She continued to scramble through the muck, dreading what she might touch or stand in — she could smell something dead close by, an animal, or a body. And though the warehouses sheltered them from the worst of the rain, there was a sharp cold on the wind that buffeted her coat and into her shirt.
The wharf narrowed. Only a single line of warehouses now stood ahead. The berths and light and loading ship were still some way along to the right. A narrow walkway continued in the darkness at the left.
Jerine’s heart beat too hard. This wasn’t her world — she’d need for Sirath to catch up. She told the others to stop. And waited.
And waited. She heard scuffling nearby, and wondered if it might be some dog searching for the carcass she smelled.
A shape climbed over the side of the wharf by them, and she nearly cried out in surprise. She recognized it as Sirath by the must from his clothes and his own musk. She almost embraced him in relief for returning, but held herself back and spoke quickly instead, “Are you hurt?”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“What happened?”
“Heh, I just told the look-out I needed a guilder changing. I said I was on my own, and didn’t trust the pit attendant to give the right change. A gully boy like that, out on a bender, was bound to play up to new friends. So he took it, then pretended he hadn’t. Silver’s too much a temptation. Anyway, I let him look good, put up a protest, then left when you were clear.”
“But he kicked you!”
“Pfft! I just rolled with it, to make it look worse than it was. That’s what he was expecting to see. Once away, I just climbed down the quayside, then across the boulders and pilings along this wharf. Done that lots in Canalecht. Just got to be careful of seaweed.”
She wasn’t entirely convinced that he hadn’t been hurt. But at least they were together again. If the Goddess stood with them, this is where their purpose would be revealed.
Sirath kept his voice low. “We can’t go to the front where they’re loading ship. If it’s dodgy work we’ll get beaten, or killed. We’ll need to creep around and look for a back way in. No noise now, neither.”
Sirath led at a cautious pace behind the warehouses, and Jerine could feel a palpable tension among them. The worst part was that they did make noise: boots flapped and scraped, and Dalathos’s mail clinked. At one point Ulric tripped, and only just stopped himself from falling into the dock. He exhaled sharply, but didn’t cry out.
When they finally reached behind the one active warehouse, her nerves were exhausted. The sound of work drifted to them as the nearby boat was loaded. The expectation of being discovered followed every breath.
Sirath indicated something with his hands. Then he whispered, “Most places doing illegal stuff have a back door, in case they get found out. That way the boss can escape, and the workers play ignorant. Jerine, you check the back wall of the warehouse ... Tilirine, you look to that alley. I’ll search the water’s edge. Ulric and Dalathos, keep your eyes out for trouble. Ezekiel ... never mind.”
Jerine tried to follow Sirath’s instructions — she stalked along the wall, feeling for any sign of a door. But it was hard to get close for the debris in the way. Bits of rotted crate threatened to crack under each step. She barely dared move.
A scuffling and hiss came from behind startled her.
It was just Sirath again, climbing back onto the wharf. There was a glint in his eye and a grin on his face. “Oh, Jerine ... we have so found our money.”
Over Deep Water
Ulric
Ulric helped Ezekiel climb down over the side of the wharf, where Sirath said it was safe to do so. The night was thick, and rain hid the stars. Only a faint light came from the lamps across the docks. Black water lapped below, and stank as foul as curses.
Ulric waited, then stood and faced Dalathos — they were the last two left by the warehouse. Ulric tapped him on the shoulder, and pointed to go first. Dalathos adjusted the greatsword at his back, and nodded. Ulric knelt and held onto the pilings as Dalathos clambered down, ready to steady or grab a hand if needed. He kept alert to every sound of movement below. Soon there was a grunt, and shuffling, then nothing. Dalathos had made it onto the ledge Sirath had said was hidden below.
Ulric stood, alone in the darkness, warehouses dripping at his back. He took a deep breath, aware of this moment, and his solitude. It was not what he’d spent the winter traveling to find. He reached for the prayer charm at his belt, to draw strength from it. He stopped and changed his mind. Instead he grasped the edge of his bear cloak. There was no stronger totem — the hide of a rogue animal his father had killed, before Ulric was born. Ulric closed his eyes and prayed to share in its strength, and the courage of the man forced to face it; for the spirits of home to speak to him, and give him direction when he felt none.
