Alliance of the Sunken (Spies of Dragon and Chalk Book 3)

by Samuel Gately

  Jenner hesitated. “At first it was just desperation. But when Geoffrey,” he practically spat out the name, “and I arrived at the border, at the war camp…it was ready to blow up. Everyone was miserable and terrified. They were ready to tear each other to pieces in frustration at the Borhele. The camp was only united in one thing. They trusted the Castalanian and the Corvale to make the right decisions. I don’t know if that’s leadership or just making due with the hand you’ve been dealt. But I know you’ve never heard a quieter room than when Mast entered the command post. His orders were executed immediately and without question. No two members of that camp could agree where to put a latrine when Mast wasn’t there, and when he was they did exactly what he told them. Everyone knew those two were the only chance they had of surviving.”

  “And are they my only chance?”

  “I don’t know. But you need chances. And we’ve gotten closer in the past couple days, more than the weeks before that.”

  “And the years before that.” The Queen turned back to look at the moon, considered Jenner’s words. “Do they think me odd, the staff, for staring at the moon? Is that one of the reasons they call me the Ghost Queen?”

  “No one ever uses that name in my presence.” Jenner’s mouth tightened, his hand straying to his sword as though offenders stood in front of him.

  She gave a faint smile. “It reminds me of her. Of Kylee. When she was a baby, she would point at it. Later, as she grew, she had quite the talent for finding it. It is something we take for granted, that it floats above us and shapes our tides. She never did. She would always excitedly point out the moon when we stepped outside. Later, as she grew older and was shamed out of the habit, I learned to watch her eyes. They would unfailingly seek out the moon the instant she stepped to a window or walked outside. And she would give a small smile, meant only for herself. That I alone knew to look for it, so I could share in it, that was my pride. That is the piece of me that will never be broken. That will never be taken from me.”

  She gestured up towards the sky. “Ironic that the moon should be a fixture in her kidnapping and the threat to my other daughter. But I choose not to allow it to become a symbol of fear. It is not responsible for the filth and cowardice of those who gaze upward. They are our burden to bear.”

  She looked out on the harbor, the moon’s reflection in the still waters. “I dream of standing right here, on this balcony, quietly watching it with her by my side, her sister safely inside reading one of the romances she loves so dearly.” Her eyes were wet. “If she lives, can you bring her home, Jenner? I refuse to believe she is dead.”

  “I don’t know. I failed to keep her safe once. But I would gladly trade my life for the opportunity to return her to you, my Queen.”

  “If it comes to that, I have no doubt you would.”

  Chapter 22. To Be Forgiven

  Short on options, Aaron returned to The Red Fish and retraced his steps to the house near the harbor which hid the gate he’d used to visit Locke. His hope was to get back under the Plate and see if the Sunken knew where Cal was. A fresh bribe for the gatekeeper was in his pocket. But when he turned the corner of the dark street near the harbor, there was a line of wetcloaks outside the door of the gatekeeper’s house. Aaron wasn’t the only one looking to get under the Plate. There were hundreds, all with their pointed blue and green hoods up. No one made a sound. None of them carried a light. They were waiting quietly, in the dark of the street, to enter, shuffling forward every few seconds as another vanished through the doorway.

  Aaron studied the line from the shadows. There was something ominous about it. The cultlike behavior. The quiet shuffling, almost in unison. The pointed tops of the hoods, like a shark’s fin. It felt like any moment they would swarm, descend on anyone who could be separated, who differed from them in dress or belief. The cloaks came in all shapes. Men and women of all sizes, even children. One child at the back, waiting patiently between two larger shapes. The same size as the girl he’d encountered outside Madame Jane’s apartment.

  Aaron stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street, trying to look all directions at once. When he reached the girl, he stood beside her and tapped her shoulder. She ignored him. He looked in front and behind her. None of the wetcloaks were reacting to his presence. He tapped her again. No reaction. With a hand on his knife hilt, he reached out and pulled her hood off her head. It was the girl he’d seen earlier. She flushed with anger and pulled the hood back over her face, then went back to ignoring him, pretending it had never happened.

