Rain Wilds Chronicles

by Robin Hobb

  Each letter was neatly rolled, tied with twine, and sealed with a drop of wax. Then the Chalcedean smothered the fire in the hearth and they left the stripped room, carrying the missives with them.

  The long night had become endless as they moved through Cassarick. The Chalcedean was spry but not absolutely certain of their way. More than once, they retraced their steps. But eventually, the six scrolls had been delivered, tied to door handles or wedged into door frames. Hest had been almost grateful to follow the assassin down the endless stairs to the muddy road at the bottom of the city. His well-appointed stateroom, a clean warm bed, and dry garments awaited him on the impervious ship. Once he was there and alone, surely he could put the night’s events into focus and decide what he must do next. Once there, he would be Hest again and this evil adventure would become no more than an episode in his past. But when they reached the vessel, the Chalcedean had prodded him along at knifepoint, forcing him into a cargo compartment belowdecks, and then dropping the hatch shut behind him.

  The indignity had astonished him. He’d stood, arms crossed sternly on his chest, and waited in silence, certain that the Chalcedean would return at any moment. As time passed, the discomfort had infuriated him. He groped his way around the freight compartment but found only rough timber walls with no hope of egress. The hatch was just out of his reach, and when he climbed the short ladder to push at it, he found it secured. He pounded on the hatch but could achieve no real force, and his shouting roused no one. He had paced, cursing and roaring, until he was exhausted. Eventually he had sat down to wait for the Chalcedean, but awakened to darkness. How long he had been held there, he did not know.

  Time passed. Hunger and thirst afflicted him. When the hatch was finally lifted, the wan daylight flooded down and blinded him. He immediately started up the ladder.

  “Out of the way!” someone shouted at him. And other men were pushed pell-mell down the hatch. Three landed well, cursing and trying to fight their way back to the ladder even as others were being forced down. Hest recognized some of them as his fellow passengers from the trip up the river, and others as members of the ship’s crew. Some were Jamaillians who had invested in the boat’s construction, the last a pair of Bingtown Traders. The men who looked down at them, mocking and threatening, were unmistakably Chalcedeans, with their embroidered vests and the curved knives they favored.

  “What’s going on?” Hest demanded, and one Trader shouted, “It’s a mutiny!” while another said, “There were Chalcedeans hiding belowdecks for the whole voyage. They’ve taken over the ship!” The cargo hold was crowded with men, at least ten of them. One was holding his shoulder, and blood seeped between his fingers. Several of the frightened and confused merchants bore signs of a struggle.

  “Where’s the captain?” Hest asked through the shouting and taunts.

  “In on it!” someone shouted at him, as angry as if it were his fault. “Well paid to let these bastards on board and hide them. Claims they invested just as much as we did, and paid him more on the side!”

  The hatch cover began to slide shut. Men surged toward the ladder, shouting defiance and pleas, but in moments, the light was gone.

  If being alone and locked below the deck was bad, then being crowded in with two dozen strangers in the dark was worse. Some were irrational with anger or fear. Others argued heatedly about exactly what had happened and who was at fault. Some of them were not former passengers but Rain Wild Traders “tricked into coming down to the ship by a false message.” Hest kept his mouth shut and was grateful for the darkness that kept him anonymous.

  The Chalcedeans who now commanded the ship had apparently killed at least three crewmen in taking over the ship, and possibly four, as a woman who had come aboard had been flung over the side bleeding but still alive. Hest suddenly grasped the full ruthlessness of the assassin and the gravity of his own situation. When one of his fellow prisoners speculated that they’d probably all be dead before long, someone roared at him to shut up, but no one contradicted him. Two of the men climbed the ladder and exhausted themselves trying to force the heavy hatch open while the others shouted encouragement and suggestions. Hest had retreated to the corner of the compartment and put his back to the wall.

  While they were pounding, a new motion started. It took Hest a moment to deduce what it was, and in that second, one of the crewmen shouted, “You feel that? They’ve shoving off. We’re under way. Those bastards are kidnapping us!”

