A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  Brot’ân’duivé swiftly scaled the ladder. He understood the greater necessity for the actions that he and Léshil had undertaken, but he had no desire to be caught. When he reached the ladder’s top, he balanced on a rung and cracked the hatch open with his head to keep both hands ready to strike. Upon seeing no one on deck, he climbed out to crouch behind a mast.

  Almost instantly two forms stepped out from around the mast’s far side. Two sets of eyes glinted by the light of dim lanterns hanging above, and they saw him. The first looked down at the bulging front of his shirt as the other drew a cutlass.

  Brot’ân’duivé did not move.

  “I thought I heard something,” the first said in Numanese.

  The night watch could not have heard his own descent. Had they heard the hatch creak earlier when Léshil had come down into the hold?

  The first man, now with his own cutlass drawn, pointed the blade’s tip at the bulging shirt.

  “I know what you have,” he said, his eyes wide with longing. “Hand it over, and we won’t tell the captain.”

  Brot’ân’duivé knew both sailors assumed he had stolen food.

  He never pondered what to do, for there could be no witnesses. Locking eyes with the first sailor, in order to distract the man, Brot’ân’duivé’s left fingers curled upward. He pulled the tie string at the inside of his left wrist. A stiletto sheathed beneath his left sleeve began to slide down, and he closed his hand on its hilt.

  The cutlass’s tip rushed in toward his abdomen. Brot’ân’duivé turned so slightly. As the cutlass slid sharply away along his side, he spun the stiletto in his off hand and thrust. The thin, silvery blade pieced the sailor’s heart and slid out again, dark and wet, before the man’s eyes could widen. He turned on the second sailor before the first began to drop.

  Brot’ân’duivé did not need to see the second cutlass swinging for his head. As he ducked left, he rammed his shoulder into his first crumpling target and pinned the body against the mast to keep it from hitting the deck with too much noise. He dropped the stiletto from his left hand and caught it with his right.

  The second man tried to reverse his sword, and his mouth opened to call out.

  Brot’ân’duivé thrust upward, piercing flesh at the top of the sailor’s throat below his jaw and sinking the stiletto deeply. The worst of it was that the man instantly dropped his cutlass, and it clattered on the deck.

  Brot’ân’duivé released his hold on the embedded stiletto and grabbed the second dead sailor. He quietly lowered both bodies to the deck and crouched there for an instant.

  All was finished in less than a moderate breath, as it should be.

  He pulled a handful of jerked beef and a clay crock of olives from his shirt and scattered the first around the bodies and dropped the second on the thighs of one sailor. When he drew his stiletto out of the second man’s jaw and skull, he took a moment to disguise each man’s suspicious wound with a thrust of the other’s cutlass.

  On a ship like this, those wasting away in hunger would draw no suspicion for killing each other over stolen food. Brot’ân’duivé silently stepped on toward the aftcastle door to below. By the time he reached the passage to the cabins, he no longer thought of bodies left upon the deck. He thought only of surviving the remainder of the voyage and keeping all those under his guardianship alive as well.

  • • •

  Even when Wayfarer finally awakened, Magiere continued to sponge the girl’s head and give her sips of water. Magiere felt helpless for the most part—and she hated feeling helpless.

  Something had to be done. Perhaps she could speak to Saeed in the morning about buying any possible food hidden among the sailors. That was a slim chance at best, as food was more precious than coin on this slop bucket of a ship. But she had to try anything.

  —Leesil . . . has been gone . . . too long—

  “What?”

  Magiere glanced over as she realized Chap was right. How long could it take to locate Brot’an?

  “Where is Léshil?” Wayfarer asked weakly from the bunk.

  “He went to find Brot’an, but he’ll be right back.”

  Just the same, Magiere began to worry. She’d vowed to keep a close watch on Leesil, and she had no idea where he was. Right then the door opened, and, as if he’d been called, Leesil slipped inside.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “Where’s Brot’an?”

