Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  And it didn’t matter much anyway. For once, other thoughts chewed at the edge of his mind, more dismal than boredom, more irritating than the knowledge that Moad had been visiting his mama all week. Those notions clamored around far in the background, but only one thought brooded large enough for Zres to focus on—Leigh and her crew had gone missing. Ever since Orin had announced contact had been lost with them the day before, everyone had been on edge. Even the Scrapper commander, N’jian Printz, had been ruffled when all attempts to contact his men at Os’tizal went unanswered.

  What if they’re really dead out there? Leigh and Kaitar. What will Erid do if his old man is out there, bein’ eaten by vultures?

  It seemed too impossible a notion to wrap his mind around. Instead, he watched the western horizon with a vague hope, eyes watering against the sunset. As he stared, the faintest shimmer of a dust cloud caught his attention. He rose from the plank bench and leaned against the open-faced tower window, the edge rough against his fingers.

  Is that them? It looks like a rover. Should I radio in?

  Blindly, he groped for the Veraleid transmitter perched on the rickety stand near the bench. He almost knocked it over, but froze before it tipped. Through the line of dust, something moved. Something fast.

  It is them! Has to be!

  The spindly form of a shovel-nosed antelope bounded from the haze. It paused, silhouetted against the red sky before vanishing behind thick thorn brush.

  Zres lowered himself to the bench and pulled his hat over his eyes. His heart gave a feeble thud-thud of disappointment and sank down into his boots. Thirty seconds later, he stood and shoved the bench askew, jittery with the need to do something. Moad’s loud voice died away on the wind as his sermon ended, but Zres paid no heed to it as he stalked the small space like a caged animal. Alternately kicking the walls and slapping them with open palms, he peered out the window. Staring. Seeing nothing.

  We should be out there instead of sittin’ around playin’ with our willies. Why doesn’t he send me out to find them?

  He knew the answer—Neiro had ordered Orin to wait. And so the Enforcers had waited, taking turns manning the Veraleid in case Leigh’s team or the Scrappers at Os’tizal called in. Only the western watchtower and the front gates were being patrolled now. Neiro’s office, along with the Dogton water-fields, stood unguarded and ignored.

  Zres sighed, stooped to straighten the bench, and paused. The squealing of the front gates rang in his ears. Frowning, he craned his head out the eastern tower window, waiting to see who might come from around the scrub, expecting the grumble of Garv’s sand bike. But the notes that reached his ears were musical, not mechanical.

  “O’Mary . . .

  My heart is with thee

  Through the open spaces

  And the lonely places

  I walk with your Light

  And in your grace

  O’Mary

  Save this poor lost child . . .”

  Zres’s lips curled downward.

  Moad.

  A moment later, the Harper sauntered around the line of scrub, trailed by his Soulmaker guard. The heavy-set man carried a tin pail in one hand. He belted out the next verses of the hymn as if the entire desert wanted to hear. Zres wished he’d shut up. The Soulmaker caught his attention, though; he’d seen Opert Reeth from afar several times since Moad’s arrival, but hadn’t gotten a good look at the man. Now, as he studied the plain, black garb and solemn face, he couldn’t understand why his presence had people so riled.

  Hell, he don’t look like nothin’ special to me. Might as well be a stable hand muckin’ out a stall.

  Both men walked steadily toward the watchtower before pausing beneath its lengthening shadow. Zres ducked his head down. Phineas Moad was the last man in all the world he wanted to come visit him.

  “Zerestus?”

  He peeked out the window again, staring down at the two faces tilted up at him, one grinning and broad, the other polite and disinterested. Moad held up the tin bucket; it flashed gold in the sunset.

  “Your mother asked if I’d bring you some supper, son. Do you mind if we come up?” He gave the lunch bucket a little wiggle so it swung to and fro. “She’d be mighty disappointed if you didn’t have a hot meal in your belly tonight.”

  Zres groped for the Veraleid, picked it up with the intention of hurling it right at the Harper, then sighed and set the device down. “Hope you don’t mind climbin’ a ladder, because I can’t come down. I’m on duty.”

  Moad smiled. “That’ll be fine. Thank you, Zerestus.” The Harper motioned to his guard and the two vanished from view as they walked beneath the tower platform. The entire structure vibrated as Moad began his ascent up the rickety ladder.