  A roar of voices rose, the angry cries underscored with wild wailing from one man. The victims pounded on the walls and shouted, but the rhythmic rocking of the ship only increased as it picked up speed in its battle with the current.

  “Where are they taking us?” Hest demanded of everyone and no one.

  “Upriver,” someone responded. “Feel how she fights the current.”

  “Why? What do they want from us?”

  His question was drowned in the outcry the others raised as they realized they were being carried away from any hope of outside aid.

  The swearing and the shouting went on for a long time, to be replaced gradually by angry discussion and then muttering and the sound of someone weeping harshly. Hest felt dazed by his situation. He crouched in his spot in the darkness, smelling sweat and piss. As time trudged by and moving water whispered past the sides of the vessel, he wondered what had become of his organized and genteel life. None of this seemed possible, let alone real. How furious his mother would be when she heard of this outrage to her son!

  If she ever heard of it. And in that moment, Hest suddenly realized how completely he had been severed from his old life. His name, his family’s money, his roguish reputation, his mother’s love for him meant nothing here. All shields, all protections, had fallen away. In a caught breath, he could become a body, his face slashed beyond recognition, food for ants or fish. He gasped, his chest hurting. He subsided onto the deck and sat in the darkness, his face resting on his knees. The thunder of his heart filled his ears. Time passed, or perhaps it did not. He could not tell.

  When the hatch was finally slid open, it admitted a yellow slice of lantern light. Night reigned. A voice Hest recognized warned them, “Stand back! If any man starts up the ladder, he’ll fall back with a knife in his heart. Hest Finbok! Come to where I can see you. Yes. There you are. You. Come up. Now.”

  Back in the corner of the hold, someone bellowed, “Hest Finbok? Is that Hest Finbok? He is here? He’s the traitor that lured me here with a note left on my doorstep, even signed his own name to it! Finbok, you deserve to die! You’re a traitor to Bingtown and the Rain Wilds!”

  By the time Hest reached the top of the short ladder, he was fleeing the ugliness below as much as reaching toward space and air. As he scrambled out onto the deck on all fours, curses and threats followed him. Two sailors slid the hatch shut, cutting off the cries of those trapped below. He found himself at the feet of the Chalcedean. The assassin was holding a lantern and looked very weary. “Follow me,” he barked and did not wait to see if Hest obeyed. He trailed behind him to the door of his erstwhile stateroom.

  The scattered contents of Hest’s plundered wardrobe littered the floor of his compartment, his garments mingled carelessly with Redding’s. The chest of wine, cheese, sausages, and delicacies that Redding had so carefully packed stood open, and the sticky table attested to the enjoyment of its contents. Obviously the Chalcedean had settled in and availed himself of all the room’s comforts. The bedding on Hest’s bunk was rumpled, half dragged to the floor. Redding’s was undisturbed. The shock and loss of his friend’s death swept through him again and he drew a breath, but before he could speak, the Chalcedean spun to confront him. The look on his face drove the breath from Hest’s lungs and he stumbled back a step. “Clean it up!” he barked, and then flung himself, boots and all, onto Redding’s bed and reclined there, eyes half lidded, face lined with weariness. When Hest just stood, staring at him, he spoke quietly. His scarred lips bulged and stretched with the w
ords. “I don’t really have a need for you anymore. If you are useful, I may keep you alive. If not . . .” His hand lifted and one of his little knives had appeared. He waggled it at Hest and smiled.

  Ever since that moment Hest had lived as the Chalcedean’s slave. He served not only the assassin, but any Chalcedean who barked an order at him. He was given the lowliest and most disgusting tasks: from emptying chamber pots overboard to clearing the galley table and washing the dishes. As Hest had scrubbed the blood of slain crewmen off the deck, he had decided he would offer no resistance. He lived hour to hour. Of his fellow prisoners he saw no sign and heard only their angry shouts and pleas that weakened daily. He ate the leavings from his masters’ meals and slept belowdecks in a locker full of spare line and shackles. He was glad not to be lodged with the other prisoners, for he knew that they blamed him for their predicament and would tear him to pieces if they could. His was a solitary existence, in which he was despised by the Chalcedeans and reviled by the Traders.

