A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  A hand wrapped around the door’s edge.

  Leesil dropped a hand to grab the sheath tie on one of his winged punching blades as Magiere reached for the falchion on her hip.

  The door shoved open, and Brot’an stepped in, shutting the door himself. But the aging assassin said nothing at first.

  Leesil carefully watched Brot’an, who was usually hard to read, and Brot’an looked slightly troubled. Leesil glanced at Wayfarer, who was trying to pull the stuffing out of her clothes, and the girl appeared drawn and worried.

  “What happened?” he demanded, turning to Chap. “Why are you back so soon?”

  “We found passage,” Wayfarer answered. “Perhaps.”

  Magiere lifted a pitcher from the bedside table and poured water into a clay cup.

  “Come and sit down,” Magiere said, pulling Wayfarer to the bed’s edge and handing over the cup. “What do you mean . . . ‘perhaps’?”

  The girl sank onto the bed, and Leesil cast a glance at Chap. The dog wasn’t saying anything, and that bothered Leesil all the more.

  “There is a Suman cargo ship in dock,” Wayfarer said. “I spoke with the captain, and his ship has come up from il’Dha’ab Najuum. It is here to exchange goods and cargo before returning south again. The captain said he would take us as passengers.”

  “All right, that’s what we need,” Magiere replied.

  Leesil wasn’t satisfied and eyed Chap again. “What’s wrong?”

  Wayfarer looked at the floor, and Chap still remained silent.

  “The ship is not leaving for two days,” the girl said, “and the captain wants ten silver pennies a person and five for Chap . . . by tomorrow to ensure our passage.”

  Magiere’s eyes widened a bit, and even Leesil was stunned.

  “Forty-five silver pennies?” Leesil asked a bit too loudly. “Just to take us to the next port south?”

  When the girl flinched, Magiere shot him a glare, and he shut his mouth.

  “We don’t have that,” Magiere said, and she exhaled, obviously just as troubled as Leesil was by all of this. “We’ll have to keep looking for another ship.”

  “There is one,” Wayfarer cut in quietly. “A Numan vessel, but it has too recently come from Drist, and Chap thinks . . . ” The girl stalled, and when she looked the dog’s way, they both averted their eyes from each other.

  “Chap fears,” Wayfarer began again, “that the ship’s captain or crew may have heard of the trouble back in Drist. And maybe some heard more . . . descriptions of the three of you . . . and a large wolf.”

  “Trouble?” Leesil repeated. “All we did was free a hold full of slaves. Those killers following us caused all the trouble.”

  “No one knows that,” Wayfarer countered. “They would only know there was violence—maybe some slaves escaped, that crew members were killed, and maybe we were involved. Chap thinks it is too risky.” The girl looked up, her large green eyes fixing on Leesil. “He thinks the Suman vessel is our only choice.”

  Leesil breathed in through his nose and realized why Chap wasn’t talking. The dog probably wanted Brot’an to hear directly from Wayfarer about everything that had taken place.

  However, this might not have been the best tactic because, to Leesil’s surprise, Brot’an nodded once.

  “The Suman vessel will suit our needs,” the shadow-gripper said. “The only obstacle to overcome is acquiring the fee. I will procure that tonight.”

  The room fell silent, but a single memory-word snapped in Leesil’s mind.

  —No!—

  Leesil was way ahead of Chap. He could only imagine how the aging assassin would “acquire” such coin. Several local citizens would be left for dead—or actually dead—in some alley.

  “No,” Leesil repeated aloud. “I’ll do it my way.”

  Magiere came instantly to her feet.

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” she snarled at him. “That’s not going to happen . . . again!”

  Chap looked at her intently, and Leesil wondered what passed between them.

  “I don’t care!” she snapped at the dog. “We find another way somehow.”

  Wayfarer’s head swung back and forth between Magiere and Chap. Her eyes were wide in alarm.

  Brot’an raised one eyebrow at Leesil. “I assume you mean to earn the money at cards?”

  “I’ll have it by morning,” Leesil answered flatly. “You said the anmaglâhk would be watching the port, so I should be able to slip out alone and find a game.”

