by Jeff Wheeler
Tsyrke Phollen stole the chance. “Just be quick, Roye,” he said. “She’s not at home. She’s not in the back. She’s not anywhere in Sol that I could tell. Now where is she?”
“W..who? Oh, ‘Stasy – yes, she’s not in the back...”
Tsyrke scanned the bar, eyeing a keg with hunger in his eyes. “I don’t have much time. Where is she?”
“Would you...like something to drink?” Without waiting for the answer, Roye hurried to the bar and dribbled two cups of Spider Ale. “Come have a sit and let’s talk – you been sailing long? How is your ship?”
The thud of Tsyrke’s boots came across the planked floor and the callused hand closed around the mug. His thumb rubbed across the rim for a moment before he took a deep swallow and savored it. Raising his angry eyes to the tavernkeeper, he said softly, “You don’t care about my ship. You don’t care about me. But you’d better start speaking the truth, Roye – or by Achrolese, I’ll beat it out of you! If she went off with another man, you’d best hurry and tell me.”
Roye saw the huge broadsword strapped to the man’s back and swallowed a few gulps of the ale to steady himself. He didn’t know for certain where Ticastasy had gone, but he thought he had enough of an idea to get Tsyrke out of his tavern.
“Don’t jump to conclusions. She left just the other night, after a huge scrape your brother started in here. The damage alone cost me nearly a hundred Aralonian pieces. And since he’s your brother, I was thinking that…”
The man’s eyes narrowed with contempt. “Secrist came here? Already? Sons of fire, he never arrives in time. He was supposed to be here tomorrow.” He gave Roye a hard look. “I’m not paying you a single piece until I know more. Now where would Ticastasy go? You know she has no family left and no place to stay but here. Who did she go with? The Drugaen?”
“I think so, but I can’t be sure...it’s Hate’s own truth. I swear, she left that night. I think they both went with that Sleepwalker, I don’t know…”
Roye grunted as Tsyrke grabbed his shirt and hauled him up on the counter top. “What in blazes are you talking about?” he thundered. “A Sleepwalker was here?”
Roye winced and panicked. “Calm down, now! Calm down! He wore all black, like I’ve heard they do. Even ‘Stasy thought he was a Sleepwalker.” He tried to shrug but couldn’t in his position. “He started coming to Sol ‘bout the same time you left on your last run.”
Tsyrke released him and he collapsed on the counter. He gripped the ale mug so tightly that Roye was certain it would shatter. “His name?”
Waving his hand, the tavernkeeper said, “Oh, Tsyrke, how was I supposed to remember? She always got to know the folks...” Tsyrke grabbed the fistful of Roye’s shirt again and jerked him closer. “Oh Hate, Tsyrke! Calm down, now. Jamin? Jorim? Something like that. How should I know who he really is? Only ‘Stasy could tell you for sure, and she’s not here.”
Tsyrke shook his head, unclenching the cloth shirt. He stared at the counter top, his fists balled up tightly and he breathed out slowly. “And you think she went with him? You suggest she went away with this Sleepwalker?”
“I don’t know,” Roye said, sinking his face into his hands. “I swear to you by the king’s crown, I don’t know anything more. They both left me. The Drugaen and her. Like a privy stall in a high wind!”
Tsyrke pushed away from the counter, looking once more at the cup of Spider Ale before him. He started to reach for it and then closed his hand. “You can’t even remember the man’s name. Blustering idiot. Do you know where they went – where they were headed? You don’t remember anything at all? Why did Secrist start a fight?”
Roye shook his head. “It’s ruined me. There was a knight…”
Tsyrke bowed his head and muttered a dark oath. “No wonder there was a fight.” He rubbed his forehead. “Secrist would attack a knight from Owen Draw on sight. Ban it, ban it, ban it.”
Roye suddenly remembered. “Oh, and there were Shae here too! Never paid for their drinks either, the rooks. There were four of ‘em – no! The four came looking for this young one. There were five! He sat over there and slipped out when the fighting started. I don’t remember it very well.”
“You were probably hiding under a table,” Tsyrke said acidly.
“But then the Sleepwalker came in at the end and took the boy away, and ‘Stasy and Flent went with him I think. They were all huddled up in that corner over there, talking at that table.” He lifted his head and pointed.