  He might just fall and break his neck. Harper Load, bucket of s’rat stew dumped right over his face. I wouldn’t shed a tear.

  But Moad did not fall. The simple hatch cut into the floorboards creaked open and the Harper’s curly head popped through, flushed, but still cheerful. Huffing, he pulled himself inside and plopped the tin lunch bucket down before peeking through the hatch “You got this, Reeth?”

  Reeth answered by appearing through the opening. He climbed up easily, face calm, complexion untouched by his exertion. With a polite smile, he pulled his legs inside and closed the hatch. The Soulmaker brushed off his gloved hands against his pants and stood. “Hello, Zerestus.”

  “Zres, this is Opert Reeth. I’m sure you’ve already heard rumors he’s a Soulmaker.” Moad clasped his companion's shoulder. “And it’s true. Reeth is one of those enlightened people, blessed by Mary with courage and purity to keep Her Harpers safe from harm.”

  “Yeah,” Zres answered, unimpressed. Up close, Reeth looked even less intimidating than he had from the ground, though something about the man’s serene, empty stare did remind him a little of Viyr. Reeth was no Mechinae, though, only a run-of-the-mill Estarian.

  He turned his attention to Moad again. “So my mama made you bring me dinner. Why? This is her busiest time of the day. The Bin’s packed right now, or should be. The harvest is goin’ on and there are dozens of caravaneers in town. How’d she get the time to make me a hot dinner? It ain’t Sunday.”

  “Why, she’s not working tonight, actually.” Moad sat on the bench and pulled back the cheesecloth covering the pail’s contents. “She asked if I’d bring you some food and have a talk with you. You must be dire worried for your friends out there in the desert. N’jian Printz is in a meeting with Neiro right now about it, in fact. I suspect the commander will be going back to Pirahj in a day or two if he can’t reach his own men there. If it’s the start of a Bloom blowing in from the Belt, the Scrappers might all be afield already.”

  In spite of the dislike churning in his belly, Zres wondered if the Harper had heard anything else important. Mindlessly, he reached into the lunch pail and fished out a warm piece of corn cake. “Do they really think it’s a Bloom? Zip—eh, Viyr told the captain the possibility of that happenin’ was almost zero. And the big shard at Pirahj is deactivated.” He chomped down on the cake. A few crumbs spilled onto his jacket. Zres brushed them onto the floor.

  Moad rubbed at his chin, bushy brows gathering over his blue eyes like twin caterpillars. “Son, if it’s a Bloom, Neiro’s going to have you all out helping the Scrappers set up beacons and Bloom-nets to contain it. But I did make contact with the Citadel earlier.” He lowered his voice. “You’re a smart young man, and I suspect you know how to keep your mouth closed when someone tells you something not meant for common ears.”

  The corn cake stuck in his throat as his mouth went dry all at once. Zres choked it down with an effort. “No one listens to anything I say anyway. I don’t suppose I’d tell anyone a secret.”

  Moad nodded. “Good. You’re probably aware we monitor Toros activity in the Citadel, too. The Scrappers, Junkers’ Union, and all the border towns have their eyes turned toward the Sand Belt as well . . . but our beacons go further west. Someth
ing is stirring out there, and it might be the beginnings of a Bloom.”

  A Bloom!

  Moad cleared his throat, smiling briefly. “But unless it’s a fine, big one, there’s little chance it’ll blow this far east. Especially if the Scrappers have the jump on it. I think that’s why your father . . . Captain Orin, excuse me . . . is having a hard time reaching your friends out there.”

  Tingling excitement seared through every nerve in Zres’s body. “He’ll have to send me out if there’s a Bloom. He can’t find any excuse to keep me here in Dogton. And we’ll have to go find Leigh and Kaitar, too. And Gren. Even Romano. Neiro will need everyone.”

  Moad glanced at Reeth. The Soulmaker only stared out the window in mute vigil. Outside, the sky had begun to darken rapidly.