  It was an eerie feeling to be so disregarded, as though he wasn’t a part of what was happening. A part of what he’d felt when he’d been shown the past with Madame Jane. The idea, the sense that he didn’t belong here. It wasn’t exactly welcome, but sometimes being invisible made collecting intelligence much easier. If each wanted to be left alone, they weren’t likely to take any collective action.

  Aaron walked forward, pulling the hood off everyone in the line, one by one, checking faces. They all reacted much the same as the girl had. A flush of irritation or a simple stoic glare, and the hood was pulled back up. His interruptions were being tolerated as nothing more than a violation of protocol, something more important at play here.

  Aaron checked everyone in the line up to the door, then stepped inside. The gatekeeper was nowhere to be seen. The line of wetcloaks continued down the narrow hallway. Aaron kept pulling hoods. He paused when he recognized the waitress who had served him at The Red Fish the other night. The one who’d vanished after giving him the map to this place.

  “Where’s Locke?” he asked. “Are you going to see him?”

  She ignored him, staring straight ahead. He drew out his knife and waved it in front of her eyes, but she showed no fear. After a moment, he grunted in disgust and continued forward. He didn’t recognize the next man. The woman after that was clearly wealthy, pearl earrings under her hood. The man after her was poor, weathered from working in the sun all day. There was nothing connecting the people except that they all wore the cloaks. And they all were here, apparently piling under the Plate, using Locke’s gate. The next man was bald, small head atop a thick neck, saggy flesh under his eyes looking like leather.

  Aaron moved past him when the man didn’t react beyond raising his hood, as the others had. Then Aaron stopped and turned back. He pulled the man’s hood down again, his expression hardening. He leaned in close, watching the man’s eyes quickly flicker to Aaron and back forward. Aaron slowly raised his knife and pressed it against the man’s throat. “I know you,” he whispered in the man’s ear. “We’ve never met, but I’ve seen you. You’re the muskrat man’s partner.”

  Aaron gritted his teeth as the image of the two men loading a struggling, bound girl onto a flatboat came back to him. The muskrat man and this other one. This one who was now standing in front of him, waiting in line to escape from the consequences of his actions.

  The man looked at him in confusion, glancing down at the knife and briefly shaking his head before looking forward again and ignoring Aaron.

  “Move to the side,” Aaron said, adding some pressure to the knife’s edge. “That way.” He pointed towards a door off the hallway.

  “Leave me be,” the man said quietly. “My turn is coming.”

  “Not a chance,” Aaron said. “I saw what you did. I watched you sell that girl.”

  The man’s eyes grew worried. “Leave me be,” he whispered. “Leave me be. Whatever you think I did, I have been forgiven.”

  “Step out of line. I don’t see anyone ready to help you. Just like no one came to help that girl you sold to the Sunken.” At that last, some of the nearby wetcloaks shifted, sneaking looks at Aaron, breaking their discipline.

  “Be quiet,” the man whispered more urgently.

  “Get out of line. You’re going to answer some questions. If I’m satisfied when we’re finished, I’ll let you get back into line. I’ll even help you back into your place. If you don’t
move, now, I’ll just cut your throat right here. Doesn’t look like any of your friends would lift a finger. They’d just step right over your body, pretend your blood wasn’t getting on their pretty robes. So step out of line. Or die. Those are your only choices.”

  The man looked around as though hoping someone would come to his aid, then looked forward again, as if ignoring Aaron would make him disappear. Aaron pressed the knife harder against the flesh of his throat. Finally, the man gave a soft moan and stepped out of line. He walked to the door, Aaron behind him with the knife at his back.

  They entered a dark room and Aaron pulled the door shut behind them. He lit a match, using its flickering light to find a candle among the cluttered surfaces of what looked to have once been a pantry. It was disused and dusty, stuffed with old and broken tables and chairs. Aaron turned back to the wetcloak, who was trembling in the pale light.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Trey. Trey Miller.” The man spoke hesitantly, hushed and quiet, his eyes continually straying towards the door.

