A Flight of Ravens

by John Conroe

  I handed him a pair of lines as we looked down over the roof. Cort put both hands over his ears and nodded at me. I did the same. Twin thunderclaps boomed and two bright flashes lit the sky, dust and debris peppering us. Below us, the crowds cowered, then screamed, and then broke apart. We each stepped between our two respective ropes, looped them around our waists, stepped over the new loops, and then pulled those loops up our legs, tightening them into our crotches. Holding both lines in one hand, my right and Cort’s left, we backed down the roof and at the edge, I counted us down. “Three, two, one.”

  Simultaneously, we leaned out over the edge and then started to walk down the wall in an improvised rappel. Because our ropes weren’t securely fastened, it was imperative that we took it slow and careful. But it wasn’t our first time using such a roughshod setup.

  Kassa was just stepping off the pipe as we reached the ground. We each let go of our ropes and pulled one end down, coiling it as it came. After both ropes were down, I stowed them in the pocket at the back of my coat while Cort led our inexperienced team member back toward the inn.

  We had just started to enter the Lost Lobster when yelling, running people came around the far corner in a clear panic.

  Inside, Freyla met us in the entryway. “What’s happening out there?”

  “I believe a riot just broke up,” I said.

  “Broke up or out?” she questioned.

  “Up.”

  “We heard thunder,” she said, sniffing the air. An odor much like swamp gas was wafting from Cort’s clothes.

  “So did we,” I said, waving a hand in front of my face. “Really Cort, where are your manners?” I asked.

  “So sorry,” the stocky sapper said with a shit-eating grin. “Too much cabbage.”

  I doubted the Raven was fooled, as her eyes had narrowed, but I wasn’t going to admit anything in public.

  Chapter 24

  Soshi and Drew arrived at the inn before the hour was out. We were upstairs in the rooms, Cort fussing over his munitions while I worked on my notes. I would need to send a raptor in the morning, and the short set of observations I was recording would form the framework of my report. The pair entered together, with Kassa appearing in the doorway behind them, toweling her hair.

  “Report,” I said.

  “We found that altercation brewing before we could make it to a single pub,” Drew said.

  “Which is incredibly sad,” Cort added.

  “They formed up sides like it was an informal lacrosse game rather than the beginnings of a riot,” Soshi said. “Very odd behavior.”

  “We have a solid theory on that, but continue,” I said.

  “I saw it start from nothing,” Soshi said. “These two were ahead of me, almost sprinting for the first bar. Those two speakers just started arguing, right in the middle of the street. Each had a few friends with them. Within minutes, the others all just showed up, like they were all waiting around for trouble to brew.”

  “I stayed on the ground when Soshi and Cort went high,” Drew said. “Oddly, I was almost ignored. People seemed to know exactly who went with who. It wasn’t like they actually knew each other, not most of them, but somehow they recognized enemies from allies.”

  I looked at Kassa, who had stopped drying her hair to listen. She shrugged. “It could be something as simple as two different sets of necklaces, each with a different message.”

  “Those necklaces have a message?” Cort asked.

  “We think they were modified by an eslling with the ability to sort of record a strong set of impressions onto those little rectangles of gold.”

  “That’s a thing?” Drew asked.

  “It is,” Kassa answered. “An incredibly rare talent but still a real one.”

  “What did you see when the Holy Assembly showed up?” I asked Drew. “Did you notice anyone doing anything different from the rest of the crowd?”

  RRS troopers are trained to create riots in enemy territory, to disrupt economies, manufacturing, and governmental functions, so I knew my people would be looking at the street fight with educated eyes.

  “There were a few observers like me, people who didn’t seem inclined to pick a side. Some were obviously Montshire citizens, but there were a few shady types—thieves and pickpockets, but one individual caught my eye. About Soshi’s height, completely cloaked and cowled. Couldn’t see their face. Could have been a man or a woman. I did glimpse a bit of gray hair. Whoever it was took off just after the Mandrigo crowd turned on the Holy Assembly. Fast, smooth exfil of the scene, like they had picked out an escape route much earlier.”