  The Harper sighed. “It might be better if Neiro didn’t send the Enetics out there.” He ran a square finger across his mustache, smoothing the bristly thing down. “Kaitar, that’s his name? And that female Shyiine training with the Druen fellow. . .? None of them should be kept anywhere near a Bloom.” Moad smiled, slapping his palms down on his knees. “But that’s a worry for Neiro and I to discuss with the other Coalition members. You, Zerestus, must have enough worries on your young mind as is. I suspect your friends will be home safe soon. Well ahead of any Bloom, if there’s a Bloom at all, and if it comes this far. Which I doubt.”

  “Kaitar and Gairy both scouted during the last Bloom, when the Pirahj shard was still active,” Zres said. The hot-pepper-and-salt seasoning on the roasted tomato he'd been gnawing on made his mouth scream for a drink. “They made all kinds of maps, set all the beacons out by the Sand Belt. They helped set all the Bloom-nets, too. The captain made them both talk about it once durin’ training.”

  “Don’t ever try to figure out the mind of an Enetic.” Opert Reeth turned from the window. “Even when they mean well, they cannot fight their base instincts. The corruption of Toros is too deep in their veins, Zerestus. One moment, they may resist the effects of a Bloom, and the next? Well, they may become the worst part of it. They are animals, no less a threat than threk.”

  “I have a hard time believing Kaitar is gonna turn rabid and start murderin’ everyone. Mi’et, maybe.” Zres scrounged around the pail for something to drink. There, nestled at the bottom, was a small glass bottle filled with milk. He eyed it with surprise as he lifted it. The cool, creamy liquid sloshed around invitingly. “What’s this? How’d Mama afford milk? Milk’s too expensive to have except on holidays.” He unscrewed the lid and sniffed. The delicate odor made his mouth water. When he sipped it, the smooth, rich taste numbed him to everything but pleasure.

  “That’s another bit of news I’d like to speak to you about, son,” Moad said. “Your mother’s no longer going to be working at the Bin.”

  Zres sputtered, milk threatening to shoot from his nose. “What?”

  Moad chuckled and brushed his lapels free of spatter. “Well, Lucy’s decided it’s time to retire. She wants to marry.” The Harper leaned forward, his gaze suddenly too intense, almost cold.

  The milk turned rancid on Zres’s tongue.

  No.

  “Zerestus,” Moad went on, solemn. “Your mother is a good woman who has had a hard life. You don’t know this, but she and I have been friends for many years. In fact, there was some question as to who your father might have been when you were just a young boy.”

  Queasiness rose in his throat like a sour tide, and Zres could not swallow it down again. “. . . You can’t marry Ma. Not you.”

  “Son—”

  “Don’t call me son!” He flung the lunch pail; it smashed against the wall. The bottle of milk shattered with a high tinkling of ruined glass, and white liquid dripped to the rough floorboards, pooling there. The sight of it made the puke rise to Zres's throat again. He’d had that in his mouth. That white, frothy cream had been down his throat. Cow’s milk, which must have come as some gift from Phineas Moad, and—

  “Zerestus!” Moad stood, his square, big form filled the small space. “Your mother would be very disappointed.”

  “You curl-headed son of a bitch! You can’t marry her!” Zres grabbed the Veraleid transmitter, ready to crash down into Moad’s face. The Harper raised an arm to ward off the blow, but it was Opert Reeth’s stare that made Zres stop short —the Soulmaker’s placid expression transformed into needle-sharp focus. In his black-gloved hand he held his pearl-handled revolver, the Harper’s cross inlaid into the grip shining like a star.

  “Zerestus,” Moad said quietly, “I know this news may come as a shock to you. You’re a discontented, angry young man. Why, I can hardly blame you. Just sit down a moment and let’s talk about this, man-to-man.”

  Zres dropped the Veraleid. The big grin broke over his face, spreading wider as he stammered wordlessly. Inside, he wanted to cry, but all that came out was a laugh. It rocked through him, knotting his belly, snorting out through his nose and rising higher. Louder than Moad’s sermon had been.

  Ma’s gettin’ married to Harper Moad. And it’s gonna be Mary-this-and-that until I put a bullet in my own brain!

  The thought hurt. Hurt so bad all he could do was laugh more, doubling over with it, knees shaking. A tear gathered at the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek. But he could not stop.