Roye blinked with surprise. There was a man in black robes sitting at the table that had been empty all night. His bowels turned to ice. “Who in Achrolese’s name are…?” His voice snipped off mutely and he stood frozen.
Tsyrke straightened and turned. He peered into the dark corner of the tavern. “Mage,” he said simply. The Sorian met him in the center of the tavern where the center beam looked as if an axe had gone to work on it.
The Sorian’s voice was soft. “There was enough blood spilled here to tell a great many stories. They’re going to Landmoor.”
Nodding, Tsyrke went to the door and pulled the crossbar up. He tugged the door open. A gust of wind careened into the tavern, tossing Roye’s hair wildly, but he stared at empty space. They stepped back into the mist-shrouded city and passed over a snoring drunk lying in the street.
When the door shut behind them, Roye awoke suddenly from the daze, startled. He slowly lifted his head, blinking. His eyes went from the booth in the corner to the front door rattling with the wind. Scratching his throat vigorously, he thought a moment. “Who was I talking…?”
He wiped his mouth and started shuffling across the floor. He dropped the crossbar into its cradle, securing the door, and rubbed his scalp. “Could have sworn I’d locked it already,” he muttered to himself, taking a swallow from Tsyrke’s half-sipped cup.
* * *
It was a searing pain inside his heart, growing more unbearable with each step. She was gone from Sol – beyond the reach of his protection. She was heading towards the most dangerous region of the kingdom. He swore softly to himself, cursing the winds that had blown against the sails. He was late. Too late.
Glass lanterns hooked on tall iron poles lit the misty cobblestone street. The quavering howl of a sewer mutt echoed from an alley across the way. The air smelled like an old wharf – a familiar, comforting scent to a man who had spent nearly his whole life at sea. The sound of Tsyrke’s boots scraped on the gritty stone before thumping on the soft wet wood of the docks. “How long have you been waiting for me?” he asked the Sorian.
“Stop a moment, my friend. You need to steel yourself for what’s ahead. The cravings will be strong tonight.”
Tsyrke nodded and stopped, leaning back on a dockpost. He wanted a drink so badly he could hardly think. He rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the images of Ticastasy’s smiles. He was tempted to yank out his sword and try splitting the dockpost.
“I was surprised when I did not find you here already, Commander. Bad weather? The fog?”
Tsyrke shook his head. Mage was trying to help. Trying to focus him on his responsibility. He was the Commander of the Shoreland Regiment, not an Ilvaren sea captain. Focus on the title. Always focus. “The business in Harper Ket delayed me. I bought the homestead in Ishtol.”
“A place for the girl?” Mage asked with a voice void of judgment.
Tsyrke knew he could hide nothing from the Sorian. It wasn’t possible. Yet the green-eyed old man still asked questions – even ones he knew the answers to. They were as different as a breeze and a gale, but something had always kept them blowing in the same direction.
“Did you pester my grandfather with questions about his women?”
“Always.”
Mage had helped Tsyrke’s grandfather establish the League of Ilvaren. A famous man, his grandfather – Kiran Phollen. His grandfather’s red cape had survived the ferocity of the Purge Wars. It had outlived the man who had worn it. Now, after so many years, skirmishes, and
petulant seas, Tsyrke found himself commanding one of Ballinaire’s regiments. Ballinaire – the hero of the Purge Wars turned traitor and rebel himself. Ballinaire – the man who had persuaded him to join the Rebellion. And hate every banned day of it. Tsyrke was tired and quickly moving past the fire of his youth, but he still had the stubbornness of a galleon shoving its way through a tempest. Becoming Lord of the entire Shoreland region was tempting. But it was just not worth it anymore.
He swore under his breath, realizing he had ignored Mage’s question. “I’m sorry. Lost in my thoughts. Yes, you know I bought the homestead for her, Mage. Not quite the same as making her a queen, but that probably wouldn’t have happened anyway. I’m stunned that she’s not here. But she can’t be at Landmoor. Not this soon. Did she go with the Sleepwalker?”
“I don’t know.”
Tsyrke snorted as if Mage were joking. “What do you mean you don’t know? I doubt there is anything on this banned world you don’t know.”
