Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  Mi’et’s scarred right hand—bereft the last two fingers and half the forefinger—gripped the canvas, and his hazel eyes widened in recognition. He nodded once, dropped the canvas flaps, then reappeared with a dented teakettle. Without speaking, he began heating water on the small stove.

  Kaitar watched the big half-breed a moment before dropping his head to his hands. Sighing, he closed his eyes, the first twinges of a nasty headache pulsing against his temples.

  Damn, I’m worn out. I’m done after this one. Too tired. Too damned tired. Used up.

  Despite the ache gathering across his shoulders, his breathing slid into a slow, relaxed rhythm.

  Bywater again. Why’s it always Bywater?

  A thud against the table made his eyes snap open. He jerked upright in his chair, staring dumbly at the teakettle whistling steam in his direction.

  “Drink some tea.” Mi’et settled into a chair, muscular shoulders hunched forward, face impassive as he served up a brew blacker than coffee. The liquid smelled of the same spice-and-earth as the pepper bloom cigarettes, but other odors mingled there as well—salt, cinnamon, and most pungent of all, threk venom, the best painkiller available in the Shy’war-Anquai.

  The first bitter sip made Kaitar remember his days as a fighting slave, now more than twenty years gone. He’d been near-choked with that same brew after every battle in the pits, and many of those fights had been against Mi’et. The half-breed drank from his own cup in silence, his braided scalp lock gleaming under the cell lantern. If he were thinking about their old rivalry, Kaitar saw no hint of it on his face. Mi’et rarely gave indication of how he felt about anything.

  Pushing the bloody memories back into the grave of his soul, Kaitar focused on the tea. Each gulp loosened his muscles and soothed his dry throat.

  “If I don’t come back from this one, take Molly for me,” he said, not lifting his gaze.

  “You’ll always come back.” Mi’et refilled the cups, balancing the teakettle with surprising grace despite his missing fingers. “But, if you change your mind, we’ll go to the Sand Belt.”

  “Don’t start with that. Just take care of her for me if I don’t turn up one of these days.”

  Before Mi’et could reply, a voice spoke behind them: “I see you made it in.”

  Kaitar twisted in his chair. Orin stood at the barrack entrance, Leigh Enderi next to him. The tall woman stared at him with cold intensity, her carved features still as rock. He ignored her and nodded at the captain. “Just got in twenty minutes ago. You got my report?”

  Orin’s brows gathered like thunderclouds. “I did. You’ll be goin’ back out. Today. Neiro’s orders.”

  “Shit.” Kaitar finished his tea in a final gulp. “I should have known he wasn’t going to let me sleep for a few hours. Well, what’s the plan he has? I want to know so I can ignore it and come up with one that won’t get us killed out there.”

  A twinkle of amusement shone in Orin’s eyes, though his mouth didn’t so much as twitch. “Leigh can brief you on the way out. I wanted to hear the report from you, though. Neiro made it sound like you didn’t do much but piss in the wind out there. What did you find?”

  “Glass sign from Gren’s Firebrand. A dead Harper woman smashed under his rover. Dead da'mel, and a lot of wind.”

  Leigh frowned at the reply, but kept her silence.

  “Squatters?” Orin asked.

  Kaitar tapped his finger against the lip of the empty cup. “Uh-huh. It was those Sulari in Bywater, I’m pretty damned sure of it. If they shot Gren, they didn’t leave him to die like they did Broach.” He shrugged, leaning back. “It wasn’t Shyiine, I can tell you that for sure. No arrows and no lances. Haven’t seen them this side of the Sand Belt since they burned that squatter camp five years ago.”

  “Nal’ves is what they called it,” Orin said.

  “Yes, Nal’ves. I remember. Heh, Bywater is worse than Nal’ves ever was, though. We never had much trouble with Nal’ves squatters, but I spoke to Sokepta on the way in. He won’t even go near the Harpers’ Trail anymore, and I doubt he’s the only caravaneer who feels that way.”

  “You think they took the caravan and Gren straight back to Bywater then?”

  “That’s my best guess.” Kaitar hesitated, weighing his words carefully. The captain didn’t brush off reports as Neiro sometimes did, but he also didn’t understand the gut-level fear that crept over a veteran scout when tracking a bad line of trouble.

