“You want to call down to him?” Alric asked. “He’s been in there a while.”
“It’s better to be patient,” he replied. “Royce will either call up or yank on the line when he wants us to come down.”
“What if he fell?” Mauvin asked.
“He didn’t. On the other hand, what is more likely is that there’s a patrol of Ghazel and he’s waiting for them to pass. If you get nervous and start yelling down, you’ll get him killed, or angry. Either way it’s not a good idea.”
Mauvin and Alric both nodded gravely. Hadrian had learned his lesson the hard way on that first trip the two made to Ervanon. Learning to trust Royce when it was dark, you were alone, and the world was so quiet you could hear your own breathing was not something you did overnight.
Hadrian remembered the wind whipping them as they climbed the Crown Tower. That was a big tower. He must have climbed a hundred of them with Royce since, but aside from Drumindor, that was the tallest—and the first. He had marveled at how the little thief could scale the sheer wall like a fly with nothing but those hand-claws. He gave Hadrian a pair and sat smirking as he tried to use them.
“Hopeless,” was all he said, taking the claws back. “Can you at least climb a rope?”
Hadrian had just returned from his days in the arenas of Calis, where he had been respected and cheered by roaring crowds as the Tiger of Mandalin. He was less than pleased with this little twig of a man treating him as if he were the village idiot. So infuriated had he been by Royce’s smug tone that Hadrian had wanted to beat him unconscious, only Arcadius had warned him to be patient. “He’s like the pup of a renowned hunting dog who’s been beaten badly by every master he’s had,” the old wizard had told him. “He’s a gem worthy of a little work, but he’ll test you—he’ll test you a lot. Royce doesn’t make friends easily and he doesn’t make it easy to be his friend. Don’t get angry. That’s what he’s looking for. That’s what he expects. He’ll try to drive you away, but you’ll fool him. Listen to him. Trust him. That’s what he won’t expect. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to be very patient. But if you do, you’ll make a friend for life, the kind that will walk unarmed into the jaws of a dragon if you ask him to.”
Hadrian felt a light tug on the rope.
“Everything okay, pal?” he called down softly.
“Found it,” Royce replied. “Come on down.”
It was like a mine shaft, tight and deep. Hadrian had descended only a short distance when his eyes detected a faint light below. The pale blue-green light appeared to leak into the base of the shaft, which, he could now estimate, was no more than a hundred feet deep. As he reached the bottom, he felt a strong breeze and heard a sound. A very out-of-place sound—the crash of waves.
He stood in an enormous cavern so vast he could not see the far wall. At his feet were shells and black sand, and before him lay a great body of water with waves that rolled in white and frothy. Along the beach, he spotted clumps of seaweed and algae that glowed bright green and the ocean gave off an emerald light, which the ceiling reflected in such a way as to make it seem like they were not underground at all. He felt like he was standing on the beach at night under a cloudy, albeit green, sky. His nose filled with the pungent scent of salt, fish, and seaweed. To the right lay nothing but endless water, but straight out, just visible at the horizon, were structures—the outlines of buildings, pillars, towers, and walls.
Across the sea lay the city of Percepliquis.
Royce stood on the shore, staring across the water, and glanced over his shoulder when Hadrian touched down. “Not something you see every day, is it?”
“Wow,” he replied.
It did not take long before all of them stood on the black sand, gazing out at the sea and the city beyond. Myron looked as if he were in shock. Hadrian realized the monk had never seen an ocean, much less one that glowed bright green.
“Edmund Hall mentioned an underground sea,” Myron said at length. “But Mr. Hall is not terribly good at descriptions. This—this is truly amazing. I’ve never thought of myself as big in any sense, but standing here, I feel as small as a pebble.”
“Anyone lose an ocean? ’Cause I think we just found it,” Mauvin announced.
“It’s beautiful,” Arista said.
“Whoa,” Wyatt muttered.
“How are we going to get across it?” Gaunt asked.
