Salt in the Water (A Lesser Dark Book 1)

by S. Cushaway

  “Take her where?” Gah’leen asked.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t wanna tote her around either. I don’t . . . I don’t even know where the Foundry is, exactly. Never been that far north.”

  “I have,” Senqua said without looking their way. “But I don’t want to go with any Sulari, either. And I’m not staying here with them, Gairy. You wouldn’t get ten miles by yourself without collapsing and dying of thirst.”

  He sneered at her. “The hell do you know about how far I can go?”

  “I’m not going with them.” Aizr-hin knelt next to his father. “It’s a son’s duty to be with his sire when the time comes to bid him farewell on his journey to the Sun’s palace. No offense to you, Ga’behz, but you’re only his nephew, not his son.”

  “You all cluck worse than sand hens.” Gah’leen waved a hand impatiently. “Silence your tongues and listen to me. I want to make a bargain with this Druen. He can have his worthless bottle of whiskey with the Nith’ath in it if he makes a promise to take my son to the Foundry. What he does with the whiskey after that is not my concern. I want the Shyiine to go, too. She’s been to the Foundry, and can see in the dark when a Druen or Sulari cannot. She will make a good lookout.”

  “Don’t give him the whiskey! Why do you think I sold it to you? He’ll drink it and then he’ll die.”

  “Quiet, Senqua.” A smile twisted Gairy’s lips. “I’ll want a full skin of water, too, and some food to start on. And a gun. I won’t be able to hunt without one.”

  “My son can hunt,” Gah’leen replied coldly. “Aizr-hin is a fine marksman, and he’s brave. He’s killed bandits before. But we will give you my old revolver. The two of you should do well enough to fend for yourselves, if you are careful.” He glanced at Senqua. “The Shyiine may take the knife. Women are no good with guns.”

  “Senqua can shoot fine,” Gairy said. “She doesn’t have a lick of common sense, but she’s a good shot.”

  Gah’leen shook his head, adamant. “Women have no need for guns with two able men about. The bargain includes a revolver for you and a knife for her, threk jerky, and water. Aizr-hin will take the threk venom for medicine, and the Harper’s Hand leaves we’ve dried.”

  “And my whiskey.”

  “Yes, and your whiskey.” The old man smirked. “But if you break our bargain and do not get my son to the Foundry or suck down that Nith’ath before you’ve kept your word . . . I will become a Nah’gatt, and haunt your afterlife.”

  “Old man, you got a long line to wait in. I got a dozen Nah’gatt already hauntin’ me. Sulari superstitious crap anyway.”

  “Father . . .” Aizr-hin began. “You cannot trust this Druen. He’ll drink as soon as we’re out of sight of the Sun Plaza.”

  “Then I’ll haunt him down in the pits of whatever hell awaits my twisted soul, and pull him with me. He may not believe that, but there are things no man ever will until they see it for themselves.” Gah’leen’s face broke into the toothless grin again as he patted Aizr-hin’s knee. “You have to go. I’m dying, and Ga’behz is no young man anymore. He will follow me on the road to Sun's palace. You, my son, are young and have many years left. Get our people out of Bywater.”

  The young Sulari man blanched, swallowed, and then inclined his head. “I will.”

  “Good boy. Now, Druen, is this a bargain?”

  “I never agreed to any of this!” Senqua said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I never—”

  “Women do not make bargains, they abide by them,” Gah’leen snapped. “And you have little choice. Where else would you go, if not to the Foundry?”

  Senqua said nothing as she glared, jaw tight. Gairy ignored her, watching Gah’leen’s hand as the old man extended it, palm down.

  “Do we have a bargain?” the old Sulari Prince asked again.

  Gairy nodded. “We do. A gun, a knife, water and food . . . and whiskey . . . to get your boy to the Foundry.” He extended his own shaking hand and grasped Gah’leen’s gnarled fingers. “After the storm blows itself out.”

  “That might be a while,” Ga’behz said, gesturing toward the cracked, heavy door lying askew against the bathhouse entrance. “This is no ordinary storm, nor is this the worst of it. But that may be good. You are not quite ready to travel, He-Goat. A week, perhaps. Two, more likely.”

  Gairy became acutely aware of the low, constant roar of the wind. Until that moment, his mind had shut it out as it had shut out countless sandstorms before. A lower, deeper rumble rode the gale, rolling through and over it. It seemed almost as though something too monstrous and awful to comprehend was singing a dirge against the higher sshhhh of sand beating against the limestone walls.

  Toros. It’s a Bloom.

  “A while, indeed,” Gah’leen said as he, too, listened to the storm. “Let us hope no Gemmin come with this one. Aizr-hin, bring the threk meat over. Let’s eat to celebrate your upcoming journey.”

