Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  “That’s a good idea, Romano. We’ll all just shut up for a while. We’ve still got a few hours until we have to make camp, and it’s no use sitting here, arguing, is it?” Leigh turned and stared over the eastern edge of the desert. What she might be able to see there, Kaitar couldn’t guess; the rover had obscured that direction with so much dust he couldn’t imagine she had much of a view.

  He forced his mind to go as blank as the expression on the Enforcer’s face, and closed his eyes again.

  The Coalition

  Neiro smoothed his hair before grabbing the white shirt slung over the bedpost. He straightened it with a hard flap, pulled it on, and fumbled with the mother-of-pearl buttons. The material stretched across his belly and chest, much tighter than the last time he’d worn it.

  Two years ago, wasn’t it?

  “I’ll have to get a new one made,” he muttered, eyeing the Syndicate emblem on the collar before rolling the sleeves up. “Be sure to put in that order after the meeting, will you, Viyr?”

  Viyr nodded.

  “At least the black trousers still fit.” Neiro zipped the fly before checking his appearance in the mirror above the bed. It always shocked him to see the square-jawed youth with iron-gray eyes had transformed into a paunchy fifty-something, soft jowls blending into a pillar-like neck. The eyes were the same, sure, but the rest looked fat and middle-aged. Mild contempt churned in his belly at the sight of the stranger.

  “Let’s worry about that later, Viyr, shall we?” Neiro looked the Mechinae over with a critical glance. Viyr stood at attention, his corpse-pale face a mask of detached contentment. The Excerii-Draid armor gleamed like a black scorpion’s tail, ready to strike. Dangerous.

  Perfection. Dead perfection. Smells a little like ozone. The perfume of my Mechinae.

  “I want you to just stand there during the meeting.” He circled the Mechinae. “Don’t say anything unless I tell you to.” Neiro straightened the queue of silver-blond hair across Viyr’s shoulder. “There. No, wait. One last thing to really make them shit their pants. Oh. Have we heard from Harper Moad?”

  “This morning. He will not be here for the meeting and sends his apologies, but assures you he will be present by the end of the week.”

  “Damn him, it figures. Harpers always think everything happens whenever they decide it does.” Neiro turned, knelt by the old bed, and searched in the dark space underneath. His palm collided with something solid, too smooth to be wood, too light to be metal. He tugged the Excerii-bound container free, opened it, and removed the Neuro-Cyth. Cradling the crown-like object against his chest, Neiro's fingertips traced the black, cold circuitry. Then, he placed it atop the Mechinae’s pale brow, attaching it to the small port at the base of Viyr’s skull. The points along the headdress rose like spires, glowing the same ethereal blue as Viyr’s eyes.

  Do you remember the feel of this against your forehead, even a little? Or is that lost to eternity, like everything else you had once?

  “Good.” Neiro leaned back. “You look dressed to kill. No. . . to annihilate. You always did like to dress that way, remember?” He looked the Mechinae over one last time, searching for any flaw in appearance. He saw none. “Let’s go down. They’ll be here any moment. Remember, just shut up and stand there, staring. Cold. Just . . . just be yourself. Be Viyr.”

  Be Viyr. There’s some raw irony.

  “I understand,” Viyr said.

  He ushered the Mechinae toward the narrow stairway. As they descended into the gloom of the first floor, Neiro saw Orin waiting near the front door. The captain nodded, his mouth quirking down under his mustache.

  “Anyone here yet, Orin? No? Well, they will be soon.” Neiro took his seat behind a gargantuan desk of polished acacia. “Viyr, turn on that damned lamp and go get Nyia. Remind me to have a window installed in this fucking office. I’m sick of it looking like a dungeon.”

  Glancing around, he frowned as Viyr went about his appointed tasks. From the back room, the Mechinae dragged forth the monstrosity that was Nyia, the stuffed threk. Eleven feet of graying, dusty scales and brittle feathers, Nyia’s mouth hung askew, cobwebs dangling between her inch-long teeth. Her eyes—shining amber Worm Glass—were the only things that seemed untouched by age. The beast had been well named, too; the real Nyia was even more hideous, but Neiro almost wished his sister were there to set Evrik Niles to pissing himself. Her effigy would have to do, however.

