The Red Sea (3 page)

"He left me. Alone. That was
his
choice. This may be difficult for you to understand, but after that, I've had no desire to ever see him again."

"You're right. I don't understand. I'd give anything to see my dad one last time."

Dante watched him a moment. "Really? You'd give up Minn? Trade your relationship with her for one last chat with your dad?"

Blays batted at the air. "I didn't mean it like that."

"How about our friendship, then?"

"I'd give
you
up for a good ham sandwich."

Dante rose to collect the note. "If you won't take this seriously, then I won't, either."

"All right, point conceded. It wouldn't make any sense to trade a meaningful relationship for a few more minutes of an old one."

"So we've established that you wouldn't give up anything. That there are, in fact, real limits to what you'd sacrifice. The only thing left to do is find out exactly how little you
would
give up."

Blays glared from beneath his blond eyebrows. "Clearly more than you."

Dante crumpled the note and pocketed it. "People like to pretend there's nothing more important than family. That they'd sacrifice anything for it. But parents abandon their children every day. Kids forsake their parents. Brothers betray each other. There's nothing sacred about blood."

"Family isn't sacred, it's an ideal. We all have to break our ideals sometime. But having them gives us something to live up to." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "If you won't go, mind if I do?"

"You absolutely will not."

"I'm not up to much here. I may as well go make myself useful."

"Don't you dare try to threaten me with this." Dante's voice was soft, concealing its quaver. "This is my family. My decision."

"Maybe it's none of my business. But I've known you long enough to know that, in a situation like this, you'd rather reject it out of hand than give it real consideration."

"I've made enough mistakes to be able to live with one more."

"Just think about it, all right?"

"Why do you care so much?"

"I'm not saying you have to go make nice with him. You can go heal him up, then rub it in his face that you're such a raging success."

Dante frowned. "What exactly would that gain me?"

"If you're that sure you don't care, then stay here. But if you've got any uncertainty at all, and you don't see him, you could regret it forever."

"I'll think about it. But I make no promises."

"That's all I ask." Blays pushed off from the wall. He moved to the door and unlocked the bolt. "If you decide you're going, you know I'll go with you."

He walked outside, using the door this time. Dante sat on the bed, removed the wadded-up note from his pocket, and smoothed it against his leg.

An hour later, he left his room and found Lolligan in his study. The room overlooked the lake and was cozy with bric-a-brac gathered over a lifetime of travel. The salt merchant was approaching seventy years of age, but his white goatee remained neatly trimmed, and he showed no signs of slowing down, be it in his business or the speed at which he walked between meetings.

Seeing Dante, he smiled and rose from a plush chair. "Back from work already? I didn't expect to see you until this evening."

"The tunnel entrance," Dante said. "Has the TAGVOG decided where it will go? Or are they still having a contest to see who can waste the most of my time?"

The old man's smile fell. Unlike many businessmen, he seemed primarily motivated by the desire to explore what was possible and to forge connections between people. Unnaturally good-natured, he now looked hurt.

"I understand your frustration," Lolligan said. "You're giving us a boon and we're so busy squabbling about where to unwrap it that it sounds like we don't care what's inside. But I promise you, everyone in the Association knows what this will mean for the lakes."

"Two days from now, I'll finish the tunnel. If your people haven't decided where they want it by then, I'll make that decision for them."

The old man frowned lightly, then rediscovered his smile. "We discuss things too much, I'll agree, but that's only because words are free. I'll let them know we've indulged ourselves long enough."

Dante left to check in on the woman, but she was still unconscious. There was a stillness to her body that he didn't like at all. Stedden informed him that she hadn't so much as shifted position during the hour-plus since Dante had first seen her. He stood over her for some time, but nothing explained why he felt like he'd seen her before.