  Permanence

  Sound came first—a slow, monotonous tick tick, tapping its way into the blackness like a cactus sparrow pecking at a nut— patient, implacable, and utterly maddening. For a long time, the little noise chipped into the dark, empty world Neiro had happily lost himself in, reminding him that something else existed beyond the cool, soft void. He didn’t want to go back there, wherever that ticking came from. That place was a cruel one, full of pain and misery. And hot . . . yes, he could recall that. So damned hot all the time. Sweat always trickling under his arms and down his back, itching, making his skin sticky, making him stink. Him, a man of the Syndicate, who should have smelled of nothing but ozone and power, not sweat, piss, and premature old age.

  Did power have a scent? How was it his sister had smelled? Was that the scent he associated with power? The soft lavender perfume edged with a hard line of something else, something far more ruthless than a synthetic mockery of a real flower. Hate. Envy. Ambition. Yes, those had been her true perfume.

  Each tick bore another tiny needlepoint into him, too miniscule to be felt alone, but when driven together, slithered through to torment him.

  No. Go away. I like it here better. I’ve earned a rest. I’ve found Permanence.

  How had he found it? Was this Permanence? Had that hot place from wherever the ticking came from just been a bad dream he’d had once? An echo of an echo, perhaps—some memory wrapped in itself until it was nothing but a ghost of thought, not real at all?

  More needle holes of light drifted together. Against his will, Neiro felt himself being drawn toward them, drawn toward the hot, hurtful world. Hammering. Beating against the blackness—

  My eyes.

  —until the light squeezed the last shred of the void away and snuffed it out quick as a candle.

  Pain was the third demon that came to haunt Neiro on his sickbed, worming its lazy way through him, bite by bite, until he wanted to shriek from it. It felt as though someone had poured lead over his legs and down his spine; they were too heavy to be moved. He could move his arms, but only enough to send jolts of needles up and down from wrist to shoulder. Digging into the soft surface beneath his prone body, his fingers scrabbled in a vain attempt to pull himself upright. He had to move or he’d go mad.

  He could not. His body seemed an alien thing, a lump of pain and nerves and unresponsive tissue.

  Permanence!

  The word tried to squeeze from his mouth and make the air, but it fell back onto his tongue and rolled there, finally bubbling out of his lips in some unintelligible burble of spit.

  A hand wiped the saliva away gently. A face hovered above him, familiar, but strange. Not Viyr. Where was Viyr? Why wasn’t Viyr there, tending to him? He was sick . . . very ill, more ill than he could ever remember being, and Viyr was not there to tend him.

  “Do not struggle so, Neiro. It is a hard thing, coming out of it like that. You’ve been down for six days . . . let it come slowly,” The plump lips moved to form words with mocking ease.

  Why can’t I talk? It’s not hard. W
here’s Verand? Who is that staring down at me . . . I know him. Black eyes, black hair . . .

  “Do you want some water? No, don’t try to answer just yet. Only blink once and I will get you some, two blinks and I will not.” The man leaned closer to peer at him. His breath smelled of pepper bloom and something alcoholic. Another scent, more medicinal, drifted around as he moved—Harper’s Hand.

  You’re Sokepta. Where’s Verand?

  Neiro swallowed; his mouth was as dry as the Sand Belt. He blinked once.

  Sokepta smiled at him, dark eyes shining. “Good, so you do understand. I will get some water. We will go slow with it. You’ve had a bad time, Neiro.”

  “Lucky that arc didn’t fry his brain entirely,” another voice said from somewhere near the door.

  Neiro succeeded in rolling his head to the left, but his view was obstructed by the pillow bunching up under his cheek and vaulting near his eye. Sokepta’s strong, stubby hands slid under the back of his head, turning his face so he was staring upward at the ceiling again. The big fan above—

  That’s where the ticking came from . . . it always made that damned noise.

  —spun around and around, pushing the dust into the air.

  Sokepta frowned, peering at something over the bridge of his long nose, black eyes fixed in the direction that other voice had come from. “The human mind is a powerful thing. The Enetic mind even more so. Still, Neiro Preciaus isn’t an easy man to kill.” The words sounded accusing, not toward him, Neiro realized, but at whomever the doctor was speaking to.

  “Well he don’t look so damned hard to kill to me.” Footsteps came closer to the bed, loud and confident. “That Zippy just gave him a good shock and now look at him, lyin’ around shittin’ his pants. Pitiful, really. Should just put that pillow over his face and be done with it.”

  Can something already dead be dead? On Standby. Dead. Doesn’t matter. Gone.