They all looked to Myron. “Oh, right—sorry. Edmund Hall made a raft from stuff he found washed up on the beach. He said there was a lot of it. He lashed planking with a rope he had with him and formed a rudder out of one side of an old crate. His sail was a patchwork of sewn bags, his mast a tall log of driftwood.”
“How long did it take him?” Gaunt asked.
“Three weeks.”
“By Mar!” he exclaimed.
Alric scowled at him. “There’s ten of us and we have an expert sailor and better gear. Let’s get looking for our raw material.”
They all spread out like a group of beachcombers looking for shells and starfish on a lovely summer’s day.
There was a good deal of debris on the shore. Old bottles and broken crates, poles and nets, all amazingly well preserved after having been down there for a thousand years. Hadrian picked up a jug with writing on one side. He carefully turned it over, realizing he was holding an artifact that by its mere age was profoundly valuable. He did not expect to be able to read it. Everything from the ancient time of Percepliquis would be in Old Speech. He looked at the markings and was stunned to find he could understand them: BRIG’S RUM DISTILLERY. DAGASTAN, CALIS.
He blinked.
“Where’s Myron?” It was not so much the question as the voice that pulled Hadrian’s attention away from the jug.
Elden had spoken. The big man stood like a wave break on the sand, his head twisting around, searching. “I don’t see him.”
Hadrian glanced up and down the beach. Elden was right—the monk was gone.
“I’ll find him,” Royce said, annoyed, and trotted off.
“Elden?” Wyatt called. “Can you give me a hand here?” he said, trying to pull up a large weathered plank mostly buried in the sand. “We can use this as the keel, I think.”
Alric and Mauvin were dragging over what looked like the side of a wooden crate. “There’s another side to this back there among those rocks,” the king informed Wyatt.
“That’s great, but right now can the two of you help us dig this beam out?”
Gaunt wandered the beach halfheartedly, kicking over rocks, as if he might find a mast hiding under one. Magnus noticeably avoided the water, sticking to the high beach area and glancing over his shoulder at the waves as if they were barking dogs he needed to constantly assure himself were chained.
Arista came running down to where the four dug the beam out of the sand. “I found a huge piece of canvas!” she said, and did a little dance.
Hadrian noticed her feet were bare. She held her shoes in her hands, swinging them by the heels, her robe swaying. As he looked at her just then, she could have been any number of girls he had known from taverns or small towns—not a princess at all.
“Don’t you like my celebratory dance?” she asked him.
“Is that what that is?”
She rolled her eyes. “Com’on and help me get the canvas. It will make the perfect sail.”
She ran back down the beach and Hadrian followed. She stopped and, bending down, pulled on the corner of a buried piece of canvas. “We’ll have to dig it out, but I bet it is big. I think—” She stopped when she spotted Royce and Myron walking toward them.
“There you are,” Hadrian said in a reprimanding tone. “You had Elden worried, young man.”
“I saw a crab,” Myron said, embarrassed. “They have these huge claws and run sideways—they scurry very fast—like big spiders. I chased him down the beach, but he disappeared into a hole before I could get a good look. Have you ever seen a crab?”
“Yes, Myron. I’ve see
n crabs before.”
“Oh, so you know how fascinating they are! I was literally carried away—well, not literally. I mean, I wasn’t actually carried by the crab; lured is more accurate.”
“Royce, look at the canvas I found!” Arista said, repeating her little dance for him.
“Very nice,” the thief replied.
“You don’t seem suitably impressed. It’s going to be our sail,” she told him proudly. “Maybe we should have a contest for the person who finds the best part of the raft.” She followed this with a greedy grin.
“We could do that.” Royce nodded. “But I don’t think you’ll win.”
“No? Did you find something better?”
“Myron did.”
“Better than the crab?” Hadrian asked.
“You could say that.” Royce motioned for them to follow.
They walked around an arm of the cliff wall that jutted into the sea, causing them all to wade up to their ankles for a short bit. On the far side, resting on the sand about a half mile down the beach, was a small single-mast boat that listed off the keel. Its pair of black sails dangled from the yards, feebly flapping in the sea breeze.