  “I’ve got some questions, Trey. As you can imagine, most concern a night three years ago.”

  “We’ve been forgiven.”

  “You and Brooks?” Aaron asked.

  Trey nodded.

  “By whom?”

  The man looked around the room as though the walls were closing in. He said nothing.

  “Who forgave you? Who are you allied with? You sold the girl to Odell. Now you wait in a line to see Locke?”

  Trey paled at Odell’s name and started shaking his head.

  “It wasn’t on Odell’s orders that you sold that girl? I saw you. He waited for you in the harbor. He knew you were coming. I saw you get paid.”

  “You don’t know what I’m risking, even being in this room with you,” the man said. “Let me get back in line. We’re so close. Let me get back.” His voice grew more desperate. “We’ll never bother anyone again. Let me be. Let me get back in line.”

  “Is the girl still alive? The one you sold? Is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know.” His whisper was broken.

  “Did you take her on Odell’s orders? Or Locke’s?”

  The man shook his head. “No, Locke had nothing to do with that. He made Brooks and me…he didn’t like that we’d done it. But I think telling him about it helped.”

  Aaron waited.

  “It was Odell. He made contact with Brooks. Offered gold. Brooks brought me in. I didn’t understand what we were doing. I had no idea. I’ve spent the last three years trying to forget that night. But Brooks and me have been forgiven. Locke says we can join him with the others.”

  “So you’re going to Locke?” The man didn’t answer. “Who’s coming for the other princess? Locke? Odell? Lord Gale? Who made those footprints in the Palace? On the last full moon?”

  The man wasn’t talking, now trembling like a leaf, looking at the candle’s flame and ignoring all else. Then he spoke so softly Aaron could barely hear him from inches away. “I did.”

  “You?” Aaron’s skin grew cold. “But why? Why you? Does that mean no one is coming for her?”

  “Locke told me to. Now let me back in line. I’ve already said too much.”

  “Who’s coming for her?” No answer. “Is the other daughter coming back?” No answer. “Why is Locke bringing the wetcloaks under the Plate?” No answer.

  “Let me back in line. I don’t know anything else that can help you. Let me back in line.”

  Aaron looked at Trey a long time, the wavering candlelight painting his scared face. Something of the way the light played off his features reminded Aaron of the green lights of Surdoore falling on the princess’s face as she’d been thrown over, a child fed to monsters in exchange for a bag of gold.

  “Locke may have told you that you were forgiven,” Aaron said, tightening the grip on his knife, “but that doesn’t begin to settle the score in my book.”

  He brought his knife hilt down hard on Trey’s head, knocking him out. Aaron turned, looking back at the door, but heard no response from the other wetcloaks. When the room remained silent for a moment, he leaned over and began stripping the man of his cloak.

  As he worked, he muttered towards the man’s face, “I don’t know why Locke should be in charge of deciding who is forgiven and who isn’t. I’d like to learn more about that. And definitely why he had you leave those footprints. Since you don’t seem to know much, I think I’ll take these questions straight to your boss.”

  Aaron threw the blue and green cloak on over his clothes, doused the candle, and walked back to the hallway. He forced his way into the line. He looked forward and back but, as before, no one interfered, everyone minding their own business. Aaron tucked his knife away and put up his hood, keeping his head down as he shuffled forward in unison with the others, awaiting his turn at the open gate.

  Chapter 23. The Mind Elsewhere

  The Palace cells were in the basement. All the walls were of stone, the kind that seemed to always leak dirty, greenish water. The light from the torches which lined the halls was swallowed by the wet darkness. Jon was leaned back against the hallway wall, positioned where he could see both the door to the room where they held the prisoner and the door to the exit stairwell. There were too many of Lorimer’s crew milling about for his comfort, even with the Queen’s Guards in attendance.

