Storms Over Open Fields (Life of Riley Book 2)

by G. Howell

  “Hai,” he said, then as I rocked the boat, “What are you doing?”

  “This is my stop,” I said.

  “We’re in the middle of the harbor!”

  “I did say I was a good swimmer,” I returned and then said. “Thank you. For everything. And tell Ea’rest, I wish her the best. Oh, and this is hers.”

  He caught the kilt I tossed at him and looked at it as if he’d never seen the like before.

  “Thank you,” I said again, and then rolled over the side.

  Underwater was quiet and suddenly very cool. I resurfaced carefully a distance away, in the shadow of a sleek bow. I treaded water and saw a long figure in the small boat looking around, then leaning back to the oars. Slowly the little sailboat sculled off into the dark. I turned and struck out for the part of the docks where the light burned the brightest; where another sleek vessel was moored.

  For a moment I reflected that it seemed that every town I visited I ended up going for a swim in the local harbor. It wasn’t a habit I wanted to continue. The water wasn’t polluted with diesel oil, illegally dumped waste tanks and other detritus of a technological age, but they weren’t sparkling wells of purity either. While the Rris cities might have been comparable to human cities of the eighteenth or nineteenth century, they had surprisingly good sewage and drainage systems. It was a shame the older systems were only designed to shift runoff from the center of the cities, often into the nearest body of water. I was quite aware of the outflows and sewer openings along and under the docks and was glad Rris won’t put up with a population density that humans might tolerate. But I wasn’t taking a midnight swim for the hell of it.

  I worked my way toward the docks, moving slowly and trying not to splash or disturb the water too much. When I could I stayed near the hull of moored ships, diving under to swim from one to another. Occasionally I heard voices in the boats, once from the deck directly overhead and stayed close to the hull, treading water until the voices were gone.

  Then there was a point beyond which there were no handy hulls for concealment. The water around the VIP docks was a black mirror, ripples of amber light reflecting from the few lamps burning on the shore. One of them blinked off for a second and then reappeared, momentarily eclipsed by a figure moving around on the dock. Guards, of course.

  I lurked for a few seconds, watching, and then took a couple of deep breaths and dove.

  Underwater was another world: silent, cold, dark. Flickers of light filtered down from above: the grey glow of the moon way over there, a couple of orange sparks from the lamps on the dock. Just flickers from beyond the surface; barely enough to navigate by. Everything else was black. Something small and silver flashed across in front of my face and was gone almost before I’d registered it. I kept going, glancing up occasionally to track the glimmers of orange light above creeping higher and higher until they vanished. A second later my hands met slimy wood: pilings of the pier.

  I followed the piling upwards. My lungs were starting to ache, but I still forced myself to break the surface slowly, barely rippling the surface. Water-borne sounds changed, clearing: a distant clatter of iron wheels on stone, faint shouts and other sounds of the city. Closer to hand was the slapping of liquid against solids and from overhead a murmur of voices. I looked up, at where threads of lamp light shone through the planks of the pier, but couldn’t see the speakers. If they were the usual guards, they’d be stationed at the gangplank, and hopefully that was where they’d stay. I pushed off slowly through the black water, trying not to make a sound.

  The ship was still the only vessel in the berth. Bow in toward the shore, the gangplank bridging the narrow gap between the hull and the pier. No lights burned on board, there were no sounds of conversation or sign of movement. The crew would be bunked down on shore, I hoped, or at least asleep. If I did run into someone... that I’d have to handle if it happened. Their reaction wasn’t something I could predict. Better if no-one saw me at all. So the shadows were a place to hide as I slowly worked my way through the supports under the pier, then along the overhang of the ship’s hull, back to the stern. If a Rris had looked my way the darkness might not have been as much of a cloak as I felt it was, but I was relying on their blind spot when it came to water. A human might place sentries against infiltration from the water: Rris might do the same and watch for boats, but a single swimmer? Underwater at that? It was outside their frame of reference; Rris couldn’t do it so therefore it couldn’t happen.