“Ulric?” Jerine said quietly below. “Now you.”
He took a deep breath and carefully began his descent. Slats of timber had been unevenly spaced for a makeshift ladder, perhaps while trying not to look like one. He gripped them tight for fear of falling. Old wood could be slippery as ice, or rotted through to break. He readied to grasp any handhold if he slipped.
Something touched his shoulder — Ulric froze.
“Far enough,” Jerine whispered. “Now step over here. Be careful, it’s not wide.”
He could only make out gray shapes. He allowed Jerine’s hand to guide him onto a slick plank of wood. He steadied his hands against steep rock to one side. Rank water lapped and spat just beneath his boots.
“There’s a hidden doorway here,” Jerine said.
Ulric allowed his head to be pushed down and entered darkness thick as pitch. The floor was uneven stone, and the smell of damp enclosed him. Others shuffled close by, breathing raggedly. Muffled noises surrounded them. He waited in an uncertain silence, not daring to move in case he stepped out into cold depths.
“Listen,” Sirath said, “There’s a doorway here. I’m going to open it a little so you can all see. Keep quiet, or we’re in real trouble.”
A crack of light dawned in the little room. Sirath and Jerine stood by it, and their figures became less gray and simply muted color. Sound flowed in properly now, a rattle of cart wheels, quiet chatter, and boot falls.
Ulric went forward to peek, and the others crowded with him. Dalathos stood at his shoulder, drinking in the view. There was little to see but a brick-walled storeroom, packed with barrels and crates, and lit by iron lanterns. He caught movement of people — no, children — with shaved heads, just like he’d seen in the workhouses.
His blood boiled at the sight. If Mairir had lived, he’d never have let her be mistreated or harmed like that. He gritted his teeth, and looked away. He’d promised Jerine to stay to complete this work, and would keep his word. But this city sought to take his spirit in so many different ways.
“I bet you anything they’re dodgy,” Sirath whispered, “using labor from workhouses we were blocked from. Isn’t this what we were hired to find?”
Dalathos said, “So let’s go tell the councilor.”
“No,” Sirath hissed. “If they’re working at night, I’d say they’re planning to finish quickly. By the time you find him, and bring him here, this lot could be gone.”
“So what can we do?” Dalathos asked. “We can’t just leave. We need to show that we found something. We get paid for inspecting the workhouses. We get a reward if we find anything else.”
“And this,” Sirath said, “looks like anything else.”
Ulric frowned. “Can’t be sure of that. How do we know they’re doing wrong by the city?”
Sirath quietly laughed. “Easy ... just go in there, and if you come back alive, you know it’s legal.”
An awkward silence followed.
“We need to find proof of wrongdoing,” Dalathos said.
Tilirine stepped forward. “Stay here. I will take a closer look. When I return, I expect us to form a plan.” She slipped through the door and Sira
th pulled it closed, except for a crack.
Ulric was too warm as he waited. It was too stuffy and cramped in here. He wanted to move, and stretch his muscles — find some way to keep going forward. But, he reminded himself, despite the floor at his feet, he still stood over deep water.
A Strange White Spark
Dalathos
Dalathos crouched, hidden in the storeroom, scabbard in hand. The narrow space was stacked high with barrels and crates, the air dusty. Nerves left his mouth dry and his breathing too loud. Ulric squatted next to him, and looked just as uncomfortable.
It galled him that the councilor’s brief was not official. The Order blocked them, and now they sneaked into someone else’s property. He remembered too well the swinging condemned when he’d entered the city, and the warning about his thumbs. Even if these people were doing something illegal, was he now breaking the law?
Dalathos dared to sit up, and peered through a gap between barrels.
The area in front had already been cleared, with just a few heavy crates left on the floor. Kids used a pulley system along the wall at the left, big iron hooks set on thick ropes. Large wooden boxes were lowered onto trolleys, and dockers pushed them up a ramp into the warehouse above, then to the boat.