* * *

At first light, he hiked back to the tunnels. Inside, he pushed the passage's end closer and closer to Wending, shifting the nether within the rock until he felt a tingle in his veins. He slept right there in the tunnel, curled in his blankets. When he next awoke, he had no idea how long he'd been out, but it was long enough to have recovered. He returned to the stone, melting it away down the passage, leaving the way forward as smooth as the surface of a pond.

Via loon, a message came in from Lolligan. The Association had made its decision. Dante extracted himself from the tunnels and hustled back to Wending. They had selected a spot in a small hollow outside the city, presumably so that if bandits or soldiers from the Middle Kingdom ever tried to use the tunnels to invade, it would be a simple matter to assault them from the ridges above. Dante cut his arm, fed his blood to the nether, and opened a hole in the side of the hollow.

Within a day, he connected this leg of the tunnel to the one he'd driven up from the south. He emerged from the tunnel tired and dusty. Along the ridges of the hollow, dozens of faces appeared. The merchants of the TAGVOG lifted their arms and cheered his name.

This marked the beginning of a two-day celebration of feasting, drinking, and drunken promises of greater feasts to come. Of all the festivals Dante had been invited to, he thought he liked Gallador's the best. The lakes held so many different varieties of fish, crabs, and mollusks that he doubted he'd ever be able to sample them all.

The first day of the event was held at Lolligan's. It was fun, but a little stuffy. The second day, they convened on the city docks, which took on the air of a proper holiday, complete with food stalls, wandering entertainers, and children tearing about the streets without looking where they were going. Tables were dragged to the docks and loaded with seafood of all kinds, accompanied by the tea and spiced rum the lakes were famous for.

As the sun drooped toward the western peaks, the people began a slow migration to the tables. Once the seats were filled, Lolligan rose from his seat beside Dante and rang a silver bell. Two hundred faces turned his way.

"Tonight, we celebrate the essence of trade: a connection built between two people. It's there, in our new pathway to the Middle Kingdom." He gestured in the direction of the tunnel's mouth, two miles to the southwest. "But it's also right here beside me, in the form of the man who made it possible. Years ago, Dante Galand came here as a young man with a crazy idea: that his lands, and ours, could be free. That they
should
be free.

"At the time, backing him against the Gaskan Empire felt like madness. In time, though, that decision has repaid our investment of trust many times over. Tonight, we celebrate our dear allies in Narashtovik!" Cheers erupted from across the tables. Lolligan let them fade, then winked at the revelers. "And you know what? Let's celebrate ourselves, too. For having the wisdom to set us down this path in the first place!"

This drew even more shouts and upraised glasses. Blays smiled at Lolligan and took a long drink. Gazing across the happy, rum-flushed faces, Dante felt at odds with himself. He'd given them something of great value. In the process, he'd strengthened the bonds between the lakelands and Narashtovik. He should have felt satisfied. Proud. Accomplished.

Yet the arrival of the netherburned woman had stolen that from him. He never thought about his father because he never had to. After the memories contained in the letter, though, he no longer knew if the past was buried as deeply as he'd thought.

He tried and succeeded to drink his way to good cheer. Late that night, he went to bed intending to spend a day or two longer in Wending to recover from the work—not to mention the celebrations—and then return to Narashtovik. He'd been away for weeks and was looking forward to going home.

Someone shook him awake. The room was dark, chilly from the breeze off the lake. His head swam with drink.

"Stedden?" he croaked. "What the hell's the matter with you?"

"It's the stranger, sir." The monk drew back, staring down at him with a face as serious as a cat's. "She's awake."

Dante jumped out of bed. Dressed only in his sleeping robe, he followed Stedden downstairs. Three candles barely lit the woman's small room. She was lying in bed, but her eyes were wide open. The room smelled like meat kept sealed for too long. Dante moved beside the bed. The woman's eyes snapped to his.

"You are him?" Her voice was raspy, weak, accented in a way Dante had never encountered. He leaned closer. She grabbed the collar of his robe. "You are Dante?"

"I am. Who are you?"

"He will soon die. You must go see him."

Dante drew back. "He doesn't deserve it."