  “How bad was the riot?”

  “Fists, feet, and rocks mostly. A few clubs and blades. Lots of people will be bruised and bloody after that. It broke up immediately when Cort’s little gifts went off,” Drew said.

  “And the Holy Assembly?”

  “Stayed to help the wounded. At least two broken limbs, a couple of possible concussions, and a really bad abdominal knife wound. The rest took off if they could move their feet at all. I don’t think any of the clergy were hurt, but one of the concussed was a member of their guard team. Saw your favorite parson in the mix, by the way,” Drew said.

  I felt Kassa’s eyes looking my way, which for some reason bothered me. And that made me a little angry. I met Parson Gwen Vancour very briefly, two times, in the Berkette town of Pit, more than a month ago. She was very attractive and seemed to possess a wonderful personality, as you might expect from a member of the clergy. So what. My team, most of whom were interested in the good parson themselves, had picked on me ever since. But my relationship with Brona was solid and exclusive, facts that they well knew. And why Kassa’s judgement had any bearing or effect on me was baffling.

  “Which is interesting,” I observed. Soshi raised her eyebrows and I gave her a hard, level look. “Because, as we all know, she works with the deacon who destroys Tainted artifacts of the Punished.”

  Drew nodded, his face serious as opposed to Cort’s grin, Soshi’s frown, and Kassa’s silent regard. “You think these trinkets that have been modified have caught the Holy Assembly’s attention to such a degree that they are willing to step onto the church’s territory?”

  The religions of Berkette, Mandrigo, Wenkroy, and Montshire are all different, yet remarkably similar. All four preach against the rise and use of any advancement of technology beyond the current level of modern society. And their edicts in regard to technology can carry the full weight of law—right up to a sentence of death. The ruins of the Punished had left enormous amounts of information about machines and tools far beyond our own—devices and techniques that would doubtlessly save lives and improve the survival rates of ordinary citizens and nobility alike. Some information was okay, like agricultural and medical information that wasn’t reliant on machines—crop rotation and anatomical knowledge, for instance.

  But anything mechanically more sophisticated than a water wheel or a pulley was forbidden. In fact, the four religions were so alike that it was a wonder they hadn’t merged into one. The current, and very quietly bandied, theory was that each church’s leadership was loath to relinquish its power to any of the others. The result was an unspoken but extremely steadfast agreement to keep out of each other’s territory.

  “I do. We all heard her tell us of the Assembly’s actions regarding Tainted artifacts. Now we find Deacon Kittleby here on Montshire soil, attempting to stop his flock from fighting with their Mandrigan neighbors who were, until recently, allies.”

  A patterned knock came at the door, the four beat cadence telling us it was Trell.

  Cort, who was closest to the door, opened it to admit the cheerful yet weary-looking bard.

  “There you all are. Did you hear of the riot?” he asked, glancing around at our faces. Then his excitement fell. “Of course you did. You were probably in the thick of it.”

  “We observed it,” I said.

  “And intervened,” Freyla said from the door Trell had le
ft open. She slipped through and closed it behind her. “Forgot to mention that little tidbit, didn’t you?” she asked me.

  “I told you the riot broke up,” I said, keeping a civil tone.

  “But you didn’t explain that it was you and your people who broke it up,” she said. Her face was hard to read. She was neither smiling nor frowning, instead wearing an expressionless mask. But her eyes glinted with interest.

  Still trying to get a handle on her, I just raised my brows.

  “You’ve been here just a few hours and already demonstrated proscribed devices to the Holy Assembly,” she said. “Hardly the careful work of the renowned Shadows, now is it?”

  “Last time I checked, Raven Freyla, Porye was still Montshire territory, not the jurisdiction of the Holy Assembly of Reformed Wickedness. And as it is part of the kingdom, stopping foreign forces from fighting on our land is damned well part and parcel of our charter.”