  —In this quiet city?— . . . —These people . . . do not strike me . . . as gamblers—

  “Where there are sailors,” Leesil responded, “there’s always a game.”

  “No,” Magiere insisted. “What if you get caught cheating—again? What then?”

  He took a step toward her. “Fine, then let Brot’an do it,” he said. “Let him procure what we need . . . his way.”

  Her expression collapsed, and he hated himself for having caused it.

  “I won’t cheat unless I have to, and if I do, I won’t get caught.” He crossed his arms and ran his gaze over everyone in the room. “Then it’s settled. I’ll go out tonight and have the coin by morning.”

  No one answered, but no one argued, either.

  And even then Leesil noticed that Chap sat to one side of the room while Wayfarer remained on the bed’s edge. And the two still didn’t look at each other.

  • • •

  Dänvârfij met Rhysís in the same cutway where they had parted ways. He led her into the city to a one-story inn. They did not speak during the walk, as Dänvârfij had much to report and wished to say it only once. Rhysís had never been one for talking, so possibly he did not even notice her silence.

  Upon arriving at the inn and the acquired room, he unlocked a door with a key and led her inside. The room was small but neatly organized with a large bed and several chairs. Fréthfâre sat in a chair by the window. Without a cloak now, she looked so odd in her human clothing—a red gown with wide sleeves. Én’nish lay resting on the bed, but she swung her legs over and sat up with a pained effort.

  “What have you learned?” Fréthfâre asked without a greeting.

  Dänvârfij expected nothing else. She quickly and succinctly related that she had verified that the Cloud Queen had sailed without its extra passengers and that she had spotted Leanâlhâm and the majay-hì seeking out the Suman vessel.

  Én’nish nearly smiled at the news, but with vicious hunger in her eyes. She was motivated only by revenge against Léshil for the loss of her beloved. Fréthfâre appeared equally pleased in a colder way, though she did not turn her gaze from outside.

  “If the tainted quarter-blood girl and the majay-hì are here, then the others are close,” she said. “We must learn their location and set a trap by which Rhysís can first kill the traitor with an arrow. Once Brot’ân’duivé is dead, taking the others should not be so difficult.”

  Dänvârfij drew a long breath, bracing herself. “We cannot.”

  She paused, and Fréthfâre finally turned her head.

  “I have reported to Most Aged Father,” Dänvârfij went on, “and he has counseled that we gain passage to il’Dha’ab Najuum and set our trap there. He has given me a possible plan in which we—”

  “No!” shrieked Fréthfâre, her normal pallor flushing with rage. “I will not board another filthy human vessel when our quarry is right here!”

  Dänvârfij fell silent. She had expected some opposition at first, though few would so foolishly disobey Father. But now the ex-Covârleasa sounded utterly bereft of reason.

  Glancing at Én’nish and then Rhysís, Dänvârfij realized she had miscalculated the effect of Most Aged Father’s orders. Én’nish’s fingers had bit into the bedding, and Rhysís’s expression darkened.

  “Most Aged Father is not he
re,” Én’nish nearly hissed, though her spite was all for Dänvârfij. “He knows only what you report . . . because you have our only word-wood. Give it to me! We will see what Father counsels after he hears my report.”

  Dänvârfij glanced warily about the room at each of those with her. Fréthfâre merely watched her with the barest trace of a smile.

  This was close to open revolt, and it left Dänvârfij uncertain, but she could not give in. If she did so even this once, all semblance of order would be lost, and Fréthfâre would lead them all to their deaths in nothing but vengeance.

  Hoping for a moment to recover control here, Dänvârfij turned her own glare upon Rhysís. “And what are your thoughts?”

  Rhysís remained silent at first. He was deeply loyal to Most Aged Father, as they all were, and everyone knew it, but he was also more practical—dutiful—even with his own motivations for revenge against the traitorous greimasg’äh.

  “I think,” he finally began, “that Én’nish is partially correct. Additional perspectives might provide Father more to consider, but not because your reports are lacking. In my travels, I, too, am brief in my reports.”