"Perhaps not. But you do."

"You don't even—" He cut himself short. She had begun to shake, limbs jerking, teeth clacking. Her eyes rolled back. Her back arched like a drawn bow. A dark blot moved up her cheek. He tried to swat it away, but it was within the skin, staining it pure black.

The stain reached her right eye, painting it out. A second tendril crept up her left cheek. He watched, helpless, as it moved into her left eye and filled it with blackness.

Her body relaxed, pooling on the bed like cool oil. He felt for her pulse and found none.

"What's happening?" Stedden whispered. "Has she..?"

Dante whirled on him. "Did she say anything? Before you came to me?"

"Only that her name was Riddi. I ran for you as soon as her eyes opened. Did I do wrong?"

"No." He unclenched his fist. "There was nothing more to do for her. Thank you for coming to get me."

A part of him wished to study the body, to see if he could learn more about the nethereal burns that had taken her life, but at the moment, he had no stomach for it. He exited the room and headed upstairs. Rather than returning to his room, he went into Blays'. The man was snoring loudly, tangled in his sheets. Dante pulled up a chair and sat, thinking.

He wouldn't have been surprised if Blays had gone on snoring for another six hours, but hardly fifteen minutes had passed before the man's breathing hitched. Blays stretched, yawned, and opened his eyes. He saw Dante and shrieked.

"Not much fun, is it?" Dante said.

Blays scowled, his face puffy from sleep and drink. "What are you doing here? Besides being so creepy that poison centipedes think you've gone too far?"

"Did you mean what you said? About going with me to the islands?"

"Yeah. Of course." He slumped forward, rubbing the corners of his eyes with the tips of his forefingers. "Has something happened with the stranger?"

"I've decided to go. As soon as we can. I'll just have to make a few arrangements first."

"Er, well. That probably won't be necessary."

"Yes, why would we need to prepare? We're only traveling thousands of miles to a set of islands I'd never heard of until two days ago. I'm sure all we need to do is buy a few meat pies and bring an extra pair of socks."

Blays looked sheepish. "I mean I've already spoken to Olivander and Nak. They're fine with you taking the time away from Narashtovik."

"There will still be food. Travel. Logistics."

"Yeah, Lolligan's helped me out with that. All good to go."

Dante's jaw dropped. "You said it was my decision!"

"And I haven't as much as spoken to you about it since then, have I? I simply wanted everything to be prepared so we could move as fast as possible."

"You might have at least consulted me."

"This is what I'm here for. To lend a hand. Make rough business a little more bearable." Blays rested against the headboard. "Besides, you were spending all day out climbing around mountains and tunnels. It got boring back here."

Dante got up and moved to the window. It would be dawn soon and the fishermen were already paddling out to check their nets. He knew their lives weren't as simple and placid as it appeared, yet sometimes he envied them for knowing where each morning would take them.

"Do you think I'm making the right choice?"

Blays yawned loudly. "What time is it? Minus five in the morning? Right now, I wouldn't know whether it's the right choice to fry an egg or scramble it."

Dante stared into the darkness a moment longer, then turned and kicked the bed. "Come on then. If you've already got everything prepared, there's no sense wasting time."

"Next time, I'm going to rent us some of those horses that refuse to wake up until noon."

Dante closed the door and jogged down the stairs. Blays may have wrangled the logistics, but there were two tasks left before they set out.

Examine the woman who had brought him the news—and then bury her.

Blays stood in the ship's prow, hair tousled by the wind of the voyage. The sea was gray and the spray hissing over the railings was as cold as winter rain, but he was grinning like he'd just been promoted to Chief Ale-Quaffer.

"Reminds you of the good old days, doesn't it?" he said over the smack of the waves and the creak of the boards.

Dante tightened his grip on the rails. "Which days were those, exactly?"

"Before all these dratted responsibilities. When all we had to do was roam. Us against the world."

"You mean like when we were being hunted in the streets of Bressel. Or in Whetton, when they dragged you off to be hanged for murder. Those good old days?"

