Shadowcloaks

by Benjamin Hewett

  Meatbrick looks me up and down slowly. “We’re only taking rowers. Sorry.”

  “We’ll pay double.”

  “Sorry. I lost two men on my last collection, and I need to replace them. I’ve got less than an hour.” His attention has already shifted back to his men, but this is only a carefully cultured pose. He’s shifted slightly so that both Lucinda and I are well within his peripheral vision.

  I don’t budge, trying to puzzle out how I can convince this guy to take us on. If I had one of those Sodoroff rings, I might prove it to him otherwise.

  But I don’t. I’m a runt and Lucinda’s a woman.

  I consider scampering up his trunk and tap-dancing on his head with my knives out, but decide against that. “I can run water,” I offer. “I’m fast.”

  He chuckles, but doesn’t bite.

  Lucinda steps in close. He puts a beefy hand out to stop her, right on her chest, no apologies, but he doesn’t succeed in stopping her until they’re nose to nose.

  “I’m a rower,” she insists. “Tell me I’m not.”

  He pushes her back, but only after registering that Lucinda is much stronger than she looks.

  Traffic on the gang slows. Men notice us bargaining for passage.

  “She can sit by me, Lieutenant,” says one of the men.

  Meatbrick gives the man a sharp look. The other men on the gangway chuckle, but they start moving again.

  “My trainers in Fortrus say I’m three times as strong as I should be. They say it’s my hadia.”

  The word she uses sounds foreign. It means nothing to me, but Meatbrick nods, thoughtfully. “Does your gift hold up for twelve hours or more, Paladina?”

  Lucinda nods.

  Two more men come jogging up the dock. They’re brawny, dressed to row, but they don’t look like Tax Watch men. There’s a relaxed look to them that feels wrong.

  “Miles.”

  “Jorgen.”

  They eye us suspiciously, especially Lucinda.

  “Dockmaster said you were looking for two good men.”

  Two more men arrive.

  Then another.

  It’s nearly midnight but the lamps on the dock are still lit.

  Meatbrick finally nods, content that he now has something to choose from. “I’ve got five minutes to launch. This trip is about speed. Convince me you’re the bully boys and you’ve got a seat. After twelve hours I’ll enlist anyone that’s still standing and pay two days’ wages on top.

  We’ve been out here starving, trying to get on this boat, when the dockmaster knew it would come down to a competition. And the competition is fresh. I feel like running back up to the dock house and having a word with the dockmaster, but I suspect he’s long gone, and his replacement won’t be keen to open the doors for a runt like me. “Best man gets the spot?” I grumble.

  Meatbrick nods. “Or woman,” he says to Lucinda. “So who is it?”

  Not me. I doubt he’d be impressed by my tap dancing skills. If this were a contest of balance and dexterity, I’d come out on top, but it is not.

  The men start sizing each other up. I smell man-sweat gathering in armpits, the smell that starts before a scrap. Two men step back almost immediately, ruling out their chances against the other three largest. They’re thick in the waist, and they don’t seem particularly fit, probably townsmen looking to make a fast coin and see a bit of Eastmarch. But they know their odds right away.

  Meatbrick isn’t bothered to see them go. The Eastmarch Tax Watch only wants scrappers.

  Lucinda starts pulling off pieces of her armor, putting it into a bundle. I help her. I always help her when she gets that determined look in her eye.

  The townsmen look at her incredulously.

  “She’s taking off her armor so she doesn’t hurt anyone,” Meatbrick says, understanding, just a hint of humor in his voice.

  The men grin at each other too, thinking that they’ve understood the joke. If they’d seen her muscle her way into Meatbrick’s space they wouldn’t be smiling. Even without it, even without her training in Fortrus, I’d lay a bet in her favor, at least for a couple of these jacks. You don’t survive barmaiding The Black Cat by being weak.

  “I’ll take the first seat,” she says, throwing her armor bundle to me and turning toward the plank. “Let’s go Teamus. You can sit in my lap.” Lucinda looks smaller now, much less imposing without her spikes.

  “Hang on, ma’am,” the man named Jorgen says. “I didn’t hear a’body sayin’ ‘ladies first.’ “

  One of the other men, the one named Miles, laughs. Meatbrick doesn’t. He watches impassively.

