The Red Sea (16 page)

"Think he tells me these things?"

"Then out of my way so I can find him before he locks
me
up."

The young man stepped to the side, then stuck out his lower lip, examining their dingy clothing. "Which split are you with?"

"Which do you think?" Blays said. "The one that gets sent to rummage around a rat-filled basement in the middle of the night."

"You stay here." The soldier moved backward into the hall, glancing down it. "Stay right—"

A spear of shadows struck him in the right eye. He fell to the ground like a toppled fir. The lantern clanked to the ground, spilling oil. Dante swore and stooped to pick it up before it caught fire.

Blays stood over the body. "You should have let me do that."

"I thought you were trying to avoid killing."

"That's exactly why I needed to do this. I'm the one who brought us down here for my blades. Because of that, he's dead."

"He works for people who took us prisoner." Dante stepped over the corpse. "And the way things were going, they would have kept us here for a long time. Or hanged us from a tall tree."

He headed back up the stairwell. Blays fell in behind. At the ground floor, he took another peek at the room beyond. It was fifty feet across. To the right, four soldiers sat around a table dicing for coppers. To the left, two monks were engaged in a vigorous debate.

Dante withdrew around the corner. "Six men. And they're not going anywhere."

"Waiting in the building's only stairway isn't a great way to avoid getting caught. We need to move."

"Don't suppose you can turn me invisible, too?"

"Just myself. And I'm starting to wear out."

"Walk outside," Dante said. "Turn left. Find somewhere to hide. And wait."

"While you do what? Coat the walls with people-jelly?"

"No one has to die. If I'm not out in fifteen minutes, get out of here. Run back to Minn. And forget all about this."

"I found you once. I can find you again."

Without giving Dante the chance to argue, Blays moved toward the stairwell entrance and vanished into thin air. Dante gave him a few seconds, then returned to the basement. He jogged to the body they'd left in the hall, sealed the wound in the soldier's head, and used the blanket from his pack to sop up the blood. There was nothing he could do to restore the man's eye, so he cleaned it up the best he could, then loosened a length of the man's long hair from its tie and draped it over the side of the man's face.

With a surge of shadows, he brought the man to his feet. The body stood dumbly, awaiting orders, just like the tree frog Dante had used to scout the jungle. Dante instructed the soldier to walk forward. He did so, feet shuffling. His arms hung like wet ropes, but he was moving and in uniform. Dante urged the body to walk up the stairs.

They came to the ground floor landing. Dante walked out first, the corpse a step behind him, as if escorting him out. A soldier glanced up from the dice game, tracking them. On the other side of the room, the two monks continued to argue. The soldier stared at Dante until his gaming partner elbowed him in the ribs. He swore, rubbing his side, snatching at the dice.

Dante reached the door first. He opened it and stepped out into the night. It was much cooler than the islands, yet much warmer than the frigid gales blowing in from the north sea of Narashtovik would be. He stood on the front steps. He hadn't been awake for an hour. His most recent memories before that were of descending into fever, pain, and death. In comparison, the cool wind, bearing the smell of the river, felt like life itself.

A man clacked down the street on a crutch, knocking him out of his reverie. He descended the steps slowly, allowing the dead man to keep pace in case anyone was watching from above. They entered the street and turned left. Sculpted hedges lined the Chenney's grounds. Dante sent the soldier stumbling into the topiary and picked up his pace. As he neared the corner, a man exited the shadow of the shrubs and fell in next to him.

"How did you get out?" Blays said.

Dante didn't look back. "You don't want to know."

"It was something awful, wasn't it? I'm not even going to guess." He glanced at Dante's side and gave him a dirty look. "Don't let your sword flap around like a flag. This is Bressel."

He'd forgotten—the armsman's guilds held heavy influence here, meaning you couldn't wear a sword in public without papers. Blays appeared to have tossed the straps of his blades over his left shoulder and covered the hilts with a thin blanket. This wouldn't have passed in daylight, but it was a few hours after nightfall and the city watch was more willing to look the other way—so long as you made an effort. Particularly if, as Dante and Blays were, you were dressed richly. Once they crossed the street, Dante moved alongside a building, transferred his scabbard to his shoulder, and draped the grip with the only spare shirt in his pack.

