The Water Road

by JD Byrne

  “Somebody else will be down here before long, Strefer,” he said.

  She ignored him and pressed on. “However, if you agree to let me go back there and look at the scene for, let’s say five minutes? Less than that, how about three minutes? After that, I’ll leave quietly and without any need of an escort. I promise, Yaron, I won’t touch a thing. And when I write an award-winning story with all the juicy details I glean from in there, I’ll never mention your name.”

  Yaron just stood there, defeated, and said nothing.

  “I’ll be gone before you know it, Yaron. Trust me.”

  “All right,” he said, exhaustion in his voice. “Three minutes. And if anything is messed up or out of place or missing, I will hunt you down myself. Understood?”

  She nodded, then took a pad of paper and a pen out of her pouch.

  Yaron looked up and down the hall before opening the door behind him. “It’s all the way in the back,” he told her, and gestured for her to walk past. “Mind your step. Nobody’s cleaned up yet.”

  ~~~~~

  Strefer stepped quickly through the door as Yaron held it open. She took several steps into the room before she heard it close behind her with a click. A long countertop, about shoulder high, no doubt designed to maintain a polite separation between the governors and the governed, greeted her. She scanned it quickly for some sort of door or portal through which she could pass. There must be one, but it was not obvious, probably also by design. She decided she did not have time to waste. She put her pouch on top of the counter and, with a quick running jump, leapt over the counter, landing firmly, if not gracefully, on the other side. She grabbed her pouch and headed down the darkened corridor towards the back room.

  Yaron was right that no one had yet bothered to clean anything up. Strefer was hit by the smell of warm congealed blood and dead tissue before she made it into the back room. It was something she had experienced many times before, usually in the back alleys or dead-end streets near the outskirts of Tolenor. The experience never got any easier, although she had at least learned to cope with it. Still, the stench took her by surprise because it was so out of place in the otherwise formal surroundings. She walked down the corridor, noting how it was at once overstuffed with records and meticulously organized. Whatever else he had been, Alban was very good at his job.

  Strefer paused when she reached the doorway. The room was lit by the deep orange hues of late-afternoon sunlight, which streamed in through a set of windowed doors that appeared to open onto some sort of terrace. Only a few feet away was a pool of blood mixed with what Strefer assumed was brain and bone, congealing together in a sticky red ooze. The puddle had spread over the carped to make a ragged, uneven blotch.

  Strefer stepped around the pool and looked through another doorway to another room, into what appeared to be a library. Nothing appeared odd about it, as if it had been untouched by the violence that broke out next door. Turning her attention back to the office in which she stood, she noted that nothing there looked particularly out of order, either. The rug near the windows was neat and unmolested. Except for the blood soaked into it, the rug by the door was the same. As she walked around the desk, by the windows, she saw the bloody pikti lying on the floor, as if cast aside in haste. There was another doorway, connected to a long corridor, but it was dark and empty. Behind the desk was a high-backed chair that appeared to have been pushed back in a hurry.

  Strefer was drawn to the other doorway and the long corridor beyond it. She stepped lightly down the darkened passage, until she saw some light ahead of her. After a few more steps, she walked out into a large, majestic, circular room. Even though she had never seen it before, Strefer knew this was the chamber of the Grand Council. She stood for a moment and drank in the splendor, but heard muffled voices in discussion coming from somewhere high above. She retreated quickly into the corridor and then back into the office.

  In the office Strefer studied the desk and the chair that sat behind it. In a room where nothing seemed out of place, there was something odd about the arrangement. Strefer had to assume that either Alban or his killer had been sitting there just before the murder. It would make sense that it was Alban. It was his desk, after all, in his office. But if he had been the one sitting there, why was he on the other side of the desk when he was killed?

  Perhaps it was the killer who was sitting in that chair, discovered by Alban and surprised by it? She moved closer and saw an open book on the top of the desk. In and of itself, a book on the desk of the clerk was nothing unusual. The entire office was littered with papers, books, and even scrolls. Here was just another among dozens. Yet this one stood out.

  Strefer walked around the desk, careful not to disturb anything, and took a closer look. It was a notebook of some kind, filled with carefully done handwriting and bound in red leather. The book was sideways to her, so she did not bother to read what was written. She looked up and saw the unlocked cabinet directly across from her.

  It was a small cabinet with a glass door that sat next to the desk. The door was open and a key protruded from the lock at the base of the opening. Inside, there were a few small notebooks very similar to the one sitting on the desk in front of her. It appeared that the cabinet could hold one more book of that size.

  Her eyes returned to the red notebook on the table. It seemed certain that it was related to the murder in some way. It was another in the short list of things that was upset in the room. Had the killer read something in the book that caused him to murder Alban then flee from the balcony? It made sense as a working theory, but Strefer could not imagine what would motivate such an action. The answer was in the book, she knew, and she had to find out what it was. Reading it here was out of the question. Aside from the brief time she had, if Yaron came in and found her reading something on the desk he would, at best, throw her out of the room and, at worst, throw her in jail.

