by Max Irons
“How can a man’s death be fortunate?” asked Lonni.
Arlana looked at Galeron, a bemused expression plastered to her face. “A tiresome lass, isn’t she? Does such presumptuousness run in the family, or is it unique to her?”
He paused. Lonni was brilliant in many areas, especially when it came to anything involving alchemy or physical forces, but she could be a tad…naive was probably the best word… when it came to the subtleties of politics and intrigue.
Galeron turned to Lonni. “If Fletcher lived, the Rayans would have just tried and executed him for murder and being an informer. As it is, their only suspect is dead, and they don’t have firm proof that he was an informer, dragging Arlana into all of this but delaying consequences.” He frowned. “It doesn’t sound nice, but if we have to deal with this, two deaths make for slower reactions than one.”
Lonni’s green eyes flickered around the cabin for a moment. “That’s a horrible way to think of a man’s death.”
“True, but…” His voice trailed off. The world of informing produced pragmatism. Attachments got a man killed.
“Fletcher may have gotten involved with Carys, but he didn’t kill her,” Arlana said. “Someone wanted the Rayans to think he did, and whoever it is went through a lot of trouble to stage it. That’s where Galeron comes in.”
“You expect him to track down a murderer?” asked Lonni.
“No different than our last bout in the Han Empire,” said Iven.
Galeron scowled. “How about we ignore that one?”
“I think we caught the right man,” Iven said, ignoring him. “We don’t speak Han, but it sounded like he confessed.”
Lonni glanced from Galeron to Iven, her mouth open.
“Long story,” Galeron said. “For another time.”
“But how are you going to find this person in Keenan Caffar?” Lonni asked. “It’s massive.”
“Competent training, firespeaker,” Arlana said. She steepled her fingers and pursed her lips. “You can make his task easier or harder, but I would suggest putting trust in his abilities.”
“What you ask—”
“Bears little weight to what I’ve seen him do.” Arlana sat up straight. “You have statues in your mind. Images of what you believe people to be, and that is dangerous. Statues do not change, and if you wish to survive your trip to Keenan Caffar, you’ll adjust your thinking. Do not interrupt again.”
Lonni sat back in her chair, her face drawn into a blank expression. Galeron said nothing. Working with Arlana was like balancing on battlements. A man could only lean so far to one side or the other before he tumbled off. Lonni had just leaned too far on Arlana’s lack of formality.
The cabin lurched as the Bonnie Fair’s crew put her out to sea, and Arlana turned her gaze back to Galeron. “When we arrive at Keenan Caffar, you won’t see me often. I will hold the Rayan government at bay while you search.”
Galeron nodded. Wise. The Rayans would be suspicious enough when she surfaced suddenly in their ports. “Iven needs a personal guard, now. I should fit right in.”
Iven snorted. “Yes, protect me, great Deathstalker, from the vicious hordes of potential brides and vast mountains of official documents.” He sighed. “My brother always hated me, and he managed to torment me again from beyond the tomb.”
“The plague got him, I hear,” Arlana said. “Stay out of the lower districts. Some of them have been cordoned off.”
Iven’s expression darkened. “Wonderful. Is it the pox again, or the ever-consistent yellow death?”
“Knife gut,” Arlana said.
Galeron frowned. That hadn’t surfaced since the end of the Delktian Wars. He shuddered, remembering the countless dead it had left in Delktian camps. The duck he’d eaten started waddling about in his stomach, and his mouth filled with saliva before he clenched his jaw shut and swallowed. The memory would pass.
Iven put a hand over his stomach and grimaced. “Right. Stay out of the lower districts. I don’t want to do that again.”
The ship rocked back and forth in the waves, and Galeron winced as the duck started dancing in his gut.
“Not exactly a stately ship, Arlana,” he grumbled.
She shrugged. “No noblewoman would be caught dead sailing on a vessel like this, so naturally, I hired it.”
His mouth pooled with saliva again, and the duck, along with the rest of dinner, surged up. Galeron bit down hard, keeping his mouth shut, and bolted from the cabin. Hot bile filled his mouth, and he emptied his meal into Azura’s harbor, his back and stomach spasming as he retched.