  He didn’t answer, and his amber eyes fixed on Wayfarer. “You’re awake,” he said in relief.

  Before Magiere could press him for answers, he hurried over, dropped to his knees, and pulled a rolled cloth from inside his shirt. He unrolled it on the bunk’s edge next to the girl.

  Magiere’s voice caught as she gasped, “Leesil?”

  Inside the cloth were loose olives, small bits of broken-up cheese, jerked beef, and what looked to be some kind of orange fruit. Leesil picked up one olive and held it to Wayfarer’s mouth.

  “Eat . . . but mind the pit.”

  As Wayfarer took the olive, Leesil tossed a large piece of jerky to Chap, who rose up on his hindquarters to catch it with a clack of his jaws. Leesil then handed another strip to Magiere.

  She was starving, but none of this made sense. “Where did you get this?”

  He glanced at her. “Brot’an and I stole it from the hold.”

  Tearing the cheese into even smaller bits, Leesil encouraged Wayfarer to sit up so that she could eat it herself. Then he tossed Chap another strip of beef, as the first one was gone, and he looked up at Magiere.

  “Eat,” he ordered, taking a bit of cheese himself. “We should finish this as quick as we can.”

  Magiere started picking out olives. If he’d stolen food from the ship’s hold, the captain might find out, so the evidence had better disappear quickly. Watching Wayfarer gobble down cheese, Magiere took a bite of jerky. It was good, tender and easy to chew. Then she eyed Wayfarer.

  “Don’t eat too fast,” she warned the girl. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  To her surprise, she wasn’t angry with Leesil for taking such a risk—and for stealing. She was too relieved at watching Wayfarer eat, and then she looked at Leesil.

  “You didn’t take much. Maybe it won’t be noticed.”

  Leesil glanced away. “The rest is well hidden,” he mumbled. “Enough to keep us until we reach port.”

  Magiere stopped chewing.

  “I told you to trust me,” he added, frowning and still not looking at her. “Now eat.”

  For once Magiere didn’t feel like arguing. They shared the olives, fruit, and cheese until it was gone. She wasn’t certain what to say or how to feel.

  Leesil had placed himself—and probably the rest of them, should they be found out—in danger, but she hadn’t come up with anything better. The thought of Wayfarer having decent food until they reached land again almost made her want to weep.

  Then . . . a loud noise outside of the door made everyone turn.

  • • •

  Leesil twisted around on one knee as the door began to open—without anyone calling out an invitation. Of course he’d expected to be questioned sooner or later. Once the theft was discovered, everyone would most likely be questioned. But that it happened so quickly alarmed him.

  He rose in the same instant as Magiere. Her falchion was within reach, leaned up against the bunk’s end. She didn’t grab for it, but he saw her glance to mark its place as the door opened.

  Captain Amjad stood there with his jaw clenched. His two hulkish bodyguards peered over his shoulders from out in the passage.

  Leesil remained purposely passive but wondered why the captain had focused so quickly on the ship’s passengers.

  Amjad took one step into the cabin, and Chap began to growl. The captain stopped, blocking the door before his bodyguards could slip in.
<
br />   “Have any of you been in the hold?” Amjad demanded.

  Well, he was to-the-point if nothing else.

  “You mean . . . ship cargo hold?” Leesil asked, feigning confusion.

  “We’ve all been in here since dusk,” Magiere returned sharply. “The girl is ill.”

  Amjad’s anger wavered with one quick glance at Wayfarer on the bunk. Maybe he had a sudden doubt as he looked around the small cabin and perhaps searched for something he did not see—like the remnants of food, which he did not find. He shook his head slowly as his anger returned.

  “Someone was in the hold tonight, breaking crates open and stealing food. None of my men would dare. Any who do so without permission are thrown overboard. And I sometimes toss one over on the voyage up . . . just so they know I mean it.”

  Now, that Leesil had not known.

  “There are two dead watchmen up on deck,” Amjad spat out. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Leesil tensed—Brot’an must have run into trouble after leaving the hold.