  “The way I heard it, the visiting deacon was mere moments from being overrun by an angry mob of Mandrigans,” Trell said. “That would seem to fall under the category of international incident.”

  “Fair noted, wise bard,” Freyla said. “It may be that I’m more used to the Shadows causing international incidents than stopping them. However, flaunting illegal technology in front of any church’s high officials seems… reckless.”

  “What is it you want, Raven?” I asked.

  She made a show of glancing around at us. “I’ve been here for over fifteen years, working my way into the very fabric of this town, gaining the trust of the most important players here. In that decade, I’ve pulled in more intelligence that your entire team combined, and during all that time, the closest I’ve come to having my true affiliations known is this evening—by your actions.”

  “I understand,” I said, nodding. “Putting everything into maintaining a cover is hard, a full-time job. It can consume you and eventually, it can make you forget why you’re actually doing it in the first place. I’m glad we could remind you of what’s really important: protecting Montshire. Intelligence is only good if it is acted upon. Having your ear to the wall is only useful if it doesn’t burn down while you’re pressed up against it.”

  That got a reaction. Her carefully guarded expression flickered with anger before resettling into its frozen mask. “From now on, at least grant me the professional courtesy of warning me before you blow up foreign dignitaries.”

  “If there’s time. There are moments, Raven, when you must act instantly.”

  “You and your team are here because of what I observed and reported. But I can’t do my job to get you intel if you don’t return the favor,” she said.

  “Then by all means, pull up a seat,” I said.

  She looked a little pissy, her arms crossed, and she chose to lean against the window frame rather than find an actual seat.

  I turned back to Trell. “What have you found out?”

  He glanced at Freyla, then back at me. I nodded for him to go ahead. Sharing intelligence with our sister service was a complicated issue, fraught with pitfalls, yet still required. Like walking the edge of a very sharp blade.

  “I visited three establishments: the Twisted Line, the Sailor’s Rest, and the Ale’s Well,” Trell said. “The first seemed heavily trafficked by Mandrigan fishermen. Oddly, most of them weren’t complaining about Berkette; in fact, many of them seemed worried by what’s happening.”

  “Did you see any necklaces?” I asked, holding up the silk-wrapped artifact.

  “Only when I was out on the street. Not a one in the pub. Ale’s Well was like that too, but it was thick with businessmen from Berkette. A lot of seafood buyers and purveyors of other merchandise. Quieter lot than the fisherfolk but displaying a bit of anxiety. But the Sailor’s Rest was different. It was mostly locals, citizens of Montshire, and some transplants who live here full-time. I got an earful there.”

  I glanced at Freyla and she nodded. “He’s got the right of it. The Twisted Line is down on the docks and has always been big with fisherfolk and sailors, both local and those just in port to sell their catches. Not that long ago, the fish buyers would hang there too and many a deal was made. Lately, not so much. And I’ve heard that the other two had become pretty territorial as well.”

  “What did the kind folk of Porye have to say?” I asked Trell.

  “They knew me right away, of course, and that’s why I think I was told as much. See, I didn’t even have to eavesdrop; they came right to me. Seem to think I have the king’s ear,” Trell said.

  “They know this tension is unnatural and like our good hostess here, they’ve seen those gold and silver necklaces around the necks of the troublemakers. They begged me to ask the king for help.”

  “And did they have any suggestions as to what this help might look like?” I asked.

  “Most of them had no idea of what to do, but two of them stepped up when I was getting a beer at the bar. They had a name, although they were mighty worried about saying it out loud.”

  “Do you really have to drag this out?” Soshi asked.

  He frowned at her. “I’m a bard. It’s what we do,” he said. “Anyway, they say there is a newcomer in town. Goes by Andru. Just one name. They thought the king should know about him.”