The Sorian gazed at him and smiled. “We’ve known each other too long for flattery, Tsyrke. Let us just say I am not totally certain of his whereabouts. He is certainly more than an average Sleepwalker because I wasn’t able to read his past.”
“He’s warded then. Pretty good ward, too, if a Sorian can’t break it.”
“I didn’t bother,” Mage replied. “I’m familiar with the wretches of Pitan and all the mutations that Firekin can create from it. Like the Drugaen. If the Sleepwalker used Firekin, he would have been under my dominion. He kept himself hidden in Silvan magic, which is why I hesitate to label him anything.”
“Shae magic? Not stronger than a Sorian?” Tsyrke pointed out.
Mage shrugged. “I’d rather not have to find out, Commander. In the old days, the Shae held dominion. But this man wasn’t a Shae.”
Something cold went down Tsyrke’s spine. He let out a low whistle. “For all our sakes, I hope not. Show me what happened that night? Did my brother truly come barging in like an oaf?”
Mage nodded, his eyes glinting with anger. He withdrew an orb of orange fire from his robes. “The Firekin will show you everything. Look into the flames and see the past.”
Tsyrke did. He watched the flickering pattern of light reveal the Kiran Thall, his brother’s company, disturb the Foxtale. He had come early, responding to Tsyrke’s orders, but had chosen to bring the entire company instead of leaving them outside the city. A knight from Owen Draw was there also – not the Knight General, but one sent by him. Even a few Crimson Wolfsmen had joined the fighting.
Tsyrke seethed with disbelief when the light winked out. “Ban it, the knight probably thought he was baited into a trap. There is no way he’s going to trust me now. Ban it!” He rubbed his eyes. “A bloody quaere too. Why were they here?”
“For a young Shae who came in before your brother. He’s warded too, so I don’t know who he is, but he went with the Sleepwalker and Ticastasy. The Sleepwalker said very little – but he did say they were going to Landmoor.” His eyes glittered with amusement. “And when he said it, he looked right at me, as if he knew I would be watching him from the Firekin later.”
“Then the Sleepwalker is a fool for baiting a Sorian,” Tsyrke snapped. “He can die just as the others have. But somehow he found out about Ticastasy.” He shook his head angrily. “He’s kidnapped her. But who hired him? I’ve heard Folkes is using the Gray Legion.”
“I don’t think Folkes could afford this one. Come, let’s return to your ship. We need to return to the army as quickly as we can.”
They started walking again.
“Who hired the Sleepwalker? Dairron?”
“It’s difficult to say,” Mage replied. “But that was my first thought.”
“Why?”
The Sorian gave him an arch look. “Because the Sleepwalker gave the Shae a bag of Everoot.”
Tsyrke stopped and gripped Mage’s arm. “Everoot?” he said in a strangled whisper. “How in Hate’s name did he get a bag of Everoot? There isn’t any Everoot any more. It was all destroyed when Sol don Orai burned! That was five hundred years ago. You told me it would never return.”
“I did say those things. But I was wrong. Do you remember the meeting with Lord Ballinaire you missed?”
“I don’t give a ban about Ballinaire or his meetings,” Tsyrke snarled. He wanted a drink again. He muttered a few more choice curses and turned down the pier where his ship was docked. The sound of creaking boats smothered the noise of his steps. He was furious. Things were tumbling out of control. Their carefully laid plan – their most secret plan – was about to be ruined. He risked everything, not least of all his own life.
Tsyrke closed his eyes and tried to steel himself. When you play high stakes in Bones, you trust in your luck. Too many players. Too many risks. Mage walked patiently next to him, waiting for him to master himself again. The Sorian was all ice inside. He had been playing this game for centuries with nations poised as the bet. This little affair with Dos-Aralon was probably too insignificant to get excited about.
“I tried to be back for Ballinaire’s meeting,” Tsyrke explained, more calmly. “But the homestead took longer than I thought and I had to hurry here to meet the knight. You went to the meeting to represent me. Is Ballinaire going to sit still down in the Shadows Wood long enough for the knights to nab him?”
A wan smile flickered across Mage’s mouth. “He’s not planning to sit at all. He’s starting a war with Dos-Aralon. Just like we persuaded him to do.”