  “Put her behind the desk. I like to watch them cringe a little.” Ignoring Orin’s vague scowl, he motioned to the spot he wanted the stuffed beast placed. There were four chairs situated directly in front of his desk, spaced far enough apart for comfort and legroom. Even so, it was going to be crowded and hot once everyone arrived. Before it was all over, Neiro felt sure he’d want to murder every single Coalition member with his bare hands.

  The monitor at the edge of the desk flashed.

  So, here we go.

  “Let Printz in, Orin. Viyr, you stay here, behind me.” Neiro leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk.

  Orin jerked the door open, nodding at N’jian Printz, high commander of the Scrappers. “Afternoon. Any arms you have, I’ll hold for the duration of this meeting.”

  Printz inclined his head with stiff grace. “It won’t be necessary. My men are holding my sidearm outside, Captain.”

  Slim and dark, Printz moved with all the dignity of a full-blooded Sulari, though his eyes gleamed Shyiine-yellow in the half-light. Neiro rose and extended his right hand. They shook, the commander’s grip hard as iron.

  Printz lowered himself into a chair. “It is good to see you well, Neiro.” He shrugged his red yalei from his shoulders and smoothed his short braids. “I told my men to wait outside.”

  “So I can see,” Neiro replied, gaze flicking toward the monitor. There, on the monochromatic display, three Scrappers stood talking with Zres Corrin, who hadn’t been paying much attention to his duties.

  Neiro smoothed his hair. “I regret my office can’t hold everyone’s personal escorts and guards, but it’s simply not big enough. I can assure you, however, Viyr and Orin will see everyone who attends this meeting is safe.” He smiled. “Not that I anticipate any mishaps.”

  “No,” Printz said. “Anyone stupid enough to risk violence in Dogton would be very sorry, indeed.” His teeth flashed white against his dark face. “I do believe one Coalition member may be stupid enough, however. And there he is.” Tapping the monitor, he pointed at a bearded Estarian man leaned against the outside door. The Estarian flicked a finger at the Enforcer pin on the breast of Zres’s jacket. The three Scrappers laughed as the young Enforcer jerked back, glowering.

  Neiro sighed. “There he is indeed. Evrik-fucking-Niles. Let him in Orin, before he goads a fight out of that boy. And have a talk with Zres later about his conduct. He’s an Enforcer, not a damned clown.” He leaned back, trying not to sneer as Evrik Niles came through the door.

  “Neiro Precaius.” Niles glanced around in disdain. “I thought someone with your prestige would have an office bigger than this.” He wiped his palms on his thighs and then extended a hand. Neiro took it, but did not rise as he had for Printz.

  “How are you, old man?” Niles asked, moving toward the chair Neiro indicated. His sparse yellow beard looked dirty, his jacket and trousers not much better. “Damn! That’s a big threk. That from one of the old Sulari manses? I heard they liked to keep stuffed trophies like this.”

  “Yes. The Al’Daree manse.”

  Niles grunted, trying to shift his chair away from the atrocious taxidermy. “Oh, Printz. I didn’t see you sittin’ there in the dark. You blend right in. Except your eyes, of course.”

  Printz’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Niles. We got your shipment of salt last month in return for the caravan escorts you ordered. It was short a barrel.”

  “Was it?” Niles shrugged. He crossed his legs at the ankles and stared at Nyia’s open maw, half a foot from his scruffy cheek. Neiro almost smiled.
<
br />   Go on Niles. Pucker up and let her bite your face off.

  Niles cleared his throat. “I imagine some squatters or bandits might have stolen a barrel then. My driver didn’t mention nothin’ of the sort to me.”

  “We’ll speak of it later,” Printz said.

  “Viyr can serve water, if either of you are thirsty. Clean, from our own town well.” Neiro motioned to the pitcher on the cabinet, hoping the other two men would arrive so the meeting could begin. The thick scent emanating from Evrik Niles made him nauseated. “Or, if you’d prefer, there are cigars.”

  “No, thank you,” Printz replied. “I’ve brought my own water and I do not smoke.”

  “I’ll take both,” Niles said. “Hell, I’m not so stuck-up as to say no to anything offered. Meanin’ no offense there, Printz, but water’s hard to come by in Glasstown these days, what with Neiro and Avaeliis holdin’ all the damned water rights in the desert.” His lips parted again, showing rows of yellow teeth too big for his mouth. “No offense, Neiro.”