  There was only one solution. Strefer picked the book up off the desk, dog-eared one of the pages to mark the spot where it was left open, slapped it shut, and stuffed it deep down in her pouch. Thankfully, it fit neatly inside and did not call attention to its presence. As long as Yaron did not know it was here, he would have no idea that something was missing. There was a quick rush of nerves and a lump formed in Strefer’s throat at the thought of the betrayal she was making. The act was caricature for her profession, why so many held what she did in such low regard. She told herself it was not personal. This was not just about getting a big story. It was about breaking the biggest story in Tolenor’s history, perhaps in the whole of the Triumvirate’s history. She was not going to let it slip through her fingers.

  She took a deep breath and turned to walk out of the office. Walking carefully around the pool of blood over to the doorway, she was startled to look up and see Yaron standing on the other side of the counter, peering down the corridor. It was such a shock that her knees nearly buckled and sent her tumbling back into the blood and brain on the floor. “Dear gods, Yaron!” she said in a loud whisper . “You scared me half to death.”

  “Yes, well, be thankful that I didn’t just come back here and grab you,” he said in a voice that was more nervous than authoritative. “Your time is up.”

  “Fine, fine,” she said, walking up the corridor to the counter and vaulting over it. Yaron held out a hand to help her down off the counter. “I’ve done all the sightseeing I need to do here,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Thanks again. You won’t regret it.”

  “You better be right,” he said, moving for the door. “Now, I hate to be a rude host, but will you please get out of here?”

  She nodded and walked through the door as Yaron held it open. Thankfully, the hallway was still empty, except for the two of them. Strefer dashed over to the stairs, pausing for a moment to look back at Yaron. He was on station at the door, as stable as ever. “I’m sorry,” she said in a barely audible whisper before she scampered down the stairs. She made her way quickly to the front doors and
then down the front marble steps. The crowd was larger now and seemed to be getting restless. At least it would make it easier for her to slip away.

  She was about to disappear into the crowd when she heard someone say, “How was Keretki?”

  Strefer stopped and turned to find a Sentinel standing at the bottom of the marble steps, a few feet away. The face was familiar, but Strefer could not match it with a name. “I’m sorry, what?” she asked, trying to work through her confusion.

  “Your meeting,” he said. “I assume it went well?” His face changed from one of polite confidence to concern.

  It came back to her just in time. “Oh, yes, the meeting. Right. It went very well, thank you for asking.” Thankfully, a press of people seeking entrance to the building demanded his attention. Strefer did not wait for any further chances to chat. She walked out into the crowd and began to make her way out of the compound.

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Because the Daily Register was published in the Telebrian capital of Sermont, it was there that Strefer first went when she was hired. When she was formally transferred to Tolenor, she went by land, the way that most people traveled to Sermont by the Sea. She went by common carriage, down the Coast Road that wound along the rocky cliffs next to the crashing waves. The road led onto the Grand Causeway, across which she gained entrance to the city. It was a scenic route, but not a very quick one. The journey took five days, from what Strefer remembered, and included numerous stops to replace horses as well as dispatch and take on passengers. The quality of the Coast Road itself slowed progress on occasion.

  Strefer concluded that she did not have that much time. The sea route to Sermont would be better. It was brutally direct, 160 miles from the island, but prone to rough seas. It was a quick jaunt, even on a ship that still relied on sails for propulsion. The winds along the coast were consistent and favorable. If she could find a steam ship, that would be even better.

  Finding passage proved more difficult that she imagined, given the short notice. There were a few ships leaving for Sermont that night, but none had available berths. In frustration, she gave up dealing with the ship representatives directly and instead focused on passengers. With some coin, as well as a little luck and charm, Strefer managed to find a couple that would sell their berth on a steam ship early the next afternoon. It was the best she could do, and they drove a hard bargain.

  The time before her ship left allowed Strefer to return to her apartment briefly to pick up a few things. As she walked there and back, she went over in her head once again just what kind of plan she was working on. After she made it out of the Triumvirate compound, Strefer had decided that she could not simply go to the Daily Register office and write up the story. If someone figured out that the red notebook she was carrying in her pouch had been taken from Alban’s office, Sentinels would be pounding down the door almost immediately. The same held true for her apartment. She packed quickly and wasted no time there.

  She had decided to go to Sermont and, more particularly, to go to the publisher of the Daily Register and tell him about her discovery. It would cut Tevis out of the loop, and Strefer felt a quick twinge of guilt about that. The Grand Council was his beat, after all, and if he took the story from her and made it his own she would have no right to complain. But she was unwilling to let this story get away from her. It felt too important. Strefer was also keenly aware of what breaking a story like this could mean to her career. It would take Olrey’s approval to run the story, at any rate. Her best course of action, she decided, was to go directly to him and eliminate any intermediary.

  When Strefer left Tolenor she was almost completely broke, as her passage had cost more than anticipated. At least she had a nice stateroom to show for it. The ship on which she traveled was a long-haul passenger liner. It would pause at Sermont long enough to shuffle some passengers off, and others on, before returning to sea. Though small, the room she bought from the couple at the docks was intended for a lengthy occupancy. It was comfortable and stylishly, though sparsely, appointed, with a bed, a chair, and a small desk. Each was carved from wood the color of light chocolate, in a style that mimicked some of the Neldathi craftwork Strefer had seen before.