  “Ladies first,” I say, just for the fun of it.

  Jorgen doesn’t think I’m very funny, and to prove his point he puts a hand on Lucinda’s shoulder and drags her back. This, of course, is why she gave me her bundle. I know how Lucinda works.

  She lets him pull her, spins under his hand so it twists loose from her undershirt, and mule kicks him in the hip. He’s a big man, but he’s off balance from her sudden lack of resistance and her foot puts him over the dock’s edge and into a cold, dark river filled with melt-off.

  His buddy, Miles, throws a jab at the same time. Not what Meatbrick had in mind, I’d wager, but it makes no difference. Lucinda dances inside, spinning again, swinging one arm fast and hard around his thick throat while her other hand catches his extended arm. She folds at the hips, using his forward momentum against him to throw him to the planks. I’ve seen Father Edward, the Mitre Tactus, do this to Magnus, so I know what comes next. His arm is pushed across his own windpipe, and she’s got both locked up tight. When he fights it, she rams her forehead down onto his face to soften him up, and then arches him back, putting all of her weight on his chest while lifting his head off the planks. He can breathe, but only just. He closes his eyes and whimpers. Lucinda hangs on until all the fire leaves him and he goes limp.

  “I’d have settled for arm-wrestling,” Meatbrick says to no one in particular, “but this works.”

  A third man squares up, a decent type. No swinging, smart talk, or cheap shots. Just a light smile and a ready stance, knees slightly bent, hands chest-ready. He’s barely more than a boy, seventeen summers, but he has the build of a wrestler, broad shoulders and tapered waist. He nods at Lucinda.

  “Mamma taught you respect?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” he says. “An’ she taught me to wrestle, too.”

  Lucinda launches into him. I can hear bones creak when they collide. He drops his hips and tilts her, so that she loses her balance and forward momentum. She has to step sideways to stay afoot. He follows, catching one of her arms. They grapple, arms swimming for position, but he’s backing her around the dock, rocking her one way and then another, setting up a throw, patient. She may be stronger, but he knows what he’s doing, and it’s evident he’s going to beat her, given the time.

  Meatbrick calls it off. “You’ll do.” He glares at one of the ruffians who tried to manhandle Lucinda. The idiot’s making overtures at giving her another go. “Next time, friend,” he says, but his tone isn’t friendly.

  He motions to the gangplank. I realize now that the boat is pitched dockward a few degrees because the crew has finished readying the ship and are spying on the recruitment festivities.

  Lucinda motions for me. “C’mon, Teamus.”

  Meatbrick blocks my way. “She thinks highly of you, porter. Why is that?”

  I give him an answer he can understand. “She’s a Paladin. I kill Nightshades. We’re friends.”

  He glances at me and back to Lucinda as if he thinks this is some kind of joke. Everyone knows the Tax Watch is dumb enough to go after Nightshades, but they aren’t used to being made fun of for it. Then he sees I’m serious, and Lucinda’s sober look isn’t a facade. She’s fixed it on me, and I know her wheels are turning. I hope she’s not preparing another lecture.

  The natural enmity between the Tax Watch and the Nightshades plays in my favor. In the short run,
Nightshades get the upper hand. But then the Tax Watch sends the Grey Mules, and the Grey Mules just keep coming until dumb ‘Shades are dead and smart ones are paying. At least that’s how it works in Eastmarch.

  A dark look crosses Meatbrick’s face and I know I’ve got him. “I suppose we’ve got room for a half-pint like you. You’ll carry water, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. And I can row, if I share a bench with Lady Lucinda. We’re a good team.”

  “I can see that.” His cogs are turning too, suggesting that this conversation is being logged for future consideration. “The Teamus Steeps?” he asks.

  “Me.”

  He exhales slowly as a giant smile breaks across his face, exposing teeth that could grind out diamonds. He turns and bellows to the men on the ship. “Bit o’ luck for this trip, boys. Listen up!”

  The moving and packing stops for a moment.

  “You’ll be sharing a bench with Eastmarch’s one and only Nightshade Slayer. Give him a welcome.”

  The men on the boat let out a cheer, but most of them are still looking at Lucinda.

