The Speaker

by Traci Chee

  Reed threw himself against the rail, scanning the sea. If there was a way out of this, he’d find it. He had to. He wouldn’t die today.

  Behind them, two of Serakeen’s ships peeled off in pursuit of the Crux.

  That left two quick scouts and the Current of Faith. Poor odds.

  Captain Reed blinked spray out of his eyes.

  It was as if he could see the pull of the moon, the rising of the tide, and the swirling storms out there on the Central Sea, the wakes of ships and the rumbling of volcanoes in the deep.

  He began counting. Always to eight. Never more. His favorite number. It kept him focused. Eight after eight after eight.

  Then he found it: a break in the waves, like a channel through the crests. A rip current.

  If they made it there before Serakeen’s ships caught them, they just might escape.

  “There!” he yelled to Jaunty. “Off the port bow!”

  The helmsman nodded once and turned the wheel. Serakeen’s ships were close now, the flags of the Scourge of the East flying from each of the yards, with the fore guns thundering one after another.

  At the stern, Cooky and Aly crouched with their rifles, popping up every so often to let off a round.

  On the deck, the gun crews prepared the broadsides, readying for battle.

  Reed gripped the rail so hard his fingernails dug into the wood.

  Then they hit the current. The waters surged up around them, carrying them rapidly over the troughs. Spray washed over the forecastle.

  Serakeen’s ships fell behind as their helmsmen tried to adjust. Jaunty cackled, pointing the ship into the fast water. The aft gunners cheered.

  The Current of Faith drew ahead. The distance between them and the enemy increased.

  They were going to make it. The currents would sweep them out of range, and Serakeen’s scouts would flounder while the Current skimmed the surface, speeding out of the Ephygian Bay into the Central Sea.

  As his crew let out a cheer, Captain Reed began pacing the quarterdeck. They’d gotten what they’d come for. They’d gotten away. But now they had a riddle to solve.

  He only knew one person who could decipher the marks inside the ship’s bell, and the last time he’d seen her, she’d been striding into the maze of Jahara’s Central Port with a boy who fought like a wild beast.

  Picking up his shirt, Reed scooped a folded scrap of canvas from the breast pocket and traced the letters written there: REED.

  Words meant trouble, and not the good kind.

  Because of words, an assassin had come prowling onto his ship, seeking them out the way the Executioner sought blood.

  Harison, the ship’s boy, had died.

  And long before that, when Reed was only sixteen, he’d been kidnapped and laid flat while words were carved into him, letter by letter, line by line. The memory of it lanced through his chest, and he put his hand over his drumming heart, where beneath the years of ink and glory those first tattoos lay hidden.

  He didn’t know who’d done it.

  He didn’t know why.

  But with the way words kept circling back to him, he suspected he’d soon find out.

  Account of the Second Child

  Dear Director,

  Troubling reports from the messengers. Sefia must be teaching the candidates to write. Loose ends have been clipped, but the knot remains. Instructions?

  Your loyal Apprentice, A.D.

  We saw them on the riverbank that morning, but Mama said to stay away, so we didn’t go to the river until after lunch.

  All the boys were gone by then, and they took their horses too. They left footprints in the mud—big ones, like this—and we kept trying to walk in them, like we were spies who couldn’t leave any tracks.

  That’s when we found it drawn in the mud. It was all rubbed away, like someone tried to hide it, except for this one part. I thought it was pretty, and so did Amilee. She said it was an old crest from an ancient magical kingdom, and it hadn’t been seen for thousands of years. It only showed itself to royalty, she said, so we must have been long-lost princesses.

  Ő

  We copied it lots of times in the mud—did you see?—to make a line between the goblin kingdom and ours, because goblins can’t cross a magic border . . .

  It’s probably all washed away by now, isn’t it? In the rain?

  You don’t think that means the goblins got in, do you? You don’t think they got Amilee? You don’t think we brought them here by doing it, did we? We just wanted to keep our side of the river safe . . .