They struck east toward the river. Away from the corner, the only light was from the stars and the lanterns spilling from the windows of public houses. It hadn't rained in a few days, at least, meaning the street was dry, hazarded only by the occasional pile of grassy manure.

Dante swerved around the legs of a drunk flopped outside an ironmonger's door. "I don't suppose you know where the ship is?"

"Just a guess, but I'm thinking it's on the docks."

"Of the biggest port town west of the Woduns."

Blays gave him a look. "Maybe you've spent so much time in your little castle that you've forgotten how this works. We're looking for information. Information is often picked up for free. Hence, people are happy to exchange it for hard coin. Particularly the type of people who make their living hanging around wharfs after dark."

"Forget the wharfs, we should head to the university and get you a chair."

With their packs marking them as travelers, they drew more than their share of predatory eyes. As they neared a public house and inn, three men detached from a covered porch. Their leader twirled a cane.

"Don't kill them," Blays murmured. "Escaped fugitives and all."

"Hoy!" the man with the cane called jauntily. "New to the city? May I render my services as guide?"

"Shoo," Blays said. "Before you get the both of us carted off to Darter Lane."

The man paused his cane mid-twirl. "What would you know about the Darters?"

"Last time they locked me up, the only thing that smelled worse than the privy was the food."

The man chuckled and tipped his shapeless hat. "My mistake. You have a good evening, sir."

His trio retreated to their porch. Blays moved on without a glance back.

"Darter Lane?" Dante said.

"Petty lockup. Practically spent half my childhood there, crime school for orphans. Maybe you've forgotten, but I know this city like the back of my hand."

The street began a modest ascent. At the hill's peak, they crossed an intersection into a neighborhood of whitewashed shops and rowhouses sporting glass-paned windows. Neat cobblestones paved the street. A pair of carriages idled in front of a hotel. They hadn't made it halfway down the block before footsteps picked up behind them. Their pursuer wore a blue hat and sash and a sword at his hip.

"You said you knew this city," Dante said. "So you knowingly led us into a wealthy neighborhood?"

"It's hardly my fault if somebody decided to grow a crop of rich people on this street during my absence."

"Well, how about you lead us back to a place that's too poor for the town watch to care about?"

Blays muttered something obscene. At the next intersection, he hooked to the south. After another block, the houses grew older; the cobbles ceased in favor of rutted dirt. The watchman quit tailing them and entered a tavern. Before Dante could suggest they up their pace, the man reentered the street, accompanied by a second man in hat and sash.

Blays dodged to avoid a pile of corn husks and cobs. "Why did they have to choose
tonight
to be good at their jobs?"

"Need to lose them before the docks. Nobody's going to talk to us when we're being shadowed by the watch."

"Or re-arrested. We're almost at the river. Any ideas?"

"Kill them," Dante said. "Then run."

"Any ideas that don't involve committing capital offenses?"

"But those are much harder." The dirt beneath his next step gave more than he was expecting, stumbling him. "Next intersection, break left. As soon as they cry out, start running and don't stop till we're at the docks."

"And when they follow?"

"They won't."

As they neared the intersection, Dante bit his lip. Shadows rolled toward him. He sent them into the hard-packed dirt of the street. Leaving the surface intact, he loosened what lay beneath, flooding it with water. Blays turned left, back toward the river to the east.

Boots crunched behind them. As the steps neared the intersection, both men cried out, followed by a pair of splashes. Blays laughed and broke into a sprint. They headed north up the first alley they saw, putting a row of buildings between themselves and the guards, then continued east. By the time masts and warehouses showed ahead, there was still no sign of pursuit.

It was roughly ten at night, yet the docks were abuzz, with crews spilling out of newly-arrived vessels while longshoremen flowed toward them. Vendors called from their stalls and blankets, selling meat pies, tea, and beer to the workers. Blays struck up a conversation with the longshoremen at one stall. After handing over a small stack of coins, Blays was informed that the
Sword of the South
was berthed not a half mile to the south.