"All right, maybe they weren't so good. Maybe they were just old." Blays wiped spray from his forehead. "Even so, they were fun, in their way."

Dante grunted, turning to port to watch the city of Allingham fade into the mists of the horizon. It had been his first visit to the jewel of the Middle Kingdoms, but they'd hardly spent eight hours there before boarding the
Thornwind
and shoving off. They would sail south for a day, then turn east and pass through the Slanted Straits on their way to Bressel, capital of Mallon, to arrive in another three or four days. After the
Thornwind
made port, Dante hoped to hire Captain Collins to take them south to the Plagued Islands. Failing that, they'd look elsewhere. Bressel remained the largest port he'd ever seen, and after leaving a note of credit with Lolligan, Dante was practically carrying enough silver to buy his own vessel if he had to.

There were many varieties of sea captain. Collins turned out to be of the highly unctuous variety, more of a hotelier than a naval commander. Or perhaps he only behaved that way when he had two lords paying lodging on a pair of cabins. Whatever the case, whenever he passed by, he asked Dante whether he could be of service.

The fifth or sixth time the captain came by, he hardly slowed down. "In need of anything more, m'lord?"

Dante stood from his bench, bracing himself on a nearby railing. "Yes, in fact. Passage to the Plagued Islands."

Collins threw back his head and laughed. "Gladly! And while I'm at it, shall I deliver you to the back side of the moon?"

"I'm afraid I'm serious. Can you help us?"

The captain went dead sober. "The Plagued Islands are not on our schedule."

"I'd be happy to pay you for the detour."

"I will not sail into death for any fee."

"Then do you know anyone greedy or stupid enough to do so in your stead?"

"I will see if I can think up a few names," Collins said. "Though I think it would be best for you if my memory failed me."

The man bobbed his head and strolled off. Dante watched him go. During the ride from Wending to Allingham, he'd spoken to Nak about the Plagued Islands, lacking any information about their destination except its name. However, as with all exotic, faraway locations, the stories and rumors were less than credible. It was possible that the people lived on the slopes of living volcanos—he'd seen much stranger arrangements, like the tree cities of Spiren—but Dante highly doubted the islands were actually so warm that you never needed clothes. Winter came everywhere.

As for the meaning of the islands' name, he'd gotten nowhere. Some claimed that no one who ever visited them ever came back. This was nonsense on the face of it: if so, then no one would know anything about the place. Others claimed that it was so rife with poxes that the
lucky
ones left the islands with melted faces. This was surely exaggerated, but even if it held a kernel of truth, Dante was unconcerned. There were very few diseases he couldn't treat or cure outright. Besides, the autopsy he'd conducted on Riddi hadn't turned up any buboes, sores, cancers, or rots. If she'd carried any sicknesses from the islands, they were no more than a nuisance.

From the way Captain Collins spoke, however, Dante was beginning to doubt his ability to heal would convince many sailors to take the risk of the voyage. Then again, all it took was one captain looking for a score.

Early on the second day of their voyage, the
Thornwind
sailed directly toward a mountain. Dante watched in consternation as the peaks grew nearer and nearer. Just as he began to suspect Collins had gone mad, the ship hove to port, entering the strait that separated the mainland from a chain of rocky islands. Blays was back in the prow, gazing at the peaks in solitude.

As Dante approached him, he understood where they were: the Carlon Islands. He turned to go.

"Don't." Blays didn't remove his eyes from the mountains. "It's all right."

Dante stayed where he was. "What is?"

"I know why you did it. To save those who could be saved. It had to be done."

For a moment, Dante was back in the courtyard of the Citadel, where he and Lira had been all that stood between their people and the conquering armies of the Gaskan Empire. It had smelled like guts and smoke; in their red uniforms, the enemy soldiers had looked like a rushing tide of blood. Lira was out in front, striking down the sorcerer who'd been about to kill Dante. In perverse payment for saving his life, Dante cracked apart the earth itself, dropping her—and the king's army—to their deaths.