  I looked at Freyla. She was still frowning, but now it was more puzzled then annoyed. “I know the name but he’s just a merchant. Sells clothes, nothing fancy, just tough, simple stuff like dock workers and fisherfolk need. I’ve never heard even a whisper of suspicion about the man.”

  “How long has he been in town?” I asked.

  “A couple of years, maybe a bit less,” she said.

  “Sylvanian?” Cort guessed.

  “No,” Freyla said. “You don’t think I watch every Sylvanian who enters this town?” she challenged him.

  “Where’s he from?” I asked.

  “Up north is all I know.”

  “Mandrigo, then?” I pushed.

  She frowned again. “I can’t say for certain. All I know is he refers to a home up north. Could be Mandrigo, could be Monstshire; hell, it could be Drodacia for all I know.”

  “You can’t tell if he’s Drodacian?” I asked.

  “I’ve seen him twice. He’s a short little troll of a man. Ugly as sin. But he minds his business, sells good quality work clothes to common people, and doesn’t seem to venture out. Lives above his shop.”

  I thought about her words. Freyla was a Raven and despite that meaning she was a pain in my ass by definition, she was experienced and ran an important spy station. The fact that she couldn’t identify his origin was worrisome. I glanced at my crew.

  “Drew, you’ve got a hole in your pants, right there at the knee. Looks like we gotta shop for some new work clothes tomorrow.”

  He looked down at the little worn spot on his work pants. The tip of his little finger would just barely fit in the hole. He suddenly pushed hard, and the sound of fabric ripping came as his finger pushed through the tear. “Yup, right you are. Time for some shopping.”

  Chapter 25

  The central marketplace for Porye was six blocks from the Lobster, a quick walk in the midmorning sunshine that was trying its best to dry at least some of the moisture from last night’s rain and mist. Trying was the appropriate word because Porye’s ancient blackstone streets were almost uniformly covered in a finger’s-thick layer of filth that seemed equal parts mud, manure, and unidentifiable trash.

  “Cap, you think you could drop a word with the princess?” Drew asked, his eyes on the filth squelching around his boots. “This reflects badly on the kingdom.”

  “It does seem as if the mayor is letting public sanitation slide, doesn’t it?” I said, noting an oil-fired streetlamp whose pole was leaning precipitously over the roadway it was supposed to illuminate. The last time we had passed through Porye, maybe five months ago, it had been much cleaner and better kept than this. “Freyla mentioned that the mayor has become something of an up-for-bid ki
nd of official.”

  “Squaar-sh, turnips, and cabbage!” a barrow boy yelled out up ahead where the street widened to almost double, his hand-pushed load of vegetables just passing another boy whose own wheelbarrow was full of baskets of mussels, clams, and seaweed-packed lobsters. Pop-up booths lined both sides of the central market, their vendors selling everything from fresh bread to roasted chestnuts to handcrafted goods of all sorts. White and gray gulls called out to each other as they wheeled and soared above the market, keen eyes looking for any scrap of food, unguarded booth or wagon, or even a pastry-munching pedestrian caught off guard.

  “There,” Drew said, keeping his voice low. I turned my eyes in the direction he was looking and spotted a wooden sign carved with the words Wearable Wovens. It was tucked between a candlemaker’s shop and a tiny sliver of space barely twice the width of a man’s shoulders that contained a knife and tool sharpener’s business.

  The clothing store had one wide window of good clean glass, as opposed to the candlemaker’s window, which was half boarded up. Taking up most of the window display was a wool fisherman’s shirt hanging over a pair of canvas pants, both suspended with string from the ceiling of the shop.

  I pushed open the door, triggering a crabshell rattle attached to its upper corner. A voice immediately called from the back of the shop, “I’ll be right with you.”

  Without a word, we split apart, each moving down a separate row of stacked clothing, heads up and scanning for trouble. Halfway through the shop, we passed the proprietor’s counter, which was abandoned, then one short display of simple yet warm cloaks before finding that the rear of the shop opened up into a sewing workshop.