Red Mary’s passengers and set sail without a single question as to the urgency that they presented to him. Since then, the deckhands had been mysteriously absent, but for a hale, often shirtless gentleman or two who would pop up and attend to any nourishment that they asked for, until even Caenith had his fill. After pacing, peeing off the deck, or lying about on the deck, the two eventually found themselves lured to the water. Enough time had passed that the sky was darkening and the stars were readying to prick their way through the firmament: mere hints of light now, but what a glorious night it would be on the Feordhan.
“An unusual ship, it carves through these rough waters like a sword,” the Wolf said abruptly. “It was a good idea coming to Taroch’s Arm. I thank you for that. You have brought wisdom into a head clouded with rage.”
“Rage…yes,” mumbled Thackery. “You should be angry. Perhaps at me, as well, for I remain burdened by thoughts that I am somehow responsible for Morigan’s capture.”
Caenith glared at him; not with cruelty, but harshly nonetheless. “You have said this before. Explain yourself.”
Glancing elsewhere, Thule leaned over the railing and wished for the river to blow him the courage to speak. Someone had to know the truth. All of it. When he was ready, he turned to Caenith, though he was surprised by the manic, toothy grimace of the man and shocked more by the howl that he suddenly released to the skies. He forgot his confession and asked instead, “What is it?”
“Morigan,” panted the Wolf, and tapped his temple. “She’s speaking! She’s free!”
VIII
Back in The Silk Purse, Maggie helped herself to a drink. Jebidiah was still swilling his sorrows, though drunkenly bobbing along to a bard that had appeared near the hearth. Jebidiah could have been an old bard himself: once handsome and lean, now bald, wrinkled, and skinny, though the essence of an adventurous spirit clung in cold remembrance in his gaze, and his clothing was light and as gaily red as a performer’s—typical, considering a Sorsettan’s lust for color. The old merchant seemed amiable, more so than he had been in the morning, so she went to keep him company. He welcomed her without a word, and she ordered a meal and limitless wine for them each, which elicited a smile from Jebidiah, if still no conversation. The bard crooned an epic about a maiden pining for her love that went on for nearly an hourglass, by which time she was pleasantly drunk. Loose enough with her tongue to ask what troubles plagued the merchant.
“So, how much do you owe the man, Jebidiah?”
This provoked an immediate response. “Ssh! I am Myrtul. Myrtul Hawkins.”
“Myrtul, then,” she snickered, placing her elbows on the table to get closer to her companion. “You’re as slippery as they come, and I’ve never seen you do anything but laugh in the face of threats. You must have royally pissed off this supplier of yours to come scurrying here. What was his name again?”
Her companion clutched his goblet, and his eyes darted as if he were a hunted animal. He wasn’t scared; he was terrified. After a moment, he stopped trembling enough to stutter out a few words.
“I didn’t…I never said a name.” Jebidiah shook his head. “I…I…I may have overstepped myself.”
Maggie waited for him to continue. It was a long wait.
“The spice trade, you see, it was never really enough.”
“Enough?” she asked.
“Enough coin,” said her companion. He tossed back his wine, hunched nearer, and the story began to spill. “Not to sustain my habits, which have grown ever more complex and expensive over the years. My jewels and silks are bitter comforts to a lonely soul. While I have no children, I have many mouths to feed. Many men who rely upon my caregiving and generosity. Expensive, so expensive.”
Maggie knew of the merchant’s predilection for hearty, able-bodied fellows who enjoyed the brotherhood of others like themselves. She had also been aboard the Red Mary, met its handsome crew, and watched how they fawned over Jebidiah like a gaggle of hens. Indeed, paying for a family of courtesans surely wasn’t the cheapest vice, she considered.
“What did you do?” she hissed. “Who are you running from? You said that you were in a pinch of trouble. A pinch. This certainly sounds like more than that.”
Jebidiah fluttered his hand. “As I was saying, I found that a ship as fast as the Red Mary was in demand to transport other, more lucrative cargos than perfumes and spices. Witchroot—still a spice, in a sense. Or Kurakik poisons for the black markets of Menos. That was definitely ignoble, I’ll give you that. But never anything more than those small sins, I promise you. At least not until this last request.” Jebidiah looked as if he might weep. “You have to understand that I didn’t know what was being asked of me. What I would have to transport. I never would have agreed.” Jebidiah stopped himself from talking and his stare went cagey. “Swear to me that you will not cast me out if I share this with you, for I have no one else to turn to. I know that what I have done—what I almost did—is a matter near and dear to your heart. A matter that you have certain sensitivities toward.”
“Certain sensitivities,” she muttered.
Jebidiah nodded.
Cordenzia and her daughter had raised a woman who could stand head and shoulders to their greatness and fortitude, and Maggie couldn’t think of much that would unsettle her. Except…
“Spit it out. What was the cargo?” she demanded.
“Livestock, the master said. But I should have known.”
A pause.
“People,” he whispered.
Maggie recoiled, yet Jebidiah was quick to snatch her hands. Luckily, the bard and chatter drowned out his hectic pitch. “I didn’t do it! I couldn’t! All those trembling savages, penned and shiting themselves on my dear Red Mary! My lads gave me the most heinous stares, though I did not need their accusation to burden my remorse, which was crushing! I let them go… dropped the wretches off in the forested hills north of Blackforge. I have no idea what
will become of the poor creatures, but I did justice’s work in setting them free. I even gave them what arms my men could spare and a few days’ worth of food, and then I headed straight here. For I knew I was marked. You do not defy a”—he spat the next bit with venom—“Menosian master, an Iron sage, and live in peace thereafter.”
“Menosian master?” exclaimed Maggie, cupping her mouth lest she draw scathing glances. As much restraint as she showed, her mind was frantic. Inadvertently, she had betrayed Thackery as well as sticking the knife in herself.
“What were you thinking?” she whispered. “This is no petty debtor you’ve scorned! You’ve just endangered a hero! You should have told me that you were hiding from a master of Menos! I never—”
“Would have helped me,” said Jebidiah, pouting. “I know. And you weren’t listening clearly. Not a master, but an Iron sage, Moreth of El. Ruler of the blood pits. Those men and women were bound for death in the ring. What have I done? What have I done?” Jebidiah held his head and let out a quiet sob.
“You did a good thing,” said Maggie, absently consoling him with a hand. “You are a stupid, lying fool, but you at least acted with honor when the choice was thrust upon you. We can keep you here for a time. But you are right, if Moreth calls for your head, nowhere between Eod and Menos is safe for you. Farther to the west, you might have hope. Your concern is the lesser of my problems, however, for I must think of how I am to get a message to the man that you have damned with your carelessness and lies. I hope it is not too late.”
A fishy breeze came over her, like sardines left in the sun. Something behind her startled Jebidiah into clutching himself. She knew she was in trouble before the heavy hand clamped on her shoulder.
“That’s the problem with Taroch’s Arm,” muttered a voice into her ear. “You can pay a man for any service, but silence on the deed is another fee altogether. You must not have made that part of your arrangement down at the harbor. Galivad and Rowena of Eod, here on the authority of Her Majesty, and we would have a word with you, tavernkeep.”
Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) Page 37