“By Mar!” Hadrian and Arista said together.
A loose board on the boat’s deck creaked under Hadrian’s weight and Royce glared at him. Twelve years they had worked together, and still Royce did not seem capable of understanding that Hadrian could not float. The problem was that Royce apparently could. He made it look so easy. Hadrian walked like the caricature of a thief—on his toes, his arms out for balance, wavering up and down as if he were on a tightrope. Royce walked as casually as if he were sauntering down a city street. They communicated as they always did on the job, with facial expressions and hand gestures. Royce had learned sign language as part of his guild training but had never bothered teaching Hadrian more than a few signals. Royce was always able to communicate what he needed by pointing, counting with his fingers, or making simple obvious signs like scissoring his fingers across his level palm, imitating legs walking on a floor. He expressed most of his silent dialogue the way he was now: through rolled eyes, glares, and the pitiable shaking of his head. Given how irritated he so often looked, it was a mystery why he put up with Hadrian. After the first trip to the Crown Tower, both were convinced Arcadius was insane in paring them. Royce hated him and the feeling was mutual. Just as Royce recently confirmed, the only reason they had gone back together was out of spite—their shared dislike compelled them. Royce wanted to see Hadrian give up, or die, and Hadrian refused to give him the satisfaction of either. Of course, what ended up happening was something neither of them expected—they were caught.
Royce held a hand out palm up, and Hadrian stopped moving, freezing in place as if he were playing a kid’s game. He could see Royce tilting his head like a dog trying to listen. He shook his head and motioned for him to follow again.
The two had left the rest of the party on the beach, safely back near where Arista had found the canvas, as they scouted the ship. It looked abandoned, but Royce refused to take chances. What they found on deck only further suggested it was deserted. The wood was rough and weathering badly, paint was peeling, and crabs scurried about as if they had lived there for some time. The bow plaque indicated the name: Harbinger. Still, one last mystery needed investigation. The little ship was tiny compared to the Emerald Storm, just large enough to support a below-deck cabin, and they needed to see what was inside.
The door lay closed and Royce inched up on it as if it were a viper ready to strike. When he reached the cabin, he glanced back at Hadrian, who drew his swords. Royce carefully twisted the latch. The corroded metal stuck and he struggled to free it. Then the door fell inward with a creek and banged against the inner wall. Hadrian rushed forward just in case. He fully expected the cabin to be empty, but to his surprise, the faint light falling through the doorway revealed a man.
He lay on a small bed within the small cabin. He was dead, his face rotted, the eyes and lips gone and most of the flesh eaten, perhaps by the crabs. Hadrian guessed the man had died not too long ago, less than a year certainly, perhaps only six months. He wore sailors’ clothes and around his neck was a white kerchief.
Hadrian whispered, “My god, is that…”
Royce nodded. “It’s Bernie.”
Hadrian remembered Bernie as the wiry topman from the Emerald Storm. He along with Staul—whom Royce had killed—Dr. Levy, and the historian Antun Bulard had worked for Sentinel Thranic. They were the third and final team the Patriarch had sent in to obtain the horn. The last Hadrian had seen of them was in the dungeons beneath the Palace of the Four Winds.
“This looks like blood on the bed and floor,” Royce said.
“I’ll take your word for it—I just see a shadow—but what’s that around his belly?”
“Linen—bloodstained. Looks like he died from a stab wound to the stomach, but it was slow.” Royce climbed out of the cabin and looked around the ship, bending down to study the decking and the lines.
“What are you looking for?”
“Blood,” he replied. “There’s blood all over the place, spots on the deck, handprints on the ropes, and on the wheel. I think he set sail wounded.”
“He could have been attacked on board.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. He looks to have initially survived whatever fight gave him the wound, that means the other guy must have been hurt worse, only there’s no other body.”
“Might have dumped it in the sea.”
“Mighta, but there would still be signs of a fight and blood—a lot of blood—somewhere. All I see are dribbles and drips. No, I think he was wounded, got the boat rigged, and set sail…” Royce ran to the wheel, then the stern. “Yep, rudder is tied. He set the ship, tied the rudder; then, feeling weak, he lay down below, where he slowly bled to death.”