  “Of course not.” Neiro’s own smile, the devouring grin of the Avaeliis Syndicate—the “I’ll have my way and you will like it” smile—froze into place.

  You think you’re such a hard son of a bitch, don’t you? See these teeth, Niles? I could grind your bones with them. And I think I may have to before this is through.

  “Viyr, please serve Mr. Niles a drink of water.” He reached for a cigar in the top drawer. As he slid it over the polished desk, Neiro trained his gaze on Niles, who quickly looked away and busied himself with the stogie as Viyr served the water. Niles quaffed it down, stuffed the cigar between his teeth, and chewed the end in a way that made Neiro want to ram it down his throat until he choked.

  “Fine stuff.”

  Neiro inclined his head. “Indeed. Those cigars come from Avaeliis.”

  “Boss, Dramen Frell and Brynn Aurlin are here,” Orin announced, stepping aside as the last two Coalition members entered.

  Dramen Frell came first, sporting the most ridiculous mustache Neiro had ever seen. The thing seemed to have a life of its own there on his upper lip. Nonetheless, Frell had the shrewd, direct stare of a cunning negotiator, a skill which had served him well in the Junkers’ Union. He paused to shake hands with Orin, and the captain’s white brows shot up, amusement twinkling in his pale-blue eyes.

  “Captain, I believe we met back during the last Toros Bloom,” Frell said, still gripping Orin’s hand. “I’m glad to see you’re still in charge of the Enforcers here. You hold this town together.”

  Orin snorted. “Hell, I can barely hold myself together these days, but it’s good to see you, Frell.”

  Trying to seduce my own men away from me with that Junker equality bullshit, aren’t you, Frell?

  Frell took his seat, straightening his Union jacket as he nodded around at the other three men. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “Gettin’ a little stuffy in here,” Niles muttered, eyeing the threk.

  Brynn Aurlin, oldest of the border mayors, scurried in and plopped down next to Niles. Small, pop-eyed, and grinning as if he had some secret joke he wouldn’t share, the gray-haired man winked at Neiro before offering his hand.

  “Precaius,” he began. “Folks down in Wrent are wonderin’ when you’re gonna up the water rations there. I told them I’d come back with an answer.”

  “Yes, well.” Neiro shrugged. “We’ll hash all that out in a moment. Water, anyone? No? Good. Let’s get this meeting underway, shall we? Before we discuss the new mandate from the Avaeliis Syndicate regarding water rationing and long-range weather forecast for the spring, I want to bring to attention a more pressing matter. In the past few—”

  “Let me guess,” Niles cut in. “The squatters down in Bywater are harassin’ every caravaneer trying to make it up the Harpers’ Trail. And because the majority of your shipments run that way from the Harper Citadel, you want us to tighten our belts and empty our canteens for it.”

  Neiro tried to catch Niles’s eye, but the younger man made a pretense of smoothing out his beard.

  Look at me for a moment, Niles, you filthy coward.

  “What I was going to say, Mr. Niles,” he began. “Is that the problem should be cleared up very soon. No, we won’t have to stop trade coming from the Citadel, which means Wrent and Glasstown will still be able to barter as always. Stopping trade would be suicide for all of us.” He splayed his fingers out on the desk, ignoring the small louse which had escaped Niles’s beard and fallen to the gleaming surface. The bug wriggled there before crawling blindly toward the monitor.

  “I’ve got an Enforcer en route to Pirahj now.” Neiro nodded at Printz. “As the commander can affirm, my Enforcer will be picking up a squad of Scrappers to clear out any trouble in Bywater. These are just Sulari refugees that have refused to become regular Pihranese citizens under Avaeliis law. You understand how stubborn the Sulari are. A few Estarian bandits are there, too, I believe.”

  “Lein Strauss’s crew, those still alive,” Brynn Aurlin said. The sly smile crept over his face again. “Old Strauss might be dead these fifteen years, but don’t mean all those that followed him died, too. And they haven’t forgotten, Precaius. Mean as dogs, that lot, and twice as thirsty.”