On their way to it, they got the precise address from another longshoreman who'd been working there the day before. They arrived to find three armed men in blue uniforms standing at the entrance to the pier. Beyond, other soldiers stalked across the deck of the ship, bellowing orders.

The
Sword of the South
had been commandeered.

They stood in the muck and gawked at the ship. Dante didn't recognize a single soul on its deck.

Blays gestured to the sentries at the base of the pier. "Shall we ask them what the hell is going on?"

"Did you forget the fugitives thing? We'll hire some street rat. Now let's get out of here before they come over for a closer look."

Dante continued past the pier, ignoring the lingering gazes of the soldiers. The night smelled like fish chowder from the vendors doing a brisk business a hundred yards down the shore. Dante headed toward them, eyeballing the numerous urchins hanging about the crewmen drinking and gambling over cards and dice. He wanted one of the quiet ones. Someone who would parrot the questions he was told to ask without betraying them to the guards or angling for more money.

As they neared the boisterous plaza, a shadowy figure emerged from the corner of a warehouse. "Stop right there."

By instinct, Dante grasped at the nether, but he recognized the voice. "Mr. Naran?"

The man shushed them and beckoned them to him. "This way."

Naran turned stiffly and walked away from the piers. The thuds of cargo being unloaded faded behind them. Dante held his tongue as the quartermaster led them up a flight of stairs, through a rowdy common room, and out to a quiet veranda. Which happened to have a perfect view of the
Sword of the South
.

Mr. Naran closed the door to the veranda. Three men rose with a scrape of chairs; Dante recognized them as crew from the ship.

Naran didn't seat himself. "Where is Captain Twill?"

"That's what we came here to find out," Dante said.

"But she was with you when you were taken."

"It turns out that, as our jailers, they didn't feel compelled to inform us that they were taking her elsewhere. What's going on here? Have the city authorities taken the ship?"

Naran exhaled and slumped back in a chair. He reached for the cup in front of him, inspecting its rim. "After they imprisoned the three of you, they sent soldiers to the dock. They declared that the
Sword of the South
failed to obtain a charter from King Charles and was therefore involved in illegal smuggling. Hence it was forfeit to the crown."

"Smuggling?" Blays said. "How long has visiting the Plagued Islands been illegal?"

The quartermaster shook his head. "It wasn't until recently. But they appear to have retroactively decided to ban all unauthorized contact with the islands. They didn't just seize the ship—they took the crew, too. As indentured servants. They will sail in the crown's navy until their debt has been repaid."

"What a band of thieves! How'd you get away?"

"I was already off the boat. We're attempting to gather all those who avoided capture. Thus why we're watching the pier."

Dante found an empty cup and filled it with beer from a pitcher on the table. "This is about controlling the shaden. That's why they're clamping down so hard."

"Yet they let you loose," Naran said. "Perhaps they'll free Captain Twill as well."

"They didn't exactly
let
us loose," Blays said. "More like they didn't prevent our departure. Because they didn't know about it."

"That bodes ill for Captain Twill. If they've enslaved her crew, as their leader, her punishment will only be more severe."

Dante took a long quaff of the Mallish beer, which was too sweet by half and tasted like old bananas. "No it won't. Because we're going to get her back before they can inflict it."

Naran arched his well-maintained eyebrow. "Why would you do a thing like that?"

"I'm still sick. I need her to take me back to the Plagued Islands."

"She may be an excellent captain, but even she will find that task rather difficult without a ship."

"We'll figure that out later. If we can't recover the
Sword
, I'll buy her a new one. In the meantime, we have to find her."

The quartermaster had been too morose to even sip his beer. Now, though, he leaned forward, cup gripped so firmly it looked about to crack. "And if we do, you will liberate her safely?"

"I don't have a choice," Dante said. "Without her, I'm dead."

Naran set down the cup, drew a knife, and pointed it at Dante's eyes. "Swear it."

"You don't have to threaten—"

Naran sliced open his palm, flipped the knife around, and held it hilt-first to Dante.

Dante eyed him levelly. "You are aware that I'm sick. It could have corrupted my blood as well."