“He’s starting it now?” Tsyrke asked. “If the knights of Owen Draw can’t summon their troops quickly enough, they’ll never engage. They keep sitting there, waiting for Dairron’s army to come out of the Kingshadow. I need those knights down here!”
“I know this doesn’t suit your plans, but it suits Ballinaire’s. You cannot change the coming of the tide, Commander. He’s ordered you to bring the Shoreland regiment and occupy Landmoor. You only have a week or so to do it. I told Hallstoy to start mobilizing when I passed through your regiment.”
Tsyrke let the air slowly out of his lungs. “My regiment is not enough to stop Dos-Aralon. When they bring down the Amberdian Army and those fools from Cypher – they’ll crush him. Our plan isn’t going to work if he destroys my regiment by using it as bait and leads a counter-attack from the Kingshadow.”
“It’s the other way around,” Mage explained. “He intends to use Dairron’s regiment as the diversionary one and he’ll attack Dos-Aralon with yours. He plans to do it personally.”
“Is he mad? They’ll see us coming and have plenty of warning!”
“You’re missing the point, Tsyrke. The tides have changed. The waters are deeper now. Miestri found a grove of Everoot in the Shadows Wood and turned it over to Ballinaire. He showed it to us at the meeting. He has cartloads full of it. I’ve seen an army use it before, Commander. Dos-Aralon could send twenty times its number and it would still fall. Every Bandit soldier wounded will be totally healed and strengthened the next day. Some will even come back from the dead. You can’t stop an army like that. And remember, the Sleepwalker had a sample himself. That is why I suspect Dairron is behind this. I don’t think he wants Ballinaire to succeed any more than you do. He’s always wanted to make a pact with the Shae. And it looks like he’s lured this young man out of Avisahn.”
Tsyrke bowed his head as he walked and rubbed his temples. Anger boiled up and steamed inside of him. “Yes, this rings true. Dairron found out about Ticastasy. He sent the Sleepwalker to abduct her and a Shae.” It was just like him, Tsyrke thought bitterly. With Dairron plotting to succeed Ballinaire, he would go to any lengths to be sure that Tsyrke served him or had good reason not to interfere. Tsyrke knew that if he pretended Ticastasy did not matter to him, Dairron would kill her for spite.
Mage nodded. “He mentioned something to that effect at the meeting. He has had eyes on your regiment for a while now. After all, his isn’t nearly large enough. And how else would the Sleepwalker kn
ow that I would be here later?”
“Only a Sorian would know a Sorian,” Tsyrke replied. “You people are too devious, it’s hard to keep up with your games. You are right. It’s as obvious as spring after the thaw. Dairron wants Lord Ballinaire dead as much as I do. But for the wrong reasons. The banned wrong reasons.” He knew Dairron wanted to bring the Rebellion to a boil. But not Tsyrke. Tsyrke wanted it finished. “He wants me out of the way, and he would stoop to use a banned Sleepwalker to do it. Of course Miestri would ward him against you. He’d never leave a clear trail. Tell me the rest, Mage. I doubt it could put me in any worse a mood.” He looked up the dock and saw the ramp to his ship just ahead.
“Folkes will bring his regiment across the Yukilep in support of yours,” Mage answered softly. “Dairron was ordered to attack from the north to draw don Rion off, exposing his rear – the city of Dos-Aralon itself.”
“I’m not a fool,” Tsyrke said with anger. “It’s like asking two thieves to watch your back. Does Ballinaire really trust them to obey?”
“Does he have reason to trust you?” Mage asked wryly. He paused a moment, letting the words sink in. “He’s convinced he will win. As I said, there is a grove of Everoot in the swamps and Lord Ballinaire has it. He has an army surrounding it and harvesting it. He has two Sorian to advise him. There is nothing but open plains between the Shadows Wood and Dos-Aralon. He still needs you, my friend. He still needs you. If we are quick and clever, we can turn this around. If we can get to that Shae lad before the Sleepwalker brings him to Miestri…”
Tsyrke clenched his fist in frustration. The hinting taste of failure was bitter in his mouth. He could lose it all, slipping right between his fingers like water. He sighed and shook his head. “The knight was the key, Mage. The key to our plan. I can’t fight Dos-Aralon and Ballinaire and the Shae.”