  Printz scoffed. “They will be poorly armed, regardless of who is in charge. Some stolen weapons from the caravans, perhaps . . . a few rifles, knives, perhaps a dozen revolvers. No Firebrand, no semiautomatic rifles, no vehicles. Most importantly, squatters possess no real training or strategy.” He waved a hand, dismissing the notion of any real threat. “The team I’m sending with Neiro Precaius’s Enforcer will have no difficulty with this matter. By a week’s time, it will be as if Bywater never existed.”

  “That’s what they said during the whole Bywater rebellion back when Strauss was running the show,” Frell said, fingering his mustache. “Gentlemen, that brings up a very real problem. There will be refugees. Not every squatter is there by choice. Women, children, and even some of the young men might come into your towns after this is resolved. The Union is prepared to help set up aid stations to provide food, water, and temporary shelter if the need arises.”

  It won’t arise because I’ve ordered the whole damned rat hole cleaned out. All of it. I’m done with Bywater.

  The louse began to crawl toward him, a red-brown speck scrabbling against what must have seemed like an endless, dark sea to its microscopic brain. Neiro tried to ignore it. He would have to bring all the men to the same conclusion, one way or another. If he did not, the Cynops—ruling over the Avaeliis Syndicate like pale gods—would never stop breathing down his neck.

  He squared his shoulders. “We’ll organize that once I’ve got word from my Enforcer and scout on the situation. Kaitar’s got a good head for numbers and he’ll be able to estimate exactly how many refugees might be heading in our direction. Now, as to the other matters at hand—”

  “Oh. Yeah. Besh.” Niles tugged his beard thoughtfully. “You put way too much trust in Shyiine and other Toros breeds, don’t you?”

  “Especially that one,” Aurlin agreed. “He’ll stick a knife in your back one of these days, Precaius. Mark my words. Everyone knows the story about how he slit that old Sulari’s throat. What was his name? Madev Al-something. Anyway, if you think that Shyiine snake won’t do the same to you when he gets the chance . . . whew, I’d hate to be in your chair when it happens.”

  “He’s been in my employ for twenty years and has never raised a hand in violence to any Dogton citizen. Nor have the other Shyiine in town.” Neiro’s smile twisted into a snarl. “And how I conduct business with my own employees is my concern.”

  If Niles interrupts me again, Avaeliis help me, but I’ll reach across this desk and choke him until his eyes pop out.

  “Furthermore, the sentient Enetics in the border towns—excuse me for using the scientific term, gentlemen—are citizens of the Avaeliis provinces in the Shy’war-Anquai. That means Shyiine, Drahgur, Druen, and even Shurin. Any
mixed-blood people of those races are allowed to live and work in my town, so long as they break no laws. As governor of this province, it’s my job to see none of those laws are broken. By anyone.”

  Niles pursed his lips, shook his head, and sucked in a breath. “See, if I’m going to stay part of this Coalition . . . that is, if Glasstown is going to stay part of it . . . well, Neiro. To tell the truth, I don’t like Enetics or whatever word you want to call those Toros-tainted things. They ain’t no different than those mindless Gemmin. See, the one thing I do agree with the Sulari on—”

  “Now hold up, Niles,” Orin snapped, face flushed. “You come into this town and try to tell Neiro and me who can be trusted and who can’t? You? Under what authority and with what damned experience?”

  “Orin,” Neiro warned, privately amused the old gunslinger had jumped on the young border mayor. “Please, let’s keep this civil. And I’m sure Mr. Niles has forgotten he’s sitting next to an Enetic.” He motioned at Printz, who’d kept his stony silence, gleaming eyes narrowed in contempt.

  “I do have mixed heritage, that is true. My grandmother was Shyiine.” The commander didn’t look at Evrik Niles as he spoke, but the clipped words were clearly meant for him alone. “However, my heritage has not stopped me from reorganizing the Scrappers into a well-prepared and very capable military force. They may otherwise have been disbanded after the last Toros Bloom was contained in the Sand Belt. But now, we are hired by caravaneers, border towns, and even the Harpers make use of our services. All of you here have, at one time or other, hired us.”

  Printz turned his head, chin tilted as he looked down his high-bridged nose at Niles. “More than that, I have my hopes that if this Coalition can be made to work, Pirahj may yet one day be a center for more than military service. Trade, education, even a home to artisans and skilled workers. As it was many years ago during the golden age of the Pihranese people, before the Sulari tainted our legacy, and before Toros ruined our empire.”