"And you mean to find a cure. In the meantime, let this be proof of how seriously I take your vow."

Dante took the blade and cut his own palm; he'd done so far too often to wince. They shook, wet, warm blood tracing the creases of their palms.

Blays frowned at them. "Now that we've completed the ritualistic shedding of blood, do you suppose we should fashion a plan?"

"We are plying every watchman and tower guard we can find with silver," Naran said. "It's only a matter of time before we find someone who knows where she's being kept."

Dante rubbed his jaw. "Then Blays and I should stick with you. We're escapees. Besides, I don't know how much good we'll do searching a gigantic city we hardly know our way around."

"Don't be daft," Blays said. "We should stake out the Chenney."

"You said she wasn't there."

"She isn't. But after Gladdic discovers we're missing, what do you think he'll do first?"

"Go check on our compatriot." Dante grinned. "He'll lead us right to her."

He finished his beer and headed down to the street. There, he followed his nose to the alley where the pub pitched its trash. A tribe of rats was feasting on the offal. Dante slew three of them with thin bolts of nether, collected the bodies—an intrusion that hardly caused the others to stir from their meal—and revived them as his walking servants. After a quick check of the nethereal bond linking his senses to theirs, he sent them scampering west toward the Chenney.

Back upstairs, the others continued to watch the pier. Longshoremen were now dragging crates and casks onto the
Sword of the South
. Worrisome. They were planning to sail soon.

Dante settled into a chair. The rats were a good three miles from Chenney Hall, but he moved into the sight of their leader on the off chance they'd see something along the way. Twenty minutes later, having encountered nothing more treacherous than boulder-sized horse droppings, the rats gazed up at the Chenney.

While it was a high-profile jail, from the outside, it looked like a barbarian king's first effort building with stone: a blank limestone cube a hundred feet to a side, interrupted by narrow barred windows. It had no wings or turrets, just a small building grafted onto its roof that might serve as the offices of its steward. Dante wasn't well-versed in Mallish architecture, but if it ran similar to what he knew of Gask, the simple building was at least five hundred years old.

He set one rat directly across the street from the broad front doors. He sent a second around the building, stopping it outside a smaller door which, judging from the unkempt grass directly outside it, was no longer used. The third rat scampered up the steps and waited. Twenty minutes later, when a guard wandered outside to light a pipe, the waiting rat trotted inside, hiding beneath a stuffed chair to the right of the doors.

Inside, the tower guards continued to gamble around their table. The two monks who'd been arguing during Dante and Blays' escape were nowhere to be seen. Over the course of the next few hours, only three people entered or exited the stairwell. None were Gladdic.

Dante nodded off in his chair. Jerking awake, he stood, occasionally pacing around the veranda. With his sight embedded in the rats and only a dim awareness of his own surroundings, he was careful not to get too close to the railings. Some time later, a round of cheers stirred him from his reverie; the crew had located another member of their men.

The next thing he knew, bells were ringing. Glassy, piercing. The Odeleon declared it was four in the morning.

"We should relocate," he said. "It won't be safe here after daybreak."

After a brief discussion, Naran departed with him, Blays, and three of the men, leaving two others to watch the dock. They made their way to an inn a few blocks west of the river. There, aided by strong tea that tasted as if it might have been imported from Gallador, he remained awake until dawn. When an unornamented carriage rolled up before the steps of the Chenney and disgorged Gladdic.

"He's here," Dante murmured.

As before, the man was dressed in nondescript robes. Gladdic ascended the steps, entered the foyer, paused as if sniffing, and moved to the stairwell. Wary of dogging the priest too closely, Dante left his rat on the ground floor.

Gladdic descended five minutes later. His face was taut. A second monk accompanied him. An hourglass-shaped brooch declared him a follower of Taim; two blue stripes on his collar announced he was a spalder, a rank that would terrify a parish priest. Before Gladdic, however, he was fluttering like a light-mad moth.