  He learned little that he didn’t already know. The impervious ships were being built in Jamaillia, and the shipbuilders cared little who paid for them, as long as they paid well. Chalcedeans might be prohibited by the Traders from the Rain Wild River, but their obsession with slaughtering dragons conquered all concerns they might have had. The Chalcedean “investors” had remained hidden on the very ship on which he had traveled up the river. And now, a bribed captain and a Chalcedean crew were taking the vessel up the Rain Wild River, into unexplored territory in the hopes of finding Kelsingra and dragons to butcher.

  It was insane. Just because the ship would not be eaten by the river, it could not be assumed that the forgotten city could be found or that the malformed dragons were actually there. And if they did find Kelsingra and the dragons were there, what then? Had any of them ever witnessed the fury of an enraged dragon? When Hest had dared to voice that question, the Chalcedean had stared him down with cold, still eyes. Dread had uncoiled in Hest’s belly, and he had steeled himself not to scream as he died. But the man had said only, “You have never witnessed the fury of our duke when thwarted. Insanity and impossible missions are to be preferred to disappointing him.” He cocked his head. “Do you think a jeweled box with my son’s hand in it is the worst thing I can imagine?” He shook his head slowly. “You have no idea.” Falling silent, the assassin had stared out of the window at the passing view of the forested riverbank, and Hest had been relieved to resume his menial duties.

  Hest knew little about the dragons and even less of Alise’s theories about lost Elderling cities. Time and again he had been interrogated, with stern warnings that lies would bring great pain. He had never lied, being too convinced of the Chalcedean’s utter willingness to punish him for any falsehood. It had been hard to stand and repeat, “I do not know,” to the man’s whispered or shouted questions, but from the beginning, he had known that the truth was his only protection. Any lie he might have invented to please him would surely have tangled around his tongue later.

  Over and over, the Chalcedean came back to one thing. “Was not this the mission your father sent you on? To retrieve your runaway wife? And did not you tell me she had run off with your slave? So. How were you going to do that? You must know something of how to find the city and the dragons?”

  “No. NO! I don’t. He said I must go to the Rain Wilds, and so I went. I know no more than you do, and probably less. The people I would have spoken to are back in Trehaug, or maybe in the cargo hold of this ship! You should ask them, not me!”

  So although the Chalcedean had several times slapped him hard enough to bloody the inside of his cheek, and once backhanded him off a chair, Hest had not suffered any extreme physical hurt or damage. Unlike some of the Trader captives in the hold of the ship. But there was no good to be had of dwelling on that. It was none of his doing, and solely their misfortune. Confined to his gear locker, he had blocked his ears against the sounds of torture. And when he had been ordered to clean up the aftermath, he did only what he was told.

  And assured himself that despite his hardships, he hadn’t really been hurt. Some bruises and cuts. Some hunger. He had suffered only the utter humiliation of living at the man’s beck and call. Only the complete destruction of his good name among those Traders imprisoned aboard the vessel. Only the death of his lover and his forced participation in concealing the murder. He tried not to let his thoughts dwell on the greater impact of the terrible things that had befallen him. Sometimes his thoughts strayed to his father and mother. Did they yet know he was missing? Had they taken action, offered rewards, sent out birds hiring searchers? Or would his father grumpily assume that Hest was deliberately out of contact, having taken his lover along on his trip to the Rain Wilds? Probably the latter, he admitted to himself. He could not even dream of escaping and returning to Bingtown. This would follow him for the rest of his life unless he could find some way to redeem himself.