  Where’s Amilee?

  When can I go home?

  CHAPTER 15

  The Loyalty and Cowardice of Dogs

  The greenhouse smelled of earth and late-summer fruit ripening in the trees. Through the glass wall that joined the greenhouse and Library, Tanin could see Erastis and his Apprentice, June, leaning over the curved tables, turning pages on a series of Fragments while they searched for patterns in the text.

  Her health had improved enough to increase her reach to the primary levels of the Main Branch, where the servants carted her about in her elaborate wheeled chair. But she had not been reinstated as Director, and had to resort to spies and subterfuge for any information at all.

  Pocketing Detano’s report to Stonegold, Tanin rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and flicked her fingers, chopping tiny daisies from their stems in the grass. The intercepted documents were troubling indeed. Sefia was spreading the written word. Children were replicating it. And Stonegold seemed to be doing nothing.

  Her spies told her Stonegold was engrossed in Phase II of the Red War: securing Liccaro’s allegiance to Everica, and therefore to the Guard. In other circumstances, she might have been equally absorbed. But while Stonegold’s attempts on her life had decreased in frequency, they had not ceased altogether, and in her fragile state, she was a Guardian without rank and without work.

  Except for finding Sefia and the boy, who seemed to be building an army, of sorts.

  Deftly, Tanin sliced the head from a flower. It tumbled onto the lawn, its petals creasing on impact.

  The air shivered.

  She looked up. Another attack? Unlikely, with Erastis nearby. Unless he was privy to it. She narrowed her eyes as he smiled at something June had said. Around her, the leaves began bobbing and dancing in an increasing frenzy as a breeze whipped through the enclosed greenhouse. As Tanin summoned the Sight, preparing to defend herself, Rajar appeared in a cloud of salty air, smelling of tar and smoke.

  She blinked. He had changed drastically since he’d begun masquerading as Serakeen. As one of the Guard’s Soldiers, he was trained in military strategy, battle tactics, naval maneuvers. But Lon’s plan had required an agent in Liccaro to push the Guard’s agenda. So Rajar had taken the name Serakeen, joined a pirate crew, fought his way to captaincy, and earned the fear and loyalty of an entire fleet of outlaws.

  The years of cruelty had hardened him—he’d witnessed the most brutal of crimes, participated in them, goaded others to commit them in his name. His piercing ice-blue eyes had a feral glint to them now, like that of a wild dog, and a twisted purple scar marred the left side of his otherwise handsome face.

  But his sacrifices had been worth it. As Serakeen, Scourge of the East, his dominion was so complete that he’d obliterated the Liccarine regents who wouldn’t bow to his demands, and the ones that remained were both afraid to defy him and desperate to appease him. Now the regency would grant him anything, including an alliance between Liccaro and Everica. Phase II of the Red War.

  As the tails of his aubergine coat fluttered and came to rest behind him, Rajar took her hand and brushed her knuckles in the softest of kisses.

  “Tanin,” he purred.

  She didn’t miss the slight—he used to call her Director. Passing her tongue over her lips, she whispe
red, “Rajar.”

  The voice she had prided herself on, the voice she had been able to manipulate like a blade or a riding crop or the soft curve of her hand, was gone. Now her voice brought tears to her eyes.

  “Dear heart.” Rajar sighed—his breath smelled faintly of cigars and charred meat—and took her smooth hands in his weathered ones. “Don’t cry.”

  “I was expecting you yesterday.”

  In fact, she’d summoned him two days before. One day she could have excused, but two days showed disrespect, and she was determined to discover just how deep his lack of deference went. With her life and her title at stake, she had to know whom she could trust.

  “I came as soon as I could.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he appeared a blunt instrument among delicate statuary, like he might destroy something simply by touching it. “I miss this place.”

  The greenhouse had been Lon and Mareah’s favorite part of the Main Branch, where they’d stolen away to meet, to talk, to practice more and more advanced forms of Illumination. When Rajar wasn’t off on assignment, they’d brought him here too. And Tanin, after she’d become the Apprentice Administrator.