  Meatbrick shakes my hand, careful not to crush it, but not coddling me either. “An honor.”

  “The honor is mine,” I lie. I smell the catch before he says anything. With collectors, there’s always a catch.

  “One last thing,” Meatbrick says before we can head to the gangway. “Nobody rides with the ‘Watch without respectable papers. What do you got?”

  The young wrestler immediately removes an intent-to-enlist paper from a trouser pocket and hands it to him. It has all the right signatories on it. Meatbrick reads it, nods, and stuffs it in his jacket.

  Lucinda looks worried, confused. “Traveling papers? In Eastmarch?”

  The soaked man looks hopeful for just a moment.

  I slowly take the satchel from my shoulder and hand the whole thing to Lieutenant Meatbrick. I don’t carry many important papers, but I do have these. I give Lucinda a look that respectfully requests her silence. “He just wants to be sure we’re law-abiding citizens. It doesn’t have to be traveling papers. Could be patents, enlistments, merchant permits, mandates . . .”

  Lucinda looks at me like I’m crazy but Meatbrick actually ghosts a smile when he guesses what sort of “respectable documents” I’ve got to prove my upstandiness.

  “These documents mighta’ got a little wet when I went into a river with a pair of shadowcloaks,” I say, “but I’m pretty sure the ink was frozen.”

  The ghostly smile on his chiseled face turns into an armored grin by the time he gets to the bottom of the document. “Smartass,” he says, stuffing my “taxes-paid” documents into the satchel and handing it back. “Bench 32. In the back. Don’t disappoint me, Mr. Steeps. Same for you, Lady Lucinda.”

  She’s already vaulting onto the now-empty gangplank. Even caked in layers of mud she holds his attention. “I never disappoint,” she says, old barmaid’s accent trailing over her shoulder. “You should worry more about your end.”

  SEVEN

  To say that Lucinda is popular would be an understatement.

  Down to a man, every crew member has taken a stroll past our rowing bench, and some of them have offered to spell me just to make sure Lucinda doesn’t get tired before the end of the trip.

  I let them, and still I get blisters. My back aches. My lungs burn. My forearms feel like they’re going to fall off, but Lucinda continues to pull, breathing even and steady as she does.

  This boat flies past the shoreline as we go. It’s light on the river, and the water itself is surging forward. We pass towns that have torches on the guard towers or along the docks, but we don’t stop for supplies, passengers, or water. Instead we stumble down into the galley in shifts and drink like horses. This is one of those moments.

  I watch, half-lidded, too tired from rowing to talk, too tired for flipping a dagger or any other intimidating thing. Instead, I lurch with the ship, gulp down as much water as possible, and sleep, all at the same time.

  There are two rowing crews, and we work in one-hour shifts. When the fife plays the jig, we’d better be in place to relieve the current shift. We’re riding a flooded river with a steady, humming wind in our sail, but still the Captain wants us rowing, rowing, rowing.

  We’re going to do it. I can feel Ector drawing closer in my bones. We’re going to make it by afternoon tomorrow. Seven days of carriage rides in one night.

  Lucinda is in the middle of the galley, swapping stories about Fortrus and our raid on the Nightshade’s lighthouse. The Greys are lapping it up, especially the part about baiting the Dreadlord onto her sword point so that Magnus can take its head off.

  They ask questions about Paladin fighting styles, customs, and meals. They even ask about Solangean tax law and how common tax problems are dealt with. To these Lucinda begs off, reminding them that she was working in a bar in Ector less than six months ago and couldn’t even read. That makes them cheer, call for another round of water, and make her do percentages until she starts getting the easy ones right.

  One man, Rhetik, seems particularly interested in the religious aspects. “I’ve heard Paladins ken heal a broken bone so fast and well it that is turns to steel and can’t be broken again. True or not?”

  Lucinda shrugs this question off. She doesn’t like talking about what Paladins can and can’t do. They assume this to mean she doesn’t know and move on to swapping manly Paladin jokes.

  “How do you empty a roomful of Paladins?”

  Half the men chuckle, already knowing the punchline.

  “Send in a naked . . . “

  Rhetik looks at Lucinda, takes in her feminine form and bites his lip, trying hard to be the gentleman. “Uh. Nevermind. It’s not that funny.”