  More to the point, it provided Strefer with some privacy, which she would have lacked had she purchased a ticket to share standing room on the main deck. Up there, it would be impossible to get away from others. And they would want to talk. Strefer had a face that made people open up to her. It was a useful trait for a reporter to have, but she was much more interested in anonymity right now.

  Strefer slumped down into the chair and relaxed for a few moments. She dared not lie on the bed, for she would surely fall asleep. The time on the ship needed to be put to better use. After a few moments, she took the notebook out of her pouch and set it on the desk. She took out a notebook of her own and set it next to the other, open to a fresh page. Pen in hand, she began to leaf through the notebook for the first time. Within minutes she was dividing her attention between the old red notebook and her own while she furiously scribbled notes:

  handwritten

  do not include in official reports

  Neldathi

  clan against clan

  Sentinels, agents

  use gods

  holy wars/clan feuds

  maintain hostility between clans

  no objections

  By the time Strefer finished her first quick read of the red notebook, Strefer knew in her gut why Alban was killed. If this halfbreed girl who worked for him found this red notebook and could read what was written in it, she could have become so angry that she lashed out at her mentor. Logically it made little sense. Neither Alban nor his predecessor who wrote the book played any role in implementing the policy it described. All they did was report it. But emotionally, Strefer could see how it could all unfold. Maybe the halfbreed confronted Alban about the plan and he lied to her about it. Perhaps he tried to justify it. Even if she was uncertain of the details, Strefer was certain that the red notebook was the catalyst for the killing.

  She was also certain that it would be a huge story when it was published in the Daily Register. Strefer was not a great student of Triumvirate history, but she had never heard of any plan like this. At the very least, it was not common knowledge. Why else would it have been locked away? Why else would the Grand Council order the first clerk not to include this summary in the official record? After all, it addressed the Triumvirate’s foremost reason for existing. The public would have been greatly interested in its contents.

  But would the public still be interested? Maybe Rurek was right and the people that read newspapers are only interested in blood and debauchery, rather than learning something about their world. After all, the Neldathi were almost universally reviled by Altrerians. They weren’t really a threat anymore, outside of stories told to scare children into eating their vegetables. Given that the strategy had apparently worked, would people care that the Triumvirate had, in their name, spent the past century setting Neldathi against Neldathi the same way that the nomads in the Badlands set blood worms upon one another for sport? Strefer knew it was far worse than that. Blood worms knew no better and were bred to be fighters. The Neldathi had to be provided with reasons to kill each other, motivation to keep them going after one another in spite of the terrible cost.

  Strefer shook her head. In all honesty, she had never given much thought to the Neldathi problem. She had seen a couple in her travels, the kind that aristocratic Telebrians kept like pets, curiosities to be exhibited to friends and other important people. They seemed docile enough, in Strefer’s experience, but she realized that they had been broken.

  Aside from those brief encounters, all Strefer knew was what she had read. She never had a basis, or a reason, to question the standard portrait of the Neldathi as ruthless, barbaric savages of the kind that were so dangerous they should best be left alone to kill themselves. But they weren’t blood worms. They were peop
le, after all. Not the same as her, but people nonetheless.

  With that thought now implanted in her mind, Strefer bolted for the corner of the room, where a spittoon rested on the floor. She fell on her knees and threw up. When she stood up again, her legs were weak beneath her. She shuffled to the bed, lay down on it, and began to stare at the ceiling. There was no time for self-reflection, however. She would have to read through the red notebook again, more slowly and with greater care this time. She had to know if her initial impressions were right. If she was going to tell this story to the world, she had to make sure she knew every word, every pause, and every possible meaning of what was written there. And she had to have it all in some kind of draft form by the time they reached Sermont.

  That goal motivated her to try and get up and go back to the desk. But her knees buckled when she stood and her head began to ache. She lay down again and started to organize the article she would write in her head. Once she did that, putting it down on paper before the ship reached port would be easy. As she focused on the proper lede for the story, Strefer’s eyelids grew heavy. She began to sleep.

  Only the sound of a porter knocking on the door of her stateroom roused Strefer from her rest. When she heard him announce that they had arrived in the port of Sermont on the Sea, Strefer bolted upright in bed, seized by a fit of panic. There was no article started, much less finished, for her to give to Olrey when she met him.

  The panic subsided somewhat when she saw the clock on the opposite wall of the room. It was already 8 past apex, and the Daily Register office would be closed for the night. At the very least, Olrey would already be gone. Strefer calmed herself and decided she could find accommodations for the night and be at the office first thing in the morning. In the meantime, she could write the article. She gathered up her things, making sure to stuff the red notebook as deeply into her pouch as she could, and walked off the boat.