She had been from the Carlons. She had also been Blays' first love. After the Chainbreakers' War, it had taken three years before Dante saw Blays again, and even longer before their friendship resumed. Seven years after her death, Blays hadn't said anything about forgiving him. Nor had Dante expected it.

"Maybe there was no other choice," Dante said. "Even so, I'm sorry."

"Me too. But I imagine she was happy to die in such service. You know how she was."

"When she fell, she actually smiled. Did I ever tell you that?"

Blays chuckled, glancing his way. "Are you serious? She was an odd one, wasn't she?"

"I suppose that's why she fit right in."

Other than the sighting of a lone pirate vessel, which the
Thornwind
outran handily, the rest of the trip was quiet. Soon, they came within sight of Bressel. It was the first major city Dante had spent time in, and remained the archetype he compared all others to. Shacks and slums on the outsides. Incomplete walls. Muddy streets, few of them cobbled, all of which stunk of dung. Church spires, including the Odeleon, said to be over five hundred feet high.

And the docks. Larger than most cities, these encrusted the estuary where the Chanset River flowed out into the sea. The
Thornwind
maneuvered into the river and soon made berth.

Collins strode up and down the deck, delivering orders loudly but calmly. Dante packed up the book he'd been reading and shouldered his bags. As he debarked, Collins pulled him aside.

The bearded captain passed him a small square of paper. "I can't promise they're here. But if anyone is willing to help you, it will be these men."

Dante blinked at the paper. It contained two whole names. "Thank you for going to such lengths."

The man bowed, spreading one palm before him. Dante crossed the gangplank over the brackish-smelling waters. Blays followed behind him, smiling at the bustle of the longshoremen, sailors, fishermen, and vendors. There were even a few neeling within the crowds—short, pale, hairless creatures with a fishy cast to their faces. Dante hadn't seen one since leaving Bressel a decade earlier.

"So," Blays said. "Pub?"

"New ship first," Dante said. "
Then
pub."

"Counterpoint: by pubbing first, we'll be more enthusiastic about finding a new ship. Not to mention more charming toward its quartermaster."

"Our list is only two names long. The pubs will be our morale booster if those fall through."

Blays narrowed his eyes, then nodded once. "Wise. Extremely wise. First name on the list?"

This was one Captain Davids of the
Lurcher
. After asking around, and discovering his Mallish was still fine despite years of neglect, Dante was directed to a pier a short ways upstream. On finding the
Lurcher
, he was met by a quartermaster named Lorrie, a man whose ruddy face was wreathed in red whiskers.

"We're looking for passage to the Plagued Islands," Dante said. "You came recommended by way of Captain Benn Collins."

Lorrie gave him a long, level look. "We won't be headed that way. Perhaps if it were summer."

"Summer's only a few weeks off," Dante said. "How long would we need to wait?"

"I wasn't finished. Perhaps it if were summer. And the whirlpool were down. And my men were starving and in need of immediate coin. And if I was promised nine virgins of—"

Blays exhaled loudly. "We get the point. You're not man enough to take us there."

Lorrie smiled, red whiskers twitching. "If you're trying to goad me, you'll have to find far worse slander than that."

"Your mother is a tramp?"

Dante held out his scrap of paper. "We were told the
Yasmina
might make the trip. Do you know where it might be?"

"Yes," Lorrie said. "In pieces at the bottom of the Red Sea, off the coast of your precious islands."

"I see. So do you know anyone who would be willing to take us there?"

"Well, under normal circumstances, and assuming there was a bit of silver coming my way for it, I'd send you to Captain Twill. Of the
Sword of the South
."

"But what are the abnormal circumstances stopping you from doing so?"

"Those being that, last I heard, Twill was about to die of illness."

"Let me guess," Blays muttered. "Picked up on a trip to the Plagued Islands?"