  Lucinda winks at him. “Naked man. You were going to say ‘naked man’ weren’t you?”

  Our rowing crew explodes in laughter as Lucinda reverses the joke, batting her eyelashes and pretending to pray, as if to say that all the best paladins are female. Rhetik laughs, too.

  “They said ‘Paladin’ not ‘Paladina’,” I offer.

  “Did they laugh?” Lucinda asks, pointedly.

  Good point.

  They ask about me and I let her talk, dozing in the shadows until the rowmaster suggests we get out of the galley and rest up for our shift.

  I’m sleeping under our bench, and Lucinda on it, when the warning fife sounds. I sit up, groggy from my nap, but Meatbrick himself has taken my place.

  “Cap’n wants to see you, Mr. Steeps. Word’s getting around. Could be good. Aft deck, topside.” He nods to the blood-soaked bandages around my hands. “Don’t hurry back, though,” he adds. “I’ll admit you’re one tough bastard, but I need some exercise, too.”

  This time Lucinda winks at me, pulling her oar just as hard as ever when the cadence starts for our crew. Compared to the patrons of The Black Cat Tavern and Inn, Santé and the rest of the Grey Mules are practically saints.

  #

  I find the Captain on the aft top deck, staring over the back rail, watching our swirl trail in the early dawn water. He’s a tall man with a grey head of hair, a mustache, and well-kept beard. He’s clutching a ream of collection notices in his left hand, but he seems to have forgotten them as he stares at the river and adjoining banks.

  He doesn’t reach out to greet me but scoots sideways so there’s room for me at the back rail, nodding.

  “Mr. Steeps.”

  “Mr. . .”

  “Zales Pennygate.”

  For long minutes he says nothing else and I watch the banks.

  We’ve left the frosty landscape behind, and the dim, morning light shows instead a sodden one, the kind that deadens sound. Mist shrouds the closest bank where water from the local inlets is warmer than the snowpack melt -off that we’re riding. On a ridge I can see a dilapidated signpost jutting up, barely hinting of the world beyond the water. A highway? Some village, perhaps?

  I turn back to the Captain. He certainly doesn’t loo
k like the informal type. His posture suggests more of a fencer than a brawler. The Tax Watch attracts all types. The Grey Mules might be a tempting post for the youngest son of a lesser lord? That’s how I’d peg him anyways, though it’s hard to imagine him as a “youngest son” with all the grey hair. He’s been with the Greys for a long time now, the men say. Based on the discipline of his outfit, and the men chosen as his lieutenants, he seems capable, maybe even cunning. His entire operation speaks of camaraderie and order. That’s worth deference, that and hearing how his men speak of him behind his back.

  The river turns away from the highway. The steerman rudders hard to keep us in the center of the flow, and Captain grips the rail to keep his balance. Between the cadence of rowing, I fancy I hear the sound of hoofbeats.

  “Santé says you’re the Teamus Steeps.”

  Santé must be the lieutenant. The meatbrick.

  “I am.” I sag into the rail. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Most of Eastmarch has by now.”

  “Through the winter?”

  The captain makes a clearing sound in his throat. “Well, it’s not often that a Dreadlord such as yourself runs off to the Brothers of Light in Fortrus for sanctuary.”

  “Dreadlord? People are saying that?”

  “Yes.” He pauses. “Though I think the denomination is a bit premature.”

  “You know how rumors grow.”

  He purses his mouth. “Particularly with the right encouragement.”

  We sway in silence to the lurch of the rowers and the song of the moon on the river. Black water swirls behind us. The wind, river, and sweating rowers throw us forward into the night.

  “Well, I’m not a Dreadlord,” I say finally. “‘Hands of fire and skin of bone,’” I recite, borrowing from the nursery rhyme.

  The Captain waves his parchment stack at me. “It’s clear you aren’t just an ordinary man, either.”

  “No, I am,” I insist. “Very ordinary.” I point back toward the rowing deck where Lucinda sits. “I just have good friends.” I don’t like standing out, and I don’t like where this conversation is going. There is something very wrong about the speed of this boat and its battle-hardened tax collectors.