  Flicking back his coattails, Rajar sat beside her and inhaled deeply, as if all the scents and fond memories of the greenhouse could whisk him into the past again, before Lon and Mareah had left, before he’d thrown himself headfirst into the role of Serakeen.

  He splayed his fingers in the grass, carefully avoiding the daisies peeping through the greenery. “Do you remember when Lon turned the glass a dozen different shades of green?”

  Tanin’s mouth twisted. Of course she did. He’d been practicing Transformation, the third tier of Illumination. Greenhouse, he’d said, laughing. Get it?

  He’d always liked wordplay. He’d take any opportunity to prove himself cleverer than everyone else—except when Mareah cut him with one of her looks.

  Tanin missed them both, despite what they’d done. Despite what she’d done to them. You could still love the people who hurt you most.

  She blinked away the memory. “How is Phase II progressing?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Hmm.”

  Ignoring her displeased expression, Rajar began picking at the grass, clearing space around the flowers so they could reach the light more easily. “Did you hear my scouts recently ran the Current and the Crux out of the Ephygian Bay?”

  Eradicating the outlaws and their way of life was essential to gaining control of Kelanna. Stonegold and Serakeen were destroying all pirates they found in eastern waters.

  “Did they have the bell?” she asked.

  “If they didn’t, they’ll be back, I’m sure.”

  Her fingers curled. She would have liked for Reed and Dimarion to continue their search for the Trove, but she’d been waiting months for them to locate the treasure hoard and the Resurrection Amulet. She could wait months more if she had to.

  Patience was a virtue she was learning. Slowly.

  “Your friends are nothing if not persistent,” Rajar added.

  “They aren’t friends.”

  “Oh?”

  “Friendship isn’t a luxury we can afford. Surely you understand that, Serakeen.”

  He winced at her use of the name. “You and I are friends.”

  “Indeed?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Then you won’t mind lending me a few of your ships.”

  “What would you need my ships for?”

  “Apparently there’s a rogue group of boys roaming across Deliene, killing your impressors,” she said, brandishing the stolen reports.

  Rajar grimaced as he finished making space in the grass for his daisies. “They’re not my impressors.”

  “People say there’s a sorcerer traveling with them,” she continued.

  Rajar touched the petals of one of his flowers. “She was so much like them, wasn’t she? Seeing her was like seeing them all over again . . .” He sighed. “I don’t blame you for what you did.”

  “What I—”

  “Some of the others do. I’m sure you’re aware.”

  Some of the others, she thought. Stonegold and Braca, the Guard’s Master Soldier. She was Stonegold’s attack dog down to her bones. She’d protested hotly when Tanin was elected Director instead of Stonegold, and she hadn’t made contact with Tanin at all since her incapacitation.

  Who else? Tanin wondered.

  “Letting her come to us on her own terms? Trying to get her to join us? I would have done the same.” Rajar shrugged. “You weren’t the only one who loved her parents, you know.”

  For years the four of them had planned on being the ones to bring the Red War to pass, to bring all of Kelanna under one rule—their rule. Over and over, they’d promised one another this.

  Then Lon and Mareah had changed their minds, their hearts, their allegiances. When they left, Rajar had retreated into his role as Serakeen. He’d spent more and more time with his cutthroat fleet, as if being at the Main Branch, where they’d all pledged their loyalty to the Guard, to one another, was too painful. He’d run from their betrayal, but Tanin had stayed to pick up the pieces.

  She could do it all again, if she had to.

  “I need three of your ships,” she whispered. “Sefia and the boy are hunting impressors, so we know exactly where they’ll be. Your pirates should make short work of a few lost boys and their sorcerer.”

  Rajar stood. The leather of his coat creaked. He didn’t make eye contact with her when he said, “I’ll have to run it by my Director.”

  Liar.

  Traitor.

  Prevaricator.