“So who knifed him?”
Royce shrugged. “Ghazel?”
Hadrian shook his head. “It’s been—what? Three, four months? You saw that bracelet back there. The Ghazel have passed by here. They’ve seen this ship but haven’t touched it. If they killed him, they would have taken it. No, Thranic had a deal with the Ghazel, remember? He said something about a guide and safe passage.”
“So Merrick or the Patriarch managed to cut a deal with the Ghazel, letting them come in here?”
“Seems to be the case.”
Hadrian waved to the others and dropped a rope ladder over the side.
“All safe and sound, I trust?” Alric asked, coming aboard.
“Safe,” Hadrian said. “As for sound, I defer to our resident expert in the ways of seafaring.”
Wyatt stood in the middle of the ship and slammed his feet down on the wood of the deck. He then grabbed a rope and climbed up to the masthead, inspecting the lines and the canvas. Lastly, he went below. When he returned, he said, “A little worn and neglected, but she’s a fine ship as far as Tenkin doggers go.”
“Tenkin?” Mauvin asked.
Wyatt nodded. “And that’s Bernie in the cabin, right?”
“Pretty sure,” Hadrian replied.
“Then that means this isn’t just some underground salt lake.”
“What do you mean?”
“This boat sailed here from the Palace of the Four Winds. This must open out to the Goblin Sea—some cove the Ba Ran Ghazel discovered that goes underground and is navigable all the way under Alburn to here.”
“That’s how the Ghazel have been getting in and managing to send scouting parties around Amberton Lee,” Hadrian said.
“As nice as all that is,” Alric began, “how are we going to get this ship into the water?”
“We aren’t,” Wyatt told him. “It will do that all by itself, in about six hours.”
“Huh?”
“This ship is just going to jump in the water in six hours?” Mauvin asked incredulously.
“He’s talking about the tide,” Arista said.
“It’s low tide rig
ht now, or near it. I’m guessing at high tide the watermark will be up to the cliff’s edge. There won’t even be a beach here. Of course, the ship may still be touching bottom. We’ll set sail and hope the wind can pull us. If not, we’ll have to kedge off.”
“Kedge off?” Mauvin asked, and glanced at Arista, who this time shrugged.
“You take the ship’s anchor, put it on a launch, paddle it out, drop it in the water, and then with the capstan you crank and pull the ship toward the anchor. It’s not a fun drill. Sometimes the anchor doesn’t catch, and sometimes it catches too well. Either way, turning the capstan is never pleasant. All I can say is thank Maribor we have Elden.
“Of course, a ship this size doesn’t have a launch, so we’ll need to make something to float the anchor out with. Since we have six hours to kill, we might as well do that. I’ll need Royce, Hadrian, and Elden to help me set the ship in order, so could His Majesty grab a few of the remaining people and make a raft?”
“Consider it done, Captain,” Alric told him.
“We should also dispose of old Bernie, I’m afraid,” Wyatt said. “While it is tempting to just dump him in the sea, we probably should bury him.”
“Don’t look at me,” Gaunt said. “I didn’t even know the man.”
“I’ll do it,” Myron told them. “Can someone help me get him to the beach?”
“Good, then we’re all squared away,” Wyatt said. “We’ll set sail in six hours—hopefully.”
CHAPTER 13
THE VOYAGE OF THE HARBINGER
The tide had come in and Arista noticed most of the shore was gone. Waves slammed against the cliff edge, hammering the wall. Seawater sluiced in and out of the shaft they had come down, making a vague sucking sound with each roll out. The ship sat upright, the deck flat, and the whole thing rocked with each new set of waves, which lifted the stern.
Myron stood on the deck of the Harbinger, casting his eyes upward at the sails as Royce flew about on ropes, tying off the braces. Soaked to the bone, the monk created a puddle where he stood. His frock stuck to his skin, a bit of glowing seaweed was on his shoulder, and he had black sand in his hair and on his cheeks.
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