Reflex tears blurred his eyes as he sagged against the ship’s railing. Galeron coughed and spat the last vestiges out of his mouth. The deck swayed beneath his feet, and his stomach gurgled and frothed. He retched again, heart pounding in his skull as his insides fought to divulge food that wasn’t there. Galeron inhaled sharply.
Iven appeared and leaned on the railing next to him. “Got rid of it all?”
Galeron bobbed his head up and down.
“Hopefully you’ll get used to it after a while,” he said.
“Not likely.”
He retched yet again, and Iven patted him on the back. This was going to be a very long week.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ships were invented to torment a man’s stomach. Galeron was quite sure of this fact by the fifth day of travel. He spent most of his days on the quarterdeck, propped up against the railing and waiting for the next bout of heaving to overtake him. His face burned with the exertion and long exposure to sunlight and open sea. Food he vaguely remembered, but his stomach refused to accept anything but the occasional drink of water or dry bit of hardtack from the Bonnie Fair’s deep storage.
Galeron flopped onto the deck, the shouts of the crew and rattling pulleys fading into a dull moan in the background. Why did a man’s stomach hate the sea? Perhaps men were never meant to travel by water. Going against the natural order of things would certainly make his body rebel.
He shuddered and closed his eyes, the insides of his eyelids a bright red haze. His cheeks itched from the sunburns lying over his still-healing scorch marks from Lattimer’s funeral pyre. They should have insisted on traveling overland. Longer, but he’d do Arlana no good in this condition.
Boots clomped next to him, and Galeron cracked one eye. Iven loomed over him, one eyebrow raised.
“Maybe you won’t get over it,” he said. “I’ve been known to be wrong before.”
Galeron groaned and shut the eye. “What?”
Cloth rustled as Iven sat down next to him. “Just checking on you. Try not to mention your problems with sailing in Raya. We happen to pride ourselves on our seafaring skills.”
“Why should that matter?” asked Galeron through gritted teeth.
“As the personal protector of a house lord, you’re supposed to embody all the virtues that house Porter holds in highest regard,” Iven said with a mock-officious tone. “Imagine the disgrace you’d bring upon my family.” He snorted. “And imagine me caring about that.”
Right.
“Jests aside, keep your dislike of ships to yourself. It’ll stick out.”
Galeron grunted. Duly noted.
“We’ll also have to get you some new armor.”
“Why?” he asked. “I just bought some.”
“Half of court life is appearance,” said Iven. “We can even get everything in all black, if you want. Make sure your sword doesn’t look so out of place.”
Galeron grunted again, but the idea had merit.
“I’m a little worried about bringing you and Lonni into Keenan Caffar,” Iven said. “The Deathstalker and a firespeaker? Might as well declare your intention to fight.”
“Deterrence,” said Galeron.
“Maybe.” Iven shifted positions. “Some of the mages in Aleor won’t see it that way. You, in particular, might make them a little jumpy.”
“Then we don’t go running around and telling everyone just to sm
ooth things out.” He opened his eyes and glared at him. “Right?”
“That’s a viable strategy in Broton,” Iven said. “It’s a dumb one in Raya.”
“Making sure.” Why wouldn’t his blasted stomach stop churning?
Iven poked him in the shoulder. “Hold onto your hat. We’re a mere day and a half out from port.”
Galeron scowled. “You’re the only one who wears a hat.”
“Judging by your face, maybe I shouldn’t be.”
Galeron’s misery continued for the rest of the day and deep into the night. Under normal circumstances, he had been able to retreat below decks and get a few hours of sleep, fitful though it was. This time, his belly was having none of it, keeping that sickly green feeling in his face and showing no signs of subsiding.
Galeron scowled at the moon, though he felt certain the celestial light neither knew nor cared. He propped himself against the railing, a familiar pose. The ship’s pitching and tossing wasn’t even that terrible. The seas were fairly calm, not that he knew much about sailing or the behavior of the waves, but this was no howling gale. Clearly, the sea was just out to get him.