  “None of this has to do with us,” Magiere said.

  Leesil glanced sidelong at her. Anger was her only real way to sound convincing, since she was a terrible liar. But he was instantly on guard when she grabbed her falchion, though she left it sheathed.

  “Care to try throwing one of us overboard?” she asked, as if inviting it.

  Chap snarled loudly. Whether that was for Magiere or Amjad, Leesil wasn’t certain. He was too fixed on listening to the sound of the bodyguards in the passage—the sound of hands clenching on leather-wrapped blade hilts. Then he spotted an awkward shift in the captain’s expression.

  Something mixed with the greed and spite in Amjad’s eyes, as if he was suddenly reluctant or had overplayed what all this was really about. For just a breath Leesil wondered if all of this was just for show and the captain wouldn’t throw them overboard no matter what they did . . . as if he wanted them alive for some reason.

  Amjad half turned in the doorway. “Where’s the other one? The big Lhoin’na?”

  “He went to rest in his cabin,” Magiere lied. “He’s been in here all evening, too.”

  “Search the other cabin!” Amjad barked at one of his bodyguards.

  Leesil’s tension increased. What if Brot’an hadn’t returned to his cabin yet?

  From where he stood, he could only listen as one of Amjad’s men stomped up the passage outside. To Leesil’s relief, he heard a muttered word or two briefly exchanged, so the old assassin was in his cabin. A few moments later, the guard reappeared outside the doorway beyond Amjad and shook his head.

  That the guard hadn’t forced his way in to search Brot’an’s cabin made Leesil even more suspicious.

  Amjad turned to glare at Leesil.

  “Maybe,” Leesil said, struggling with his Numanese, “your men too hungry . . . take chance. You feed them, problem is solved.”

  With one last black look, Amjad spun out of the cabin and slammed the door shut.

  Leesil listened as three sets of footfalls headed up the passage to the stairs without pause. At least Magiere, Chap, and Wayfarer had enough food for the rest of this voyage. That was all that mattered . . . for the moment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “How long will this take?” the duchess asked, leading the way. Apparently she knew exactly where Osha and Chane had gone last night.

  “I don’t know,” Wynn answered. “Or if I’ll learn anything of use.”

  Osha and Shade followed behind Wynn.

  The duchess had suggested leaving Jausiff, Nikolas, and Aupsha out of this excursion. Aupsha had argued vehemently to be included, but Jausiff had denied her.

  But in this way, should their small group be caught by any of the duke’s Suman guards, Sherie could simply say she’d been giving her guests a tour of the keep and taken a wrong turn. No one would believe her, but Karl’s guards wouldn’t challenge her, either. She would take responsibility for “the mistake,” and the only repercussion would most likely be an immediate escort away from any restricted areas.

  It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the safest thing the duchess could come up with—and Wynn had not argued.

  Sherie turned a final corner and paused to lift the lantern she held a little higher. Aside from a small barred window in the door at the far end, this passage at the keep’s back had no other lighting.

  Wynn thought she heard the ocean’s surf echoing faintly through the thick wall, and the air felt cold and dank.

  “I have spent little time back here in recent years,” Sherie said quietly, still facing forward. “Karl and I . . . and Nikolas . . . sometimes snuck outside this same way.”

  Wynn heard a slow, shaky breath in the silence that followed, and the duchess stepped onward. Suddenly Osha slipped past, and Shade came up beside Wynn. Osha was the first to reach the passage’s end, though he didn’t stop at that door leading outside. Instead he ducked to the right and vanished into a side way. Wynn did stop briefly at the door—for she could hear the waves below the keep’s back side more clearly through the door’s small window bars.

  On an impulse, she tried the door and found it locked, as Sherie, followed by Shade, stepped past through the right arch. Wynn joined them and found Osha standing before another heavy door two steps down a short stairway that led the other way, parallel to the passage.

  Osha crouched before the door and eyed its iron lock plate.

  “I don’t suppose you can open it?” she whispered.