  “Few could have lived through it,” Sokepta said. He held a cold glass close to Neiro’s lips.

  At first, his throat didn’t want to work any better than the rest of his body did. Then, instinct took over, and Neiro gulped the water, nearly crying at how good it tasted.

  “You can call that livin’ through it if you want, I guess. Let me talk to him. He can understand, right?”

  I know that voice. Why is he here? Why is Evrik-fucking-Niles in my office, in my upstairs rooms?

  Sokepta pulled the glass away, shaking his head. “He needs to rest, not be upset or overstimulated right now.”

  “Move it, Drahgur. You’re workin’ for me now, not the other way around. By law Neiro Precaius is a citizen in my town. That means I can speak to him any damned time I want.” Niles’s face pushed close even as Sokepta’s vanished. Evrik Niles’s smile was the ugliest thing Neiro had ever seen; all crooked teeth too big for his face.

  “Well, hello there, Neiro,” he said slowly, as if he were talking to a simpleton.

  Get out of my town.

  Spit dribbled down Neiro’s chin. Darkness played at the corner of his mind, swelling, wanting to wash back over him.

  “Aw now, Neiro. Don’t look so damned upset. Your face is goin’ all red.” Niles used his sleeve to wipe up the dribble. “Look at that, you’re slobberin’. Listen. Dogton’s mine now. Be glad more didn’t get killed. Two old men is no great loss. I could have had the whole town executed, but I don’t believe in that kind of cruelty. What’d be the point?”

  It’s you that should be glad. You should be glad you hit Verand with that static round and fried his Shelf before he Pegged you. I wish I could have seen it happen.

  “See, Sokepta? He ain’t that upset. He’s smiling a little now. Least, I think that’s a smile. Or he’s crappin’ himself, can’t tell which.” Niles shrugged. “Well, I got good news for you, Neiro. Your Enforcers are in the barracks, safe and sound. Without their weapons, of course. They’re a bit peevish over Orin, and none too happy that N’jian Printz was executed, but they’re cooperatin’. Oh. Funny thing . . . that Enforcer you sent out with your Shyiine scout? She got back a few days ago. The Junker’s dead and your scout walked off, though.”

  Niles reached down and patted his cheek lightly. “You can’t trust any Enetic. Told you that myself. One of the dumbest moves you made was keepin’ any around in town. Meanin' no offense, Sokepta. Drahgur are tame, at least.”

  Sokepta did not reply, but Neiro wished he had enough control over his muscles to turn his head and bite at Niles’s calloused hand. Take the fingers between his teeth and rip them off, one by one. Spit them back into the bastard’s ugly, smiling face.

  “And you can consider this an early retirement. You got Sokepta to wipe your ass instead of that Mechinae.” Niles snorted. “That thing creeped me out anyway. Don’t know how you ever could sleep with a Zippy around, starin’ at you all the time like that. We dumped him over by the warehouse. But now, you got nothin’ to worry about. I’ll take good care of your . . . heh, well, I suppose it’s not your town. My town. I’ll run it just fine, you’ll see.”

  Neiro tried to spit in his face, but only managed to spit on himself. More darkness, night-black, lapped at his thoughts. He felt suddenly too tired to care about Evrik Niles, or Dogton, or any of it. Except Viyr. It should have been Viyr there with him, not a fat little Drahgur with his pepper bloom and Harper’s Hand.

  “Let him rest now, please, Niles. Taunting him serves no purpose,” Sokepta said, hovering close again. “Go and run your town and let me do the job you’ve laid out for me to do.”

  “You got a smart mouth on you,” Niles said. “Best keep it in line, Sokepta. I like you, you’ve always cut a fair deal, but my tolerance only goes so far.”

  The door closed with a soft click.

  Neiro’s eyelids drifted shut again. The cloth dabbed at his mouth gently.

  “A real mess, Neiro,” Sokepta said, sounding far away.

  The tick-tick of the fan faded as he sank down, whether into sleep or death, Neiro did not know or care. But one thought did touch his mind as he fell into dreamless repose—a reflection both amusing and melancholy all at once.

  When Nyia gets here . . . ah, Niles. I hate that bitch more than you’ll ever understand, but I’ll enjoy watching her chew through your bones. I can live that long. I can hold on long enough to see you dead.

  He smiled, and slid into darkness.

  About the Authors

  J. Ray and S. Cushaway reside in the snowy wastes of northern lower Michigan. When not spending time with their daughter and two grumpy old cats, or working on writing-related projects, they enjoy dabbling in music, art, and online RPG gaming.

  For updates on the “A Lesser Dark” series, please visit:

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