  Very human, actually.

  There were handholds at the stern: ladder grips alongside the dingy slung there. I caught hold and drew myself out and then froze. Water sluiced off my skin, out of my hair, pattered back to the lake’s surface. I froze, waiting for someone to investigate the slight noise, but nobody appeared, no alarm was sounded. Slowly, I started climbing again, wincing at every slight splash as I drew my blackened body out of the water, cautiously raising my head above the level of the deck.

  The rear deck was deserted. The pilothouse stood empty, so did the companionway down to the cabin. Slowly I hauled myself onto deck, using the twin smokestacks for cover. Down on the dock I could see the figures of two guards, their backs to the vessel. One of them scratched at an itch and there was a muted exchange and quiet chitter. They were wearing Land of Water livery.

  They didn’t spot me stealing across the deck and down the ladder.

  Below decks was quiet and still. Behind me, the steps back to the engine room were black shadows. Ahead, the narrow companionway was nearly as dark, illuminated by a mere glimmer of pale light spilling from the first cabin on the left. It was moonlight, finding its way in through the small porthole. Not bright enough to read by: just enough to let me see what I was doing without fumbling blindly.

  From what I could see, my cabin was undisturbed. The tiny foldout desk was still down and best of all, the clothing was still in the nook that passed for a closet. I hauled out pants, shirts, a pair of ragged moccasins and a storm-cloak. Then I turned to the box bed in its narrow nook and lifted the mattress, then the slats underneath.

  The ‘emergency kit’ was still there. I silently thanked Chaeitch, then lifted out the bundles of oilskins. There was the roll of gold coinage; the documents bearing the Land of Water Royal seal that stated I was in fact an intelligent being and under the sponsorship and protection of their government; the knife modeled on a bowie knife with the fire starting kit in the handle; and of course, the guns.

  The guns. I almost left those. The shotgun I set aside, but the pistols... I picked one of the pair of black steel revolvers up, feeling the solid weight, the wooden grips contouring to my hand. Those would be the most aesthetic part of the weapons. They weren’t built to look good; all black iron and steel angles, the hexagonal barrels bearing none of the engraving I’d seen on the painstakingly crafted Rris flintlock handguns and muskets. Those things were a… unpleasantness that Chaeitch had produced, tailoring them for my hand. I had no idea if they were sanctioned by the Palace and wasn’t entirely happy about them myself. He’d said their existence didn’t necessitate their use; they were an insurance policy that’d he’d hoped I’d never have to use.

  I weighed the pistol and my options. I’d been assaulted, kidnapped, my life had been threatened. Hurting people wasn’t something I wanted to do, but obviously someone else didn’t feel the same way about me. Didn’t I have the right to try and defend myself? But if I were armed, then perhaps I’d become a legitimate target.

  More so than I already appeared to be?

  “Shit,” I muttered and rewrapped the pistols along with the bandolier of cartridges in oilskins. Everything – the clothes, the gear from Chaeitch’s little stash – I stowed in a leather carry bag and cinched tight. The thing was supposed to be waterproof. Supposed to be. I looked at the Rris-manufactured leather and guessed I was going to find out just how true that was. After that t
here was a few minutes at the desk, cursing the bad light, the damned inconvenience of the separate inkwell and pen and my pre-school skills at the chicken-scratch Rris script.

  Then I paid a quick trip to the darkness of the engine room. That took a bit longer and some fumbling in the blackness, but I knew what I was looking for and got the job done reasonably quickly.

  Up on deck the guards were still talking quietly. It’d be a boring duty, just standing for hours making sure nobody ran off with a seventy ton boat. I suppose in a way I did them a favor, livening up their evening when I picked up my end of the gangplank and dumped it overboard. The ridged planks swung down, clattered and splashed and banged as they were drawn up by the lined securing them to the pier. Both the guards lifted off. They both spun and crouched, hands going to weapons. In the faint light from the lantern hanging from a stanchion above them I could see the expressions on their faces, running the gamut of emotions as narrow lips pulled back and jaws dropped to bare teeth, the eyes going wide and black, ears twitching back and forth furiously. I suppose I must’ve been quite a shock; naked, smeared in black camouflage patterns. It wasn’t entirely unpredictable, but it did take longer for them to recognize me than I’d expected.