  Orin wiped grime from his jacket impatiently. “Well? That all you got to say about it?”

  “I didn’t like it. Got twitchy as hell right after I found the Draggin, like I was pushing my luck just being there.”

  The grizzled Estarian continued inspecting his coat for any missed spots. “Well, Leigh, there you have it. That’s your scout’s report. I gotta go take inventory on that damned shipment of Firebrand that came in. They got it out in the warehouse and we’re short a couple of boxes.”

  “We’re short four cells each box,” Mi’et said, his tone indifferent. “I counted them last night.”

  “Hell. It figures the last shipment of the year would be short. Those idiots in Avaeliis can’t count their toes without losing track.” Orin sighed. “You two contact me on the Veraleid when you hit the Old Tree Well. You’ll head there first to see if Gairy knows anything, then you’ll be hitting Pirahj.” The flaps dropped behind him as he left.

  Mi’et rose. His broad shoulder bumped against Leigh as he brushed past. Neither Enforcer looked at one another as he moved to the camp stove to warm leftover bean stew.

  “So, you’re the one they’re sending out there with me.” Avoiding the woman’s hard stare, Kaitar poured himself another cup of tea. In the five years she’d been an Enforcer, he doubted they’d spoken more than twice, and it suited him just fine. “Why aren’t they sending Vore? He’s the one with the most field experience, next to Gren.”

  “Orin needs him here,” Leigh replied. “We’re supposed to leave before noon.”

  Kaitar’s mouth slanted downward. “I just got in. I haven’t even had a shower yet, or anything to eat. It’s part of my contract. I get a shower and food before I ride back out.”

  “This is an emergency. Romano’s got his Draggin all packed and I’m ready to go. Are you?”

  “Do you think I’m ready to go? I haven’t even been to the water shed to refill my fucking canteen.” The cup shook against his hands. “Lay off. I know it’s an emergency, but I can’t scout if I’m dead of thirst and exhaustion.”

  “Go fill your canteen, then.” Leigh strode past the table to the bunks with stiff, dignified grace. “You’ll have to sleep in the rover on the way out.”

  Before Kaitar could tell her what she could do with that suggestion, Mi’et shoved his way to the table again, carrying a large bowl heaped with stew. He plopped it down and sat once more. “Eat.”

  Stomach snarling with a sharp twist of hunger, Kaitar turned his attention to the food. The first bite of peppery stew lanced his tongue with a satisfying burn. Mi’et nodded in approval. Kaitar ate, listening to Leigh rummage around by the bunks. She swung a field pack onto her shoulder before checking the charge in her Firebrand. The sleek, pistol-like weapon hummed, cells full. Leigh holstered it at her belt, tugged a sleeveless, woolen cloak—a yalei—over her shoulders, and then pushed a ranging hat onto her head.

  “You can eat on the way out,” she said. “Neiro doesn’t want delays. The shower can wait, too. Gren’s in Bywater, maybe being tortured or dying of thirst. We need to go. Now.”

  Kaitar swallowed another bite of food, and his pupils contracted as cold, familiar hate spread down his spine. “I’ll be ready in an hour. Let me eat and wash the mule sweat off my ass first. You know the routine.”

  “Let him eat,” Mi'et said.

  Kaitar clenched the spoon in one hand, forgotten. The anger drained away as suddenly as it had come, and his temples throbbed. For an instant, Mi’et had sounded like him—Madev Al’Dar
ee. Twenty-three years dead and buried, the last of the Sulari princes to fall, and still haunting the edges of every dream.

  “Let my Shyiine eat. He did well in the pits today. Here is his reward. Did he not earn it?”

  He closed his eyes, the stew a lead ball in his belly.

  “I’m going to go wait with Romano.” Leigh’s voice drummed at the memory, almost shattering it. “Since the Shyiine isn’t ready to go do his job yet anyway.”

  “My Shyiine. My Besh.” Madev’s malicious ghost faded to soft nothingness. “Let him eat.”

  When Kaitar opened his eyes again, Leigh was gone.

  Badge

  The day-old beans slopped into his bowl—thick, lukewarm, and unappealing. Zres blinked at the food dumbly, sleep still clouding his brain. He’d spent all night patrolling Dogton’s water-fields, and though the sun had long since been up, it felt too early in the day to deal with bean stew.