  Tanin didn’t know if she’d lost his loyalty when she was attacked or if it had been trickling out of her grasp ever since Lon and Mareah had abandoned them, but she knew it was gone. She glared at Rajar in disgust. “And you called yourself my friend.”

  “I am. I just . . .” Still avoiding her gaze, he traced the hems of his pockets. “All the years of being a pirate, all the things I’ve done in the name of Serakeen . . . Darion—the Director—has offered me the one thing you never have: the chance to be a Soldier again, a true Soldier. When Liccaro joins the Alliance, my fleet will become a proper military. After all this time.”

  “I could have done that for you.”

  Rajar shook his head. “No, I think you liked Serakeen too much to ever let him go.”

  Serakeen had been a savage creation. A top dog the impressors would fetch for and a mongrel to hound the weak Liccarine regency . . . but he’d been her dog, her mongrel.

  Rajar leaned down, clutching the arms of her chair. The smell of tar and cigar smoke surrounded her, and she fought the instinct to lean away. “Recover your health. Let me talk to Darion. With the death of the Second, we’re short a Guardian. There can still be a place for you, if you want. We’re nearly there—all of Kelanna will be under our rule. Exactly what we promised ourselves all those years ago.”

  “Not exactly,” she said bitterly. Lon and Mareah wouldn’t be with her, and now neither would Rajar.

  He planted a kiss on her forehead and straightened. As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Forget them, dear heart. They’re gone. But we’re still here.”

  Tanin glared up at him. “There is no ‘we.’”

  Hurt dimpled his expression, and his blue eyes seemed weary as he turned toward the Library. He flung open the greenhouse doors and she heard Erastis’s surprised exclamation, followed by Rajar’s laughter, tinged only faintly by sadness.

  Striking out with her hands, Tanin lopped the heads off all of Rajar’s carefully exposed daisies. They popped into the air and fell back again, dead.

  She’d gotten what she wanted: an assessment of the Apprentice Soldier’s loyalty. It was better to know than to wonder.

  The Administrators, the Librarians, her agents secreted among the outla
ws and in Rajar’s own fleet—these were her allies. These were the tools she had to help her wrest control of the Guard away from Stonegold and his dogs.

  The first step was setting a trap for Sefia. Without Rajar’s support, it would take a little longer. But patience was a virtue she was learning.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Secret Keepers

  Sefia found the next crew before they’d even turned in Obiyagi and the other prisoners. The impressors were in Gorman, fleeing south from the cold with five boys in tow.

  When he heard the news, Archer swept her into his arms and kissed her, teasing her bottom lip with his teeth. After waiting for him for so long, she still ached at his touch.

  They turned north again, with weeks of riding ahead. The days shortened. Fog settled in the dales, and dew blanketed the fields at dawn. Nights grew chill as rain swept over the Heartland. During rest stops on the road, Sefia and Archer would find each other—sneaking kisses behind the carts, fingers roving along waists and exposed collarbones—until Griegi came in search of apples for his campfire cobbler or Kaito came to ask when they’d get a move on, and they’d spring apart again, breathless.

  In the evenings, Frey and the boys began to spar—Kaito’s idea, to sharpen them up. Everyone fought everyone, and unless one of them was fighting Archer, you didn’t know who’d come out on top.

  Only Kaito, if he was lucky, could best Archer.

  One time the Gormani boy wrenched Archer’s arms behind his back and wrestled him into the dirt. “Gotcha!”

  Watching from the sidelines, Sefia saw Archer’s eyes glaze over. He struggled—not like the fighter she’d come to know but like an animal in a steel trap. He flailed. He spat. He clawed and gasped. Surprised, Kaito backed off immediately, but instead of standing, Archer curled up on his side. He couldn’t seem to breathe. It was like something had shattered inside him that couldn’t be pieced back together.

  Sefia rushed to him, drew his hand gently to his neck, where the worry stone now hung from a leather cord. He hadn’t had an attack like this in weeks, not since their battle with Obiyagi. “You’re not back there,” she whispered, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “You’re safe.”