The man scratched his neck. "Can't say I got close enough to her to find out."

"Is she here now?" Dante said.

"Like I said: silver."

Dante fished into a pouch and removed three Galladese coins, careful not to let the others clink.

Lorrie hefted them in his palm, frowning deeply at them. "Where are these from?"

"The color of money doesn't care whose face is stamped on it."

"Agreed." He pocketed the coins and stood, rolling his neck with a series of cracks. "And for this much, I'll introduce you myself."

The hefty man ambled down the dock and into the mucky thoroughfare fronting it. Boards were laid in the mud, but these trails were dominated by men bearing handcarts and wagons piled with crates and casks. After years spent among the Gaskans, who favored long coats and fur hats, the Mallish jackets looked flimsy, more decorative than functional.

After a brief jaunt, Lorrie turned off the thoroughfare and onto a pier. So far, every dock had been jammed with merchant vessels, but this one berthed a single ship. If the wallowing carracks they'd seen previously had been broadswords, the
Sword of the South
was a rapier: sleek and slim, with a short foremast and a taller mainmast. Its decks were empty and it rode high in the water.

Lorrie stopped before it and cupped his hand to his mouth. "Hoy!"

After a moment of silence, he repeated himself, more loudly. A scuzzy-looking young man popped up from the deck.

"Mr. Naran, if you please," Lorrie said.

The young man eyed them, mouth half open, then disappeared once more. After a minute, another man appeared, brown-skinned and green-eyed, wearing an orange-trimmed white jacket, the sleeves of which appeared to be connected to its vest using laces.

"Is that you, Lorrie?" He spoke with an upper-class Mallish accent, but this was accompanied by a second accent Dante had never heard before. "Looking to finally join a
real
crew?"

Lorrie gawked. "You have a real crew on this ship? I'm sorry, there must be some mistake. Y'see, I was looking for the
Sword of the South
."

Naran removed a pick from his breast pocket and scraped between his teeth, which were remarkably well-preserved for a sailor. "Mind getting to the point? Some of us have work to do."

"This is Dante," Lorrie said. "And this is…" He gestured at Blays, then shrugged. "Someone who didn't pay me enough to remember their name." He flicked his hand in a salute and turned to go.

"What, that's it?" Blays said.

"I said I'd introduce you, not arrange you to be married." Lorrie strolled away in the direction of the
Lurcher
.

Naran folded his hands behind his back and gazed at them from behind the railings. "Did you have something you wanted? Or did you just come here for a look at my handsome face?"

"We heard Captain Twill is unwell," Dante said. "I'm a healer."

The man's mouth tightened to a thin line. "Thank you. Not interested."

"Mr. Lorrie made it sound as though your captain's condition is very serious."

"And that is precisely why she is in no need of whatever toad ichor you've come to peddle."

Dante raised his eyebrows. "You will want to let me see her."

"And how do you expect to be compensated for your services?"

"I need passage to the Plagued Islands. Therefore, my ability to reach my destination depends on my ability to heal your captain."

Naran regarded him for a long moment, then sighed. "Permission to board."

Dante bowed his head and climbed the portable staircase set beside the boat. As he crossed onto the deck, he caught a whiff of something floral and spicy. Naran was wearing some kind of perfume. Possibly that was the custom in his land, but Dante feared he might be using it to deal with the scent of death.

The man led them to a cabin in the aftercastle. "Wait here."

He opened the door, a bell jingling from the handle. The interior was too dark to make out. As he closed the door behind him, the room exhaled a whiff of something fetid.

After two minutes of silence, Naran reopened the door and nodded them inside. The cabin was spacious, as far as ship's cabins went, meaning that it was merely cramped rather than claustrophobic. A bed took up the left wall. Within it, a woman lay propped up by pillows, her features barely visible in the thin sunlight sneaking past the curtained windows. Her blond hair was sun-bleached to the point of whiteness, and though her youngish face was heavily tanned, this couldn't hide her drawn, wan skin.