  “So you think Most Aged Father’s counsel is wrong?” Dänvârfij challenged.

  “Yes!” Fréthfâre answered for him. “We take our quarry here!”

  Dänvârfij was not accustomed to anything so near hysteria and did not know how to respond. But when she looked into Rhysís’s eyes, there was no defiance—only the faintest hint of pleading. He knew—could see—that what remained of the team was becoming unstable. When he looked to Fréthfâre, Dänvârfij let him speak.

  “I suggest we plan to follow Father’s counsel,” Rhysís said, “but we prepare for opportunities here. This city is too large to search with so few of us, but Dänvârfij and I can watch the waterfront for our quarry. Sooner or later they will go there. If we see a way to finish our purpose here before we must leave, then we take it. Father would so advise if a clear opportunity presented itself.”

  Rhysís’s words were sound and sensible—and loyal to Most Aged Father.

  Én’nish watched for a moment. Her eyes barely shifted to Dänvârfij before she lowered them with a sneer. Even Fréthfâre said nothing, though Dänvârfij was not foolish enough to take that as agreement.

  No, the ex-Covârleasa and the grief-sickened Én’nish hesitated only because Rhysís was unwilling to side with them. Dänvârfij’s relief was limited, though she kept her expression impassive regardless of the tension in the room.

  “This seems wise,” she said.

  With a nod to Rhysís, Dänvârfij turned to Fréthfâre. She remained outwardly unaffected, as if this were a normal discussion of strategy . . . and Fréthfâre had not been on the brink of rebelling.

  “Do you concur?” she asked.

  Fréthfâre straightened in her chair, which must have caused her pain. “Yes,” she answered, “so long as you actively seek any opportunity to kill the traitor and take our quarry here.”

  Dänvârfij nodded. “Of course.”

  Feigning calm, she was well aware how close she had come to losing control of her remaining team. Rhysís had supported her this time . . . but for how long? In her thoughts she recounted all that Most Aged Father had related to her. An idea began forming in the back of her mind as she mentally pictured the inn to which she had trailed the two Shé’ith.

  She turned to Rhysís. “You and I will watch the harbor,” she said, “but at nightfall I have another task to complete.”

  Chapter Seven

  The following morning Chap suffered through another coating of charcoal dust. He choked back a growl as Leesil tied up his snout and bound his ears with those straps. Wayfarer put on her disguise as Brot’an stepped to the window, ready to slip out and head across the rooftops. But when it came time for Wayfarer to slip the rope’s loop over Chap’s head, she stalled and handed the rope to Leesil to do so.

  Chap had not spoken to Wayfarer as yet about their strange moment on the waterfront. And he was uncertain whether he ever should.

  He had been thinking upon a past incident, the last time they—he and Leesil—had faced down any of the anmaglâhk who had harried them all the way from Calm Seatt. And Wayfarer had jerked away from him, asking: Did Léshil kill . . . one of the caste . . . ?

  No one had told the girl about that. Leesil didn’t even want to tell Magiere, and Chap had agreed. So what had prompted that question from Wayfarer as she sat on the walkway, staring at him in fear?

  He was uncertain how to even ask her about this, so he did not.

  —Ready?—

  She nodded, though she didn’t look at him.

  This room they all shared was beginning to feel like a prison cell, and the tension was thick. True to his word, Leesil had gone out the night before and returned very late . . . with more than enough coin to pay the exorbitant fee demanded by the captain of the Djinn.

  Magiere had paced most of the night, and when Leesil had returned, instead of expressing relief at his success and safety, she’d barely spoken to him. Chap understood this.

  Leesil was a good cardplayer, though not as good as he thought, and when pressed, he had no compunction against cheating. Occasionally he got caught. Worse, the more he played, the more he wanted to play.

  Magiere was not wrong in her concerns, but Leesil had not been wrong that such a tactic was their only option. Brot’an could not be allowed to gain the money his way.

  Inside the tense room, it now seemed that questions by anyone for anyone else had become something to be avoided.