  He shook his head without looking back as he answered in Numanese, “I not learn . . . not time.”

  At this, the duchess frowned, looking between them.

  Wynn was not about to explain Osha’s past, what he had been, or that he had never left his people’s land until she had gone there. But she understood that he’d never had a chance to learn skills such as picking locks.

  However, Osha gripped the door’s handle and twisted it slightly until it stopped—probably just to be sure it was locked.

  Wynn flinched at the soft click, for the last thing they needed was anyone below hearing someone at the door. She waved everyone back up to the passage, where they could talk more easily.

  Aupsha’s device had led her and Jausiff here, and soon after, guards had come this way, caught Chane, and forced Osha to hide.

  “Whatever you are going to do, do it quickly,” Sherie whispered.

  “You should leave, as this will take a little time,” Wynn countered. “It is one thing to be caught walking about the keep with the lady of the house . . . but something else entirely to be found lingering near that door by your brother or his men. Anyone caught here might need someone in authority still free . . . who wasn’t involved.”

  “Exactly what are you going to do with a locked door in your way?”

  Wynn faltered, for she certainly wasn’t going to explain the curse of her mantic sight. Even if the duchess believed her, it would take too long and raise more questions—and possibly suspicions. And in a silent war with an opposition seeking the same secrets as she did, Wynn had learned never to share any secrets of her own with anyone until necessary.

  Sherie still watched her, and Wynn didn’t answer the question as she waited.

  “Very well,” the duchess said. “I will expect to hear from you . . . soon.”

  As the duchess turned away, she offered the lantern. Wynn shook her head and held up one of her cold-lamp crystals. She waited until Sherie was fully gone from sight.

  “Osha, I’m going to do this while sitting,” Wynn said, and she handed him the crystal. “Do you remember how to use it?”

  He nodded and brushed it once with his other hand. A soft light rose inside the crystal.

  “Don’t make it too bright. Too much light might be seen under the door . . . or interfere with what I’m going to try. If I
start to topple, catch me before I hit the floor and make any noise.”

  Osha looked up from the crystal, asking in Elvish, “What do you mean? I thought you had been honing your ability while at the guild.”

  “Yes . . . but once I start, it can be difficult the longer I go on,” Wynn answered. “Shade may have to help me end it, if I can’t do so myself.”

  Even Shade rumbled in displeasure as Osha shook his head in doubt.

  “No more time for arguments,” Wynn warned, hooking a finger at them as she turned to the door. “Both of you be quiet and let me focus.”

  Her mantic sight was a hard-won blessing forever caged in a curse. It was not a true talent or a metaologer’s ability based on years of training and knowledge. This wild taint had been left in her from tampering with a mantic form of thaumaturgy. Once the sight was engaged, she could see the presence of the Elements, one at a time, in—and through—all things. So far Spirit was the only one that she could see well, but that was the one she needed to see now.

  She went down the two steps and knelt before the door, leaving herself a little room. Osha dropped to one knee behind her on the left as Shade settled near to her right. Extending the first finger of her right hand, Wynn traced the sign for Spirit on the floor and encircled it.

  At each gesture, she focused hard to keep those lines alive in her mind’s eye, as if they were actually drawn upon the stone. Then she scooted forward to sit atop the pattern and traced a wider circumference around herself.

  It was a simple construct, but it helped shut away the outer world as she closed her eyes to seek out the elemental essence, rather than presence, of the world and let it fill her. Starting with herself, as a living being in which elemental Spirit was strongest, she imagined breathing it in from the air as well. Then she felt for it, as if it could flow up into her from the floor’s stone.

  Wynn held inside her head the first simple pattern she had stroked upon the floor, as she called up another image. Chap—Shade’s father—appeared in the darkness of her closed eyes, and she held on to him as well.

  Shade huffed once beside her, and Wynn’s concentration faltered at the sound. She managed to pull both pattern and image back into focus. She envisioned Chap as she’d once seen him before with her mantic sight.