  Mi’et scooped another heap of the mess and slapped it down on the rest.

  “I always get leftovers, don’t I?” Zres asked, tongue heavy in his mouth. He wanted to crawl back into his bunk and skip the entire day. Picking up the spoon, he poked at the brown muck. The film stuck to the surface and pulled away in a big swath. Disgusting.

  “I am not going to waste it,” Mi’et replied in a rumbling, Pihranese accent. “Eat, or go hungry, it makes no difference to me.”

  “Same answer every time I ask. Like talkin’ to a wall. The ugliest wall in the desert.”

  Mi’et turned away. Zres stared at the broad, bare back, the right shoulder twisted and knotted with the most awful scars he’d ever seen. The big Enforcer didn’t bother with a shirt most of the time, and looking at the disfigured flesh while chewing a mouthful of leftover bean stew made the food even less appetizing.

  “Put a yalei on. No one wants to see those lumpy scars.” He tapped the spoon against the table. “What happened to you anyway, someone hit you with a Firebrand?”

  Mi’et lifted his mangled right arm, the only intact finger—the middle one—pointing up in an eloquent salute.

  Orin glanced up from where he sat atop a crate, reading. “Zres, eat your damned food and leave Mi’et to his work. He’s gotta feed the prisoner.” His pale-blue eyes flicked to the report he’d been staring at for the past fifteen minutes. “Wish to hell Avaeliis would send a transport for that asshole, though. It’s no good, that convict sittin’ in that cell, takin’ up our time and water.”

  “I could go feed him,” Zres suggested. The thought of seeing Dogton’s lone inmate perked his interest far more than the prospect of patrolling the town gates or sitting in the watchtower all afternoon. He rolled the beans to the back of his tongue to avoid tasting them. The food stuck in his throat anyway, thick as glue. He swallowed hard. “Mi’et can go find his shirt while I take the rest of that slop to the prisoner

  “No.” Orin frowned. “Your job is to eat breakfast and be quick about it. You’ve got door duty in half an hour anyway. Neiro’s office.”

  Zres closed his eyes and imagined his brain catching fire and rolling around his skull, screaming for mercy.

  Watchin’ flies buzz around and land on every asshole that farts through town while I stand there. King of the boilin’ turds.

  With an effort, he pried his lids open again. The spoon wallowed in the bean gravy, silver against brown, looking for all the world like it had drowned. Zres stared at the reflection in the polished surface. It was him in there, drowning. Surrounded by shit. Big heaps of stinking poop. Right up to the nostrils, every day, all day long. No room to breathe and no chance of ever pulling himself out to see the good, clean world.

  Might as well just get it over with. Inhale it all into my lungs. Zres Corrin, dead by beans.

  He’d be famous for something, at least.

  The barrack flaps parted. Leigh came in, looking brisk and dressed in field gear. Mi’et pushed his way past her carrying the stew pot in his good hand, and Leigh had to step quickly to avoid being knocked aside.

  Orin set Broach’s final report aside and stood. “You three on your way then?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Captain. I just came in for an extra canteen before we leave. We may need it out there.”

  Zres stopped in midchew. “We who?”

  No one answered.

  Understanding blackened to anger. He shoveled in another mouthful of food and chewed with a gusto that made his jaw ache.

  Orin tugged the canteen from his belt and tossed it to Leigh. “Take that one and save yourself the trouble of digging through this mess to find another. You got enough power in your Firebrand?”

  “Yes, Captain. I checked it just after the scout came in.”

  “Good.” Orin gripped Leigh’s shoulder with a gnarled hand. “Find Gren. And get back safe. Listen to Kaitar out there if he says there’s something wrong, but follow your gut, too.”

  “I will, Captain. I’m going to try my best to—”

  “I can go help.” The food settled like lead in Zres’s stomach. “Hell, I can shoot better than Leigh. Why does she get to go and I don’t?”

  The captain ignored him. “And keep Romano on course until you hit Pirahj. He’s likely to think this is a damned joyride.” He waved her away. Leigh slid out of the barracks, glancing over her shoulder at Orin, something like pity written on her face.