  Moad glanced at Reeth nervously. The Soulmaker nodded once, lowered his revolver, and knelt to open the hatch. Zres watched with tear-blurred eyes, his chest hitching up and down, hysterical guffaws rising to shrieks.

  Everyone in Dogton probably thinks I’ve gone nuts. Maybe I have. Mama . . . marryin’ Harper Moad! I’m gonna puke!

  Just as the hatch door clicked shut and the tower ladder vibrated with the rapid descent of the two men, Zres did puke. Corn cake, peppered tomato, and milk came up in a big gushing belch, spattering his legs and boots. What little thread of hope that Orin might someday man up and marry his mama was gone. Squashed dead by the ugly, square form of Harper Moad, bullying into everything with his hymns of Mary Cocksucker.

  Zres’s laughter died in a strangled choke as the grin broke into silent, gasping sobs. He didn’t even know why he was crying. How could this be so much worse than his mother being a whore?

  Somehow, it was.

  Ghosts

  The two humans trudged along like sleepwalkers, staring ahead and seeing nothing. Each time Kaitar stopped to look over his shoulder, they trailed further behind, their steps heavy, heads hanging. Romano had faltered an hour into the hike, struggling to keep up at all. Leigh fared better than the Junker, but even she had stumbled from time to time.

  We can’t afford to stop for too long, but if I keep pushing them like this, they won’t make it.

  Kaitar waited for them, his own legs aching. A hundred yards to the east, he saw the vague outline of a threk slink through the night. Then, the predator moved too far into the shadows even for a Shyiine to see, and he found himself peering at empty blackness.

  Leigh staggered up to him. “Why are we—”

  “Because if you don’t rest now you’ll fall, and it will be harder to get up again. Sit down for a few minutes.”

  “They’re behind us, aren’t they?” Romano asked as he dragged himself the last few feet. “The threk. I heard one a while ago. They’re going to kill us, one by one.”

  “Shut up. Sit down. Drink only what water you need.” Kaitar was sick of Romano’s whining, sick of Leigh’s cold stares. Sick of everything. He wanted to leave them and walk far away where he’d never have to hear anyone cry about being scared or tired again. More and more frequently, the Junker had sobbed like a lost child. Leigh had kept her fear to herself, but every time she looked at him, Kaitar’s hackles rose. Hate radiated off of her like heat from metal lying in the desert sun, scorching whenever he drew too close.

  “What about the Harper’s Hand?” Romano asked. “I thought you said there was some around? I’m hungry, and my canteen’s almost empty. I don’t want to drink piss.”

  “We�
�ll find it before morning.” Kaitar rubbed at a bloodstain on his duster, frowning. “It grows in a little valley not far from here. It will be a good place to make camp, too. There’s enough brush and acacia there to make a lean-to.”

  He turned to stare out across the desert, blanketed under the dark sky. The soft chi-iierk of a sand cricket reached his ears, but nothing else stirred. Not even the two trailing threk made any noise.

  If these two get killed, it will be my fault. Mine.

  Every death he’d witnessed somehow circled back to being his fault. For years, those Nah’gatt haunted the desert, rending his soul and cutting down to the quick so the old hurts still bled.

  “Your fault,” they whispered. “Because you are a coward and didn’t just lie down and let us kill you. And now we’re dead.”

  Kaitar forgot Leigh and Romano hunched behind him, waiting for him to lead them to water. Waiting for him to protect them from threk. When he looked in their direction again, he stared through them, seeing old ghosts instead of two living people. All the culls lying mute in the Sun Plaza's fighting pit waited for him, their eyes clouded over with new-death, blood leaking onto the sand from long, precise cuts of his yatreg. Accusation marred those still, waxy faces. Mariyah was there, too, leading the wraiths like a queen—her sullen, pretty face turned toward him through the bars of that cage, hating him.

  “Your fault,” she hissed. “You should have let my brother kill you. Mi’et would have been champion, and maybe they’d have rewarded him . . . us . . . with freedom.”

  I didn’t want to see him die. I didn’t know they had the threk. I tried to help.

  “You ‘helped.’ Now, I’m here, and Mi’et is a ruin. Your fault, Kaitar Besh. I will never forgive you. Neither will he. No one will.”