He glimpsed Tilirine to the right — sneaking around side rooms with Sirath, looking for some document to take that gave proof of wrongdoing.
Dalathos ducked down again. He shared a nervous look with Ulric. If Tilirine was seen, both men were to challenge any pursuit, to provide time to escape. Dalathos only hoped they wouldn’t have to. He didn’t want to kill again, like with the lad at Tulst market.
Protector was a weight in his hands. And a responsibility — to defend, not attack. His thighs cramped, and his hands were too hot in his gauntlets. He needed to piss. At any moment, they could be spotted and put to fight or flight.
“What you doing, mister?”
A workhouse boy strolled up with a pot of whitewash and a small brush.
Dalathos heard quick footsteps and panicked that he was going to be confronted, unprepared.
Jerine appeared from nowhere. She pointed behind, to the small room they’d crept in from. “We’re breaking you out. Head that way, through the door and up the ladder. Then you’re free.”
The boy froze. He stared at Dalathos, then Ulric. And broke into a grin. “Piggly, Norrin ... quickly, get here ... we is escaping!”
Dalathos cringed and gritted his teeth. He stood, unsheathed Protector, and threw his empty baldric over his shoulder. “Ulric, arm yourself. Now.”
Heavy footsteps strode their way. A gruff docker appeared at a corner. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Dalathos took up the defensive Plough stance, Protector gripped to point up from his hips. “Don’t you even dare think to — ”
The docker turned heel and ran. “We got intruders!”
Dalathos cursed his patience, the boy’s impatience, and Jerine’s interruption. He strode out into open space and swung Protector up into the Ox guard — the blade high and level with his shoulders. He wasn’t properly trained in the sword, but he had been shown the five main stances, and how to move between them. Now he could back up his defense with real threat.
“Children, to me!” Jerine shouted. “This way to escape.”
A brass bell rang urgently, each clang setting Dalathos’s teeth on edge. Ragged kids ran past. He’d no idea where they swarmed from — it was like a nest of rats he’d once disturbed with Borras.
Dockers came into view and shouted for arms. From nowhere, they pulled out knives, batons, and metal bars.
Ulric stepped up beside Dalathos, his sword drawn.
Together they should look formidable. But Dalathos remembered too well that Ulric didn’t know how to use his weapon. And Ulric’s blade was just dull iron. The hope was for everyone to withdraw without blood being spilled, especially his own. He changed his stance, and whirled his blade to intimidate the dockers — taking care not to lop some kid’s head off with the backswing.
A group of dockers advanced. Some jeered and yelled insults. Dalathos ignored the challenges and watched their eyes in case they looked to strike. He tried to remain poised, and seem ready to act. More dockers arrived, and their sheer numbers forced him to step back and around to avoid starting any fight. Too late, he realized they’d made him turn in a half-circle — armed dockers now cut off his escape.
A stack of boxes were pushed over and cracked open. Swords spilled out from straw. They glittered in the lamplight. Dockers grabbed the weapons.
Dalathos glanced about for any sight of Tilirine or Jerine, hoping for some sign they could withdraw from this tight situation. There was none. Ulric stood at his shoulder, holding his blade like a toy. If Dalathos didn’t act now, they’d be overwhelmed and beaten, injured, or even killed.
He lunged and thrust, using Protector like a spear in both hands, like Ringneck had taught him. He tried to avoid contact, hoping only to drive the dockers back. More ran down the ramp, bellowing and shouting. There were too many to fight, and he was being surrounded.
He realized that he’d backed close to tall boxes, pulleys and hooks above them. If him and Ulric got on top, they’d have the advantage of height and reach to hold the dockers back — and a route to Jerine and the others.
“Ulric, get up there!”
Dalathos waited for Ulric to clamber up, then followed. A chain spun through the air. It just missed his face, then clattered against the wall. The dockers surged forward.
A couple jumped up onto the crates near the ramp. One grabbed a heavy iron hook that hung from a pulley — and swung it forward. Dalathos edged back just in time and shouted a warning. Ulric turned but it struck him in the chest. He tumbled down to the floor and at the feet of the mob.