  “Hi, gu... ladies,” I greeted them.

  “Sir?” their hands moved away from the hilts of their pistols, their shock turning to incredulity. “Sir? What are you... you’re...”

  “Sorry,” I interrupted. The gap where the gangplank had been wasn’t that wide. They could probably jump it quite easily. But the water down there was dark and they were wearing amour and there was an unknown and possibly dangerous individual waiting on the far side of that gap. I hoped they weren’t going to risk it. “But I haven’t really got time to stop and talk. Please, tell Chaeitch I stopped by to get some stuff from my cabin. Got that?”

  “Sir? I... yes, sir.” The guard looked confused. The other one was eyeing the gap between dock and boat with a calculating eye.

  “Good,” I said and turned away, then back again and raised a finger. The guards flinched. “Oh, and one other thing; Tell him not to go anywhere without me. A? That’s quite important.”

  One of the guards waved an uncertain acknowledgement. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” I said and gave them a quick duck of my head before retreating back behind the wheelhouse.

  “Sir!” I heard one of them call. “Sir!” but by then I already had my bag and was over the side, back down into the dark water.

  By the time they got the gangplank hauled back up, I was lurking in the shadows under the dingy at the stern. When they clattered their way on board I went the other way, stroking away into the darkness among the piers and struts beneath the pier with my haul in tow.

  It wasn’t pleasant down there, but it wasn’t something I was doing for fun. I worked my way along the dock, from pier to pier. After the government berth there was an area of open water, black like coffee on which the odd light rippled and reflected. Then there was the cover of commercial docks and the dozens, hundreds of small and medium and large sized vessels docked there. The abutting hulls providing a maze of tangled waterways for concealment. Aside from the mud there was rubbish and detritus down there: scraps of nets and ropes, old bottles and jars and fishing floats, dead fish, leather and other unpleasant organic scraps. So getting out was a mixed blessing.

  Down the far end of the docks, as far from the government berths as one could get, was a low, deserted jetty. The boats moored to the rickety planks there were little more than rowboats; some obviously rotting, one sunk to the gunwales in the dark water. Nets were hung from frames to dry out, moonlight filtering through the links to paint tangled lines across the jetty. I lurked and watched, just long enough to be sure it was deserted, then heaved the leather bag up onto the boards and hauled myself out after it. Water dripped onto the bone-dry wood, creating dark splatters across the bleached surface and when I took a step the dock creaked ominously. Still, it held. I took a moment to dig into the bag and pull out the storm cloak, mildly surprised to find the contents a little damp, but not as soaking wet as I’d expected.

  The night was warm. A rain cloak would be out of place, but not as out of place as I’d be without it. Perhaps in the darkness and at a distance I could pass as... well, not as not a Rris. I know if I noticed a figure skulking around in a cloak I might suspect they didn’t want to be recognized, but I probably wouldn’t suspect they were an alien. So I pulled the cloak around, raised the hood and moved gingerly along the pier, along to the solidity of steps cut out of the quayside. I touched time-worn steps, the flagstones still retaining a trace of daytime warmth as I couched to peek over the top. Back down the dock, way back at the beginning, there were lights shining and figures milling about.

  So the alarm was out. I shrugged. They were a bit slower than I’d expected. And I really hoped those guards would give Chaeitch my message. He’d be the only one who could understand it properly. But, it did mean I’d have to get moving. I turned away from the scene, away from the waterfront and set off through the tangle of dockside huts, headed into the city.

  ------v------

  The night in the wilderness had been frightening. Night in a strange and alien city was every bit as unnerving.