His eyelids slid shut for a moment, and a wave of exhaustion swept over him. Upset belly or not, sleep demanded his attention. Time to obey. If all else failed, he could vomit out one of the open firing bays for the Bonnie Fair’s precious few culverins. Galeron dragged himself to the quarterdeck stairs and descended, his boots thudding on the wooden planks.
Movement flicked in the corner of his eye, and he jerked, whipping his gaze around. A crouched figure inched out of the doorway to Arlana’s quarters, guiding the door shut with a faint click. Galeron frowned. No lantern light waved from inside. Sleep fled from his mind. What was that man doing in there? His hand dropped to his waist, swiping empty air. He hadn’t carried his blade since they’d departed Azura. In fact, both sword and armor lay below decks since the bout with seasickness began.
The very thought made his stomach flip a few times, but he clenched his teeth and shoved the urge to vomit back down his throat. Time for some answers. Galeron vaulted over the banister (though his weakened arms made it more of a tumble) and slammed onto the deck mere feet from the figure. His right ankle flared with a sharp pain.
The figure jumped and whirled about. In the moonlight, Galeron caught the heavily stooped outline of a taller, thin man with bulging corded muscles.
“What were you doing in there?” Galeron growled.
“The captain sent me to check on the lady,” he replied smoothly. “I was carrying out my assigned duties.”
“The lights were out,” Galeron said. “You entered anyway. Why?”
“I was carrying out my assigned duties,” he said.
“Then let’s go have a word with him.” Galeron seized the man’s wrist. “If he confirms your story, you’re good to go.”
The man blurred. That was really the only way to process it. One moment he stood in front of Galeron, and the next, Galeron’s arm had twisted back and up towards the center of his spine. The man pressed up, as if trying to pop his arm from its socket, and drove him to the ground. Galeron swallowed the searing pain from his shoulder and backpedaled, countering the man’s pressure with his own. He twisted away, unfurling his arm and spinning about, and dragging the man along as he did so.
His attacker released, and the dull glint of a knife whipped toward his guts. Galeron sidestepped and hit the deck as the Bonnie Fair collided with a breaker. The knife flashed again, and he rolled away, kicking out with a boot. His heel crunched into something solid, and the man grunted. Galeron pulled himself to his feet and drove an uppercut into the man’s belly. His fist caught under the ribcage with a meaty thud. The taste of copper burst in Galeron’s mouth, and he rammed an elbow across the man’s nose. Bone crunched under the strike.
The man yelled and caught Galeron in the sternum with the hilt of his knife. Galeron coughed and heaved, air fleeing, and he stumbled back.
“Down!”
Galeron dropped as training kicked in. A deep thrum sounded behind him, and his attacker screamed. Galeron looked up. The man writhed like a fish on its line, pinned to the wall of Arlana’s quarters by an arrow, the fletching just kissing his wound. Galeron scrambled to his feet, and Iven stepped up beside him.
“Who do we have here?” he asked.
“I want to know the same thing,” Galeron said.
Iven frowned and squinted. “Wait a moment. Haven’t I seen you be—”
The man jerked, his eyes widening. He raised his knife and dragged the blade across his own throat, carving a brilliant scarlet necklace into his flesh. He seized and wet gurgling noises rattled from his chest before his eyes rolled back and the knife tumbled to the deck.
Galeron blinked as a cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach, momentarily replacing the constant nausea. He ignored the hanging corpse and kicked open the doors to Arlana’s quarters. What would he find waiting for him? Other corpses? A mutilated Arlana hanging on for life? Galeron rushed to the bed and pallet. The blankets and pillow lay undisturbed. He rushed to the candle sitting on a nearby table and felt the wick. Cold. She’d been gone for a while. Where?
“Why, Galeron, I didn’t know you cared.”
Galeron sighed and turned to face the drawl. Arlana stood in the doorway, dressed in a deckhand’s dark trousers and a very loose-fitting cotton tunic that lay unlaced at the top. She’d tucked her hair under a sailor’s cap. He sighed and shook his head.