"This room has been watched all night," he explained. "One of the guards wandered off an hour early, but he's a known drunk. Otherwise, there have been no disturbances whatsoever. There is no possible way for the prisoners to have escaped—"

"Quiet." Gladdic stopped in the middle of the room, glaring at the wall across from him. Ether glowed from his fingertips, then dwindled away. Absently, he plucked at a loose thread in his robes, pulling it tight, letting it drop, and repeating. "The captain of the
Sword of the South
. Does she remain in custody?"

The spalder rolled his lips together. "I couldn't say."

"We will go to check on her at once. In the meantime, order the monks to lock the doors. Let no one in or out."

"Do you think they may still be here?"

"If they emerged from their cells without a trace, do you really think they had difficulty walking outside?" Gladdic pulled the thread tight. "I mean to investigate and find out if anyone helped them. And if so, to hang the offenders from the roof."

He moved toward the door. The spalder ran to get there first, holding it open while he shrieked orders at the group of monks who'd silently assembled during the discussion. Gladdic walked outside. With no intention of drawing more attention—besides, it could still be useful there—Dante left the undead rat where it was beneath the chair.

He recalled the one that was stationed at the side door, bringing it around front to join the one that had watched Gladdic arrive. Gladdic climbed into the left side of the carriage, with the spalder circling around to the right and getting inside. The driver bawled at his horses and the carriage rattled forward. Dante sent both rats trotting behind it, concealing themselves by running under debris and alongside the bases of buildings.

In the hotel room, Dante lowered himself to a cot. "Gladdic's on the move. He's heading right to Twill."

Blays paced across the room. "Awfully inconsiderate of him to do this when it's light out. On the other hand, rescuing her in broad daylight will only add to our legend."

"Do you know his intent?" Naran said.

"He's determining whether she's escaped as well," Dante said. "It sounds like he intends to return to the Chenney after that. We'll go for her as soon as he leaves her location."

He shifted his sight back to the rats. The dawn had brought hundreds of people into the streets and the vermin were busy dodging untold feet and hooves. He directed them over to the face of the buildings, where all they had to contend with was the occasional person entering or leaving a shop.

Half a mile later, the carriage turned left. After a few blocks, it stopped in front of a temple of Taim set off from the street by a wrought iron fence. The spalder got out of the carriage, tugging up his blue-striped collar as he walked toward the gate. As the carriage rolled away, the rats trotted after it, sticking close to Gladdic.

The vehicle rambled east toward the river, then turned north on a boulevard snarled with stalls, carriages, and hundreds of pedestrians perusing what appeared to be one of the spring's first vegetable markets. The driver swore, yelling curses at the people clogging his path. It took him ten minutes to disentangle himself from the market and continue north. A few minutes after that, the horses came to a stop. The driver dismounted and leaned through the carriage window. Dante edged the rat closer. The men appeared to be arguing about directions. The driver was blustery and insulted, but Gladdic stayed infuriatingly calm, his voice nothing more than a murmur against the noise of the street. After a lengthy dispute, the driver sighed, threw his hands above his head, and returned to his seat, urging the horses forward. The route took any number of turns.

Someone was nudging his shoulder. In the room of the inn, it was notably brighter, with sunlight spilling through the hearth smoke and over the scarred wooden floor.

"It's been nearly an hour," Blays said. "Where are they headed, East Weslee?"

Dante shook his head. "It's like he's going in circles."

"Could that be because he is?"

Dante's blood ran cold. He ordered one of the rats to race up to the side of the carriage and leap onto its running board. It scrabbled up to the window and pressed its snout to the corner of the screen. Less than a foot away, a man in a plain gray robe sat on the left side of a bench. He had his hood raised, but when he glanced out the window, the rat had a clear view of his face.

It wasn't Gladdic. It was the spalder.

Dante planted his palm on the cot, steadying himself. "He knew he was being watched. He pulled a switch on me. Sent his underling out in a carriage while he snuck off."

Naran lurched out of the window he'd installed himself in. "Where is he now?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

Leaving one rat with the carriage, he sent the other dashing back toward the temple of Taim where the disguised Gladdic had given him the slip. The priest must have felt the rats' presence at the Chenney and suspected it was connected to Dante and Blays' escape. Dante had little hope the man was still at the temple, but it was his only lead.