  Zres stared at the captain—his father—with a bean-filled grin. That big, desperate smile had punched its way onto his face as it always did when laughing was the last thing he felt like doing. “Romano, too? Why’s he goin’? If it’s to drive them, I can drive. I know where the Harpers’ Trail is. I can shoot. I can even track a little. Hell, I can walk around like I got a turkey up my ass if that’s what it takes to—”

  “You.” Orin’s voice cracked like gunshot. “Will be busy enough with door duty and with the night shift out in the fields. Don’t worry about where or who she’s goin’ with. Finish your breakfast and get to your job. No one else here is complainin’ about this. Not Vore, not Garv, not Mi’et.”

  “Easy for them not to. They’ve all gone out before, and all I get to look forward to is door duty. I’ve paced ruts so deep in the water-fields you could shit there and never hit bottom.”

  “Go on, I said. Those ruts ain’t deep enough yet.”

  Zres tried to tame his grin, but it wouldn’t leave his face. Bean juice spattered onto his faded green shirt as he slammed the spoon into the bowl. “Guess I’d better go stare at that all-important door ’til my brains bake outta my head.” He pulled the jacket from the back of the chair, swung it over his shoulders, flicked a bean from his shirt, and left before the lecture could continue. As he stepped outside and blinked against the hot noonday sun, gravy dripped onto his boots.

  Everyone’s thinkin’ about Gren. That’s all anyone’s been fussin’ over all week. Gren’s gone . . . Gren’s missing. . . where’s Gren?

  He walked. Every step took him further away from the humiliation of being left behind again, of being the eternal greenhorn. The shame tagged right along all the same. He would never outrun it.

  Zres glanced at the small, mud-brick jailhouse as Mi’et pulled the door closed, the big stew pot empty. Even the ugly half-breed had been on a few escort runs, hideous scars and missing fingers and all.

  It was not fair or right. Not at all.

  As he turned the corner near the Bin, Zres halted in his tracks. A line of dust settled in his wake, drifting down onto his shoulders and leaving a dusky red cast to his black jacket. Across from the cantina, Kaitar Besh lit a pepper bloom cigarette and leaned against a gleaming rover parked next to a slat building. A sign had been set on a post just outside the shop: Romano Vargas and Son. Certified Junker Mechanics.

  Zres sniffed, nose wrinkling at the scent of pepper bloom drifting on the hot breeze. He sauntered near the sign and paused to tap his boots against it. “Mornin’, Kaitar. I see you’re all slicked up in that duster, ready to go save the world.”

 
Kaitar winced, quickly shifting his gaze as if he could hide in plain sight.

  “I can whip the gristle out of a sausage.” Zres patted the coiled bullwhip at his belt. “I don’t know why I ain’t the one goin’ out there with you.”

  “Because Orin needs you here to whip gristle out of sausages, I guess.”

  The sarcasm in the older man’s tone made Zres’s belly feel sick, but the smile had creased his face again. “Heard you’re all on a mission to go fuck yourselves.”

  Kaitar sneered, rounding on him. “You wonder why Neiro and Orin don’t send you out? Shit like that is why. I don’t need this right now. Aren’t you supposed to be on latrine duty or something? Emptying Neiro’s piss bucket or—”

  “Neiro can go fuck himself, too.”

  The scout snorted. “Heh. Well, I agree with you on that point, at least.”

  A sting of encouragement from that favorable reaction sent Zres’s mind reeling. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something, anything, to say. If he could get Kaitar to tell him more about the mission, or about what he’d seen in the Bywater Gully, it might make the afternoon in front of Neiro’s door almost bearable. As he stood there, waiting for some form of conversation to peel from his tongue, Leigh appeared in the chop-shop doorway, carrying a large field pack. She stopped in front of the rover, eyeing them as if they were two horse apples in the road.

  “Zres, I don’t care what kind of trouble you’re up to, but we don’t have time for it. We need to go. We were supposed to be gone five minutes ago, but . . .” She gestured at the Junker’s shop. “Romano asked for help finding more canteens, and I’m—”

  “You always get to save the world, and here I am, stuck with beans. Stuck with watchin’ the moon screw the stars every night.” Zres pushed himself away from the sign, hands on his hips, gravy drying to his shirt in an ugly, brown stain. He knew he should shut up and walk away, and should keeping walking until he’d gone right through the tall gates barricading the town from the vast desert. But he could not. “I should be the one going this time.”