“You were never here,” Galeron said.
“Mmm, obviously.” Arlana unleashed her long black locks and shook them out.
“Did you know he was out to kill you?” Galeron asked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the dead man.
“Oh, I wasn’t sure who might be out to kill me,” she said. “I assumed that someone might make the attempt before we arrived, just for the sake of it.”
Galeron walked out of her quarters and joined her on deck, a scowl firmly entrenched. Typical Arlana. “Were you planning on telling me?”
She glanced at the night sky. “I might have, but you were busy purging yourself.”
Iven shot her a quizzical look. “You might have told me, at least.”
“What if you were a part of the plot, Lord Porter?” Arlana asked.
“But I wasn’t,” he said.
“Exactly what you would have said if you were.” She smirked and turned back to Galeron. “If you weren’t sure before, you should be now.”
Galeron grimaced and cast a glance back at the would-be assassin. “He wasn’t a very good one.”
Arlana pursed her lips. “He was a warning.”
“He’s also the one who delivered my letter,” said Iven.
The sick feeling returned, but it didn’t make him bolt for the side of the ship. Galeron raised his eyebrows and looked at Arlana. Was she thinking the same thing? She nodded.
“Either two people asked the same man to do a job for them,” Galeron began.
“Or the person who wants me dead also wants the archer back in Raya,” Arlana finished.
It was Iven’s turn to scowl. “Even when my brother dies, it’s inconvenient.”
#
The only positive outcome of Arlana’s failed assassination was the loss of Galeron’s seasickness, mostly. A cold knot had taken up residence in his gut where the bout of nausea usually lived. Apparently, there was only room in his stomach for one, but now that he’d lost it, Galeron secretly wished for his seasickness back. It’d be a vast improvement over the endless pondering of Iven’s connection to the assassin’s contractor. Lonni, however, was less impressed by the potential intrigue and more concerned with Iven’s impending job as head of a noble house.
“Do you even know the first thing about being a leader?” she asked him as they sat around the back of the quarterdeck.
Galeron winced as he stabbed a finger while stitching up a tear in his cloak. He shook his hand and went back to work, prodding more caref
ully.
“Of course I know how it works,” Iven said. “It’s simple. I sit at a desk all day and make sure that food is going to the appropriate cities. As long as no one starves, I’ve done my job.” He grunted. “And I’ve condemned myself to a lifetime of boredom.”
Lonni rolled her eyes. “There’s a lot more to it than just paperwork.”
“Could’ve fooled me. I watched my father do nothing but that for a good ten years.”
“You’ll have to go visit your holdings, inspect the jobs that your barons are doing, appear at court functions and balls, raise your own family, and make sure the other houses don’t encroach on your territories,” Lonni said.
“Let’s not mention the family part,” Iven said, grimacing.
Galeron stared at her. “How do you know so much about Rayan lords?”
She shrugged. “I used to do a lot of work with them before night dust was banned.”
“They banned night dust?” asked Iven. “And you’re just going to waltz into Keenan Caffar with pistolettes on those tiny hips?”
“Mind your tongue,” she snapped. “And I’ll go wherever I like with my weapons. They aren’t banned, just the dust.”
“You’re the alchemist, but you do know those don’t work without it, right?” asked Galeron.
“Night dust can be made from a mixture of common plants.” Lonni sniffed. “Only an alchemist could mix it in the right proportions.”
“As long as those proportions don’t blow a hole in anything,” Iven said. “That’d be an easy giveaway.”
“There are only explosions when I experiment,” Lonni said.
“Then don’t do that.” Iven stretched his arms out. “I’m going to have enough trouble without you bringing further questions on me.”
Galeron grunted and glared at the needle. Second time he’d done that.
“Why are you bothering?” asked Lonni. “Iven can just buy you a new one when we get to port.”
“House Porter isn’t that rich,” Iven said. “She does have a point, Galeron, even if it pains me to admit it.”