  I stuck to the darkness and alleyways; the backstreets and narrow throughways where walls of crude brick and wood and even wattle and daub pressed close. Underfoot were flagstones or rough cobbles or nothing but packed dirt or viscous mud or trash and detritus or worse. Eaves arched overhead, almost roofing the narrow streets. And the gaps where they didn’t quite meet were filled with stars. The light that filtered down was a pale glimmer, not enough to read a book by, but just enough to let me find my way.

  And I had a destination. I knew where I was going. It was simply a matter of getting there.

  Those back ways were deserted. Mostly. The darkness that might have kept a human population inside huddling around their light sources being afraid of the unseeable wasn’t such an obstacle to Rris. I saw more than a few individuals going about their business. And a few of those saw me. Once a Rris figure rounded a corner right in front of me. All I saw was an abrupt silhouette and a flash of those multichromatic eyes meeting my own gaze, seeing under my cloak’s hood and the smeared lamp black, and then those eyes went wider and there was a yowl and the figure was gone. Scurrying off into the night with a fading cry. A clatter as something was knocked over and then a yelp echoed along the alley it’d vanished down.

  I hastened away before others turned up to investigate.

  The alleyways twisted and turned, becoming blind ends and courtyards and occasionally opening onto broad thoroughfares that I had to avoid or hurry across. Like the Cracks in Shattered Water, this part of the city was old, dating from back when the city had huddled in its protective walls. It was a maze, a warren, a hodgepodge of ad hock housing that’d evolved spontaneously as the city grew. Buildings slotted in wherever there was room. Wood tacked onto brick and stone. Some walls were askew or downright bent, entire buildings leaning alarmingly. In some cases upper floors tipped far enough out over narrow alleys to butt into adjacent buildings, holding each other up and turning the way below into a black tunnel. Plants grew and flourished where they could, piggybacking on Rris architecture in cracks and drains and spouting, in between flagstones and cobblestones. Leaking and standing water turned patches of alleyway to trampled mud and muck and more than a few places reeked of garbage and bodily wastes - animal and otherwise. And through this tangle of alien architecture I fumbled along.

  I knew where I wanted to go. I just wasn’t exactly sure how to get there.

  Of course everything was different at night. I just tried to keep going in the right direction, relying on the few landmarks I could identify, things I’d seen on my tours around the city. There was the graphically mutilated statue commemorating some ancient Rr
is battle; the smoking chimneys of the foundry I’d visited; the old west gate. All that remained of that old structure was half a tower rising like a broken tooth above the rooftops. The rest of it was low walls already being overgrown by newer buildings. It reminded me of Shattered Water, of the old walls there, a place I’d visited once. It was a cherished memory.

  A faint light flickered in the darkness at the base of the ruins where a tiny fire guttered. I circled around.

  Out on the western outskirts was one of the grain storehouses. I’d been there before, as part of the inspection of the granaries. The place was a storehouse, one of a row set aside as an overflow for the winter grain. It was dark and empty and deserted and would be until late summer and autumn. Since there was nothing in it, the place was deserted. I knew a guard went by every so often, but I didn’t expect to be there long enough for that to matter.

  The small door around the side was locked, but the flimsy latch gave way after I rammed my shoulder against it. Inside it was dark and quiet. There were a few barrels in the middle of the floor, in the huge open space where sacks of grain would eventually be stacked. A utilitarian staircase led up the right wall, up to a catwalk running around the second floor. In the shadows above that ropes and wooden pulleys hung from ceiling beams. More block and tackle equipment looped down from an overhead rail: equipment for hauling in the goods. Sheets of cobwebs shone ghostlike in moonlight, wafting in some breeze.

  I nodded quietly. Okay. Now, there was just the waiting.

  ------v------

  The old lantern put out a feeble glow that set shadows to dancing on the walls, the light almost lost in the space of the store. There’d been a bit of oil in the lamp. Not much; just enough for something to fight the night back a bit.