  Wayfarer picked up her gnarled walking stick, and Leesil handed her a pouch.

  “Tuck this inside your cloak,” he instructed. “I’ve put exactly forty-five silver pennies in there.” He glanced at Chap. “You stay close to her.”

  Not dignifying such a comment with an answer, Chap bit back another snarl.

  From the window, Brot’an watched all this in silence and then added to Wayfarer, “I will be watching. If you find yourselves in danger, run for the cutway between the harbormaster’s office and the nearest warehouse.”

  “Yes, Greimasg’äh,” Wayfarer answered, and as she turned for the door, Chap followed her.

  Once they were outside in the morning air, the girl took a deep breath, as if she was relieved to be out of that room. In the not-so-distant past, she’d had to be pried out into the streets of any human city.

  She looked toward where the waterfront lay beyond sight. “I did not like the captain of that Suman vessel.”

  —Agreed—

  These were the first real words they’d exchanged since returning the previous day.

  Chap hadn’t cared for Captain Amjad, either, but Leesil had done his part, and now they must do theirs. Leaning down on her gnarled cane, Wayfarer pulled her hood forward to shadow her face and once again shuffled along in the stooped manner of an old woman . . . with a muzzled and huge black dog beside her.

  They never paused until they reached the fourth pier and stood near the ramp up to the Djinn as cargo was being loaded. The whole vessel was crawling with activity, and Chap could see that Wayfarer was frightened by the sailors rushing past in their hurried labors.

  —We only need to . . . locate the captain . . . and pay him—

  Calming slightly, the girl followed as he headed up the ramp and looked around for the captain. A young sailor with curling hair black spotted them and walked over, flashing a set of even teeth as he smiled.

  “Hello again,” he said with a heavy accent. “Did your friend find you yesterday?”

  Chap’s ears would have stiffened upright if they could.

  “My friend?” Wayfarer asked.

  “Yes, she came shortly after you left—tall woman who looked a little like you.” His smile widened. “Not such a pretty face, though.”

  For t
he third time that morning, Chap choked back a snarl, though a growl still followed, somewhat muffled by the straps on his muzzle. The sailor instantly lost his smile, but Chap’s annoyance at a flirting deckhand was outweighed by panic.

  They had been spotted yesterday and followed at least as far as this vessel. Brot’an had either not noticed or—as with many things—never mentioned this.

  Chap turned his head enough to look up at Wayfarer’s green eyes, now fully widened, as she likely came to a similar realization.

  —Do not react— . . . —Ask for the captain—

  It took Wayfarer two breaths and then, “May we speak to Captain Amjad?”

  “Of course,” the sailor answered, and, with one wary glance at Chap, he headed toward the prow.

  Chap followed, tugging Wayfarer along toward a stout man giving orders, and Chap’s mouth filled with the same sourness from the day before. The few Sumans he’d encountered in his travels had been careful about cleanliness, along with exhibiting near-meticulous manners.

  Captain Amjad proved a severe contrast.

  With a protruding belly that nearly split the ties of his shirt, and a noxious odor and greasy hair, likely he had neither changed nor laundered his breeches and shirt in several years. It appeared that he did not bother to shave, though he could not grow a proper beard. His round face sported sparse patches of dark, straggly strands.

  Amjad’s surprise at Wayfarer’s return quickly shifted to greed in his hard eyes.

  “You have it?” he asked rudely.

  “Yes,” Wayfarer answered, pulling Leesil’s pouch from under her cloak. “You will set sail tomorrow?”

  “Midday,” Amjad said, and, when he opened the pouch and peered inside, he only grunted in satisfaction. “Be on board, or we leave without you. Only two cabins between you, and our cook serves two meals a day, morning and night. You eat whatever he makes.”

  Wayfarer back-stepped and put her hand over her mouth and nose. “That . . . that will be fine.”

  —We go—

  Chap turned away, and she followed, still gripping the rope. With their transaction completed, he wanted to return to the inn. If they had been spotted and followed the day before, it was possible they had been followed farther than the waterfront. And because of this, once they were off the ramp and onto the pier, he changed their tactics.