  The noise from the prisoner’s room had died down a couple minutes ago. Jon had never been a fan of torture. He had learned quickly in his role as an investigator for the Castalan Navy that a man under pressure will look for the quickest escape route. That was usually inventing a story that pleased their captors or pointing the finger in whichever direction they were nudged. Nudge them hard enough and they would slowly grow to accept that if same finger were pointed at themselves, then they could get out of the chair. Leave the consequences for tomorrow. Under the knife and flame, the lowest of the low became master storytellers for an audience of fools.

  Lorimer possessed no such insights, or maybe he was just better at turning the screws than Jon. He’d been in the room for nearly two hours. Based on the screams, it had been a difficult time for Brooks Borland. Jon searched for sympathy but could find none for the man who’d stolen a child and handed her to a nightmare.

  The door opened and Lorimer emerged, wiping his bloody hands on a white towel. He looked exhausted, his long, grey coat hanging open to show his thick gut. He had a few quiet words for one of his men, then sent him off with a nod. Jon could see a few others in the room but it looked like all activity had died down. Lorimer looked around the hall, his eyes settling on Jon. He began walking down the hall towards him, heavy tread ringing through the quiet space.

  “Learn anything?” Jon asked.

  Lorimer leaned in close, squinting in the torchlight, never quite looking at Jon’s face. “Guess how much I want to see you here, Sleepy?” He finished wiping his hands and threw the bloody towel by the wall behind him. He scanned the hall, up and down, then started walking towards an open cell door. “Come on.”

  Jon followed. Lorimer entered the cell and waved impatiently for Jon to do the same. When Jon looked around, hesitant to join him, Lorimer gave a sigh. “Get the fuck in here. Give me a fucking break. I’m gonna kill you at the Palace?”

  He stared Jon down as Jon entered the cell. “That’s what you see? That’s what I am to you?”

  Jon met his eyes. “You were getting set to feed one of my friends to the threshers last night. If you thought that was gonna make things smoother between us, I have to disappoint you.”

  “Things between us?” Lorimer gave a harsh laugh. “Is someone supposed to give a fuck about things between us?” He took out a cigarette, his hands shaking. Jon could see he’d missed patches of blood during his quick cleanup. “I got these from your buddy Lorne,” Lorimer said. “They taste like shit.”

  He took a couple drags, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling, where it lingered. “Did I learn much? No. I did
n’t learn much. He’s not talking. We pushed him about as far as a man can be pushed. This one…his mind is going someplace else. He’s escaping the pain. He kept asking what time it was. Eventually I said it was close to midnight. And he said, ‘I missed it. Any pain you bring can’t compare to what you made me miss.’ And then he pretty much shut down. He said someone would be coming for him. To grant him release. I told him, you know, that wasn’t gonna happen. He needed to start talking, but he was gone. Got his mind elsewhere. No response after that. Just sitting there and taking whatever we give him. Like I said, escaping. I’ve done this before. I’ve seen a well go dry. This well is dry.”

  “Did you get anything?”

  “Why the fuck should I be sharing with you?”

  “Because the full moon is tomorrow and neither of us knows what will happen then.”

  “So you think it’s the Sunken who took the daughter, right? Do we know their motive? Or price?”

  “I don’t think they’re the kind that ask for a price. Or if they do, it’s something like dominion over the Plate.”

  “You didn’t find any ransoms on the Laurent disappearance, right? Or the Club Diamond? So why are they taking people? And why the gap? They take the princess, at least according to you, shuffle her into their underwater lair, then do nothing for three years? Then the footprints show up again. And these ‘takings’ or whatever you call them. They’re ramping up for something.”

  Jon nodded. “Those are the right questions. I wish I had answers.”

  Lorimer crooked his head in the direction of the prisoner’s cell. “I wish he had answers. This lead is looking dead.” He flicked his half-finished cigarette into the corner and immediately lit another. “Can we talk to the Sunken? Negotiate? Either they give us a price short of Plate dominion or maybe we see an opening.”

  “The Sunken don’t seem interested in talking all that much. We have one connection we’re trying to use, but he’s not with the group we think took the girl. Against them in fact.”