  Hest gritted his teeth and wrung out the shirt. It was a chill and blustery day. He had started the washing with hot water, but the wind had quickly cooled it. It was one of his own shirts, he’d noted with grim silence, appropriated by the Chalcedean, as had been most of his possessions. He wore Hest’s fur-lined cloak out onto the deck even in pouring rain, while Hest shivered in his shirtsleeves as he went about his tasks. He had never so hated a man as he hated the Chalcedean. He hated, too, the moments in which he wondered if this was how Sedric had sometimes felt about him, when he had indulged in utter domination of the younger man. As the boat bore him on, ever closer to a possible reunion with Sedric, he found his feelings about him were in turmoil. When he slept on the wooden planks that floored his cargo compartment, it was hard not to recall how the young man had once been eager to assure every aspect of Hest’s comfort. He would have gently rubbed Hest’s aching shoulders and back and exclaimed in horror over Hest’s ruined hands. Sedric’s devotion to him had actually begun to grate on Hest toward the end of their relationship. He recalled now how deliberately he had challenged his affection, trampling on Sedric’s sentimental gestures, turning his tender advances into rough encounters and mocking his efforts to discover how he had displeased his lover. At the time, it had all been so amusing, and Redding’s suggestions as to how he might test his lover’s ardor had resulted in many anecdotes that he had later used to regale Redding and stimulate his rivalry with Sedric. How they had laughed together during their early assignations. With his clever tongue how Redding had mocked Sedric’s gullibility and trusting nature!

  And yet, despite all Sedric’s declarations of devotion, he was responsible for this disaster. It was all Sedric’s fault that Hest had been reduced to scrubbing out someone else’s laundry, his life daily endangered and his reputation as a Bingtown Trader in tatters. In the dark hold at night, during the hours when he had the most leisure to pity himself, Hest sometimes imagined the poignancy of a possible reunion. When Sedric looked at his friend and benefactor and saw him bruised and thin, worn with hardship and unjust imprisonment, would he then realize how badly he had wronged Hest? Would he grasp the magnitude of the evil he had done with his pathetic efforts to become a Trader in his own right? Would he perhaps risk his own life to save Hest’s? Or would he turn aside selfishly and leave him to his fate?

  Sometimes Hest played through the possible outcomes in his mind. Sedric risking his life to save him, and Hest magnanimously welcoming him back into his life. Sometimes he ground his teeth in fury as he imagined Sedric rejoicing at the mischief he had done. But perhaps Sedric himself was already dead, the victim of his own foolishness. It was certainly the fate he hoped had befallen Alise!

  At other times, when bitterness and desolation weighed him most heavily, he simply hoped he would die quickly. He had no illusions as to why the Chalcedean had preserved his life and those of the other Bingtown Traders. “Having a few valuable hostages is always a nice bit of security,” the man had told him as Hest waited for him to finish eating one evening. “We’ve no idea wh
at we’ll encounter when we come back past Trehaug. Hostages may buy us safe passage. The only ones we have taken are those with the misfortune to have been on board our ship, and those Traders who had agreed to help us obtain dragon parts for the Duke. Since they broke their word to us, they deserved to come with us and aid us however they may in getting what they promised us. But even if they are useless at that, hostages can be offered for ransom from Chalced once we are home again. Waste not, want not.”

  And then, just as Hest was reflecting that his mother, at least, would pay handsomely for his return, the man added, “But don’t think of becoming more trouble than you’re worth. Right now, you are useful. Continue in that role, and I’ll continue to spare your life. Become any sort of a nuisance, and I won’t.”

  Hest wrung the shirt out a final time, feeling the mild sting of the acidic water on his hands. The fabric was a paler blue than when he had begun; the river was only mildly acid right now, but given enough exposure, it would eat the shirt to a rag. Too bad. It had been one of Hest’s favorites. Sedric, he recalled bitterly, had chosen the fabric and the tailor for it.

  He gave the wet shirt a shake, snapping it out in the crisp breeze. Clean enough. He carried the bucket to the side to dump it overboard. He sighted the other vessel at the same moment as one of the Chalcedean deckhands. “There’s a boat headed toward us!” the lookout shouted. “It’s an impervious vessel, twin to our own!”