“Ulric!” Dalathos jumped down. He whirled Protector to give Ulric a safe space to get to his feet. He struck something, but had no idea what, and no longer cared. He fought to control the wild deflection.
Something struck his mail shirt — a rusted dagger landed at his boots. Two sailors with new swords ran along the crates above and slashed down.
Dalathos blocked their blows. It was no longer a case of fearing to hurt anyone, but to kill or be killed. With two strokes he cut the shrieking sailors down. “Back up there, Ulric!”
Ulric climbed onto the boxes again, his face pale and his iron sword limp in his hands.
Dalathos vaulted a trolley and up onto the crates. He pointed for Ulric to continue along, to where they might rejoin the others. Then Dalathos turned to defend their escape.
More shouting, then the noise hushed.
A man in a green gown ran forward, a sword in each hand. The dockers made space as this man swirled and danced with his blades — then launched into a blistering attack.
Dalathos parried, but was forced back. Though he had the advantage of reach and height, the man in the green gown was very fast. He glimpsed patterns that said the man’s steel was high quality — strong and sharp. The man in green jumped onto the boxes. He whirled his weapons through dizzying arcs, then stabbed with a series of thrusts. Dalathos stumbled backward, breathless, his attempts to parry increasingly clumsy. And in his heart, a recognition that the man merely measured his reach, ready to strike a fatal blow.
Dalathos leaped down from the boxes, into the passageway he had crouched in not moments before. Ulric came to his side, as if to help. Dalathos shouted for him to get away, and swung Protector too wild in a panicked defense.
The stroke caught a lantern. It spun back and forced him to dodge aside.
The man in green grinned and closed in. Then stopped, and frowned at his swords. The blades had been sheared away, just above the hilt. He stared up at Dalathos, then his face fell in fear. With a howl he turned and fled.
Dockers stopped their advance. Terror flooded their expressions. They yelled and scrambled away.
Dalathos held his stance, confused by the change. He could under
stand why the man in green would run when his weapons were broken. But the dockers’ reaction didn’t make any sense. He looked at Ulric beside him, uselessly holding his iron sword — then down at himself. Surely they didn’t look that frightening? Protector reflected an odd light.
At his elbow, the smashed lantern. Burning oil spread across barrel lids. A strange white spark hissed too bright from one. Bitter gray smoke poured from it. Flames touched a stub of rope on another barrel lid, and it flared up the same.
Dalathos stared, trying to make sense of it. He knew fire. He’d worked with it all his life. He knew how it should behave, and this didn’t make sense. Why would it burn white?
“Dalathos, Ulric!” Jerine’s voice, somewhere behind them. “This way!”
Ulric grabbed him. “Come.”
Dalathos turned, shaken from his thoughts. He hurried away with Ulric. They turned a corner. The door to the small room they had entered from was just ahead. Jerine stood in the doorway and waved frantically at them.
Her fear was infectious. All the worse because Dalathos couldn’t understand what was happening.
His feet left the floor. He was slammed down on his back. His breath burst from his lungs. The world became silent. A cloud of fire and embers blew over him. Black smoke swirled after. A length of steel flashed above and smashed through a crate. A strange, hard rain of mail links fell.
Dalathos fought to breathe, but hot air filled his lungs. The taste of brimstone cloyed at the back of his throat. His heart hammered too hard in his chest. He’d no idea what had just happened, except that it was bad. He didn’t dare move, not knowing if he was hurt.
Something pulled at him. He looked up to see Ulric dragging him over the floor. Cool air returned to his lungs and his muscles flooded to life. Coughing, Dalathos raised himself to his elbows. Sound crashed back to his ears and filled them with screaming, and the roar of flames.
He struggled to his knees, dazed and dizzy. Behind was wreckage. Stacks of boxes had fallen and shattered, spilled steel licked by fire. More barrels now had white sparks. He could make no sense of it. But his body rang like an anvil, and his ears hurt like someone had slapped them. There was a terrifying sense of danger. Looking to the door, Jerine gave the most imploring look he’d ever seen.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 14