Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (21 page)

Sora and Crash admired both of the rooms. She walked to the window and looked down at the busy street. Then she walked back into the foyer and sat in one of the big easy chairs. She noticed a basket on the small table, filled with a bottle of wine and a pile of fruit. She wasn't a fan of wine, but she loved peaches, and grabbed one off the top.

After a minute, Crash sat down too. She smiled at him. “I feel like a queen,” she said jokingly.

He raised an eyebrow, then took an apple for himself from the basket. “Really? I thought you'd be used to this.”

“Well... my manor was just as nicely decorated,” she admitted, remembering her large green-tiled bathroom and the decadent silks and scarves draped around her bedroom. “But I never really got the chance to travel.”

“And is it worth it, giving up all that for a bit of travel?” he asked.

Sora was surprised by the question. In all honesty, she hadn't thought too much about her manor since leaving it, especially after discovering that the noble Lord had not been her real father. She shrugged, suddenly awkward. “I like my independence,” she said. “I think it's better.”

She let her eyes travel to a nearby window. From where she was sitting, she could just see the masts of the ships. More worries assaulted her mind. "How much money do we have for a ship?" she wondered aloud.

"Not enough for four people... even if we can find one heading for the Isles, which I highly doubt.”

Sora frowned and looked at him. “Why do you doubt it? Aren't there any ships that head that way?”

Crash shook his head slowly. “The Isles are a tricky place. Sailors believe they're cursed. Then again, sailors believe a lot of things are cursed. I hear there are a lot of unusual storms out that way.”

“So what should we do?” she asked.

“We need to find a captain and a crew foolhardy enough—or desperate enough—to take us there. And that's going to cost quite a bit more coin than just a ticket overseas.”

Sora sighed in distress, her good mood gone. How were they supposed to make all of that money within a few days? They couldn't stay at this hotel forever, and Volcrian was surely on their trail. She still saw his image in dreams occasionally, his shadow looming out of alleyways or just beyond their campfire, his hands grabbing her from behind in an ice-cold grip. She couldn't tell such fears to Crash or Burn—they sounded silly even in her own head, but they were very real. She really hadn't slept peacefully since leaving her mother's house.

Thinking of sleep, she found herself sinking back into the easy chair, lured by its soft feather cushions.
No,
she told herself, trying to keep her dry, uncomfortable eyes open.
We have planning to do. We need to figure out our next step.
But her body suddenly felt so heavy... and the breeze from the open window was so sweet on her skin... the freshness of the air, the lulling rhythm of the waves. She closed her eyes, if just for a moment....

Chapter 11

Crash watched as Sora fell asleep. Her tiredness overcame her suddenly. He was surprised that it hadn't struck sooner—they had been traveling at a relentless pace since recovering the hilt.

She was beautiful when she slept, her face soft and open. He had the unexpected urge to touch her smooth skin, but he didn't let himself think of that. Instead, he changed his clothes, added a few daggers to his belt, and grabbed her satchel out of her room.

When he had recovered the bag from the bandits, he had found a letter inside it, along with the hilt. By the crispness of the paper, he knew the letter was recent, perhaps only a month old. It was a request for information. Three drawings of the sacred weapons, instructions on what to do if they were found... and a reward. It was sheer coincidence that the sword hilt had landed in the bandit's hands... but not so coincidental that the Shade were looking for it.

Speak to the owner of the Fine Pointe Tavern. He will give you further directions,
the note read.

Crash could vaguely remember the Fine Pointe. Despite its highbrow name, it was a dirty little pub on the waterfront at the south end of town, or the “sunken end,” as the citygoers called it. He had lived in Delbar for several months, back when he first left the Hive. It was a good place to get lost, filled to the brim with criminals, lowlifes, and unknown faces from exotic lands. He had once entertained the thought of catching a ship overseas, perhaps to the distant kingdoms in the West, where they said the deserts stretched on endlessly and the jungles were deep and fierce.

But he had gone to Crowns instead, the King's city, where he had been contracted to kill Volcrian's brother, ultimately sealing his fate.

Crash slid out of the hotel room and down the hall, taking a separate staircase meant for hotel workers only. It led him down three flights, past the kitchen and out into the stable yard. None of the workers glanced in his direction. Dressed in smart blue uniforms, they ran back and forth, carrying buckets and tack or hay for the horses.

He stepped out onto the street and headed toward the “sunken end” of town. True to its name, the city of Delbar was built on a slight incline, with the streets wending at a vague, downward slant. Because of this, the debris and refuse would wash down to the “sunken end” with each rain. That included human scum, as well.

He walked until the ships by the dock became low and grungy, some withered by age or abandoned in disrepair. The further he went, the shabbier the houses became, until he passed hollow buildings with roofs built from reed mats. The people changed too. The bright colors became washed out, the clothes were rattier, older. Barefoot children ran along the street, carrying sticks and rope, shouting and playing. Eventually he found his way to a small tavern, propped up between a shipping yard and an abandoned warehouse.

He entered the dark building. The tables were mostly empty, the chairs propped up on top of them, as it was still early in the day. A few waitresses sat in the back of the room, passing a bottle of wine around and chatting quietly, perhaps sharing the latest gossip before work. He headed directly to the bar, where the tavern owner sat with a tankard of ale, his stock inventory spread out before him.

“We're not open,” he grunted as Crash stepped up to the bar. “Come back at sunset.”

“I'm not here for a drink,” Crash said. The man glanced up. He was definitely human, bordering on fat, with frizzy gray hair and a large handlebar mustache gracing his upper lip.

He gave Crash a narrow look. “Then you seem to be confused,” the man said. “This is a bar, pup. Now go back to your boat and wait for sundown. I don't like pushy people.”

Crash threw the letter on the table. “I've come about this.”

The man continued to frown. He picked up the letter and unrolled it, carefully bending back the paper so it would stay open. Scanned the text. Then he glanced back at Crash, apparently less impressed than before.

“You ain't jokin'?” the tavern owner asked seriously.

Crash shook his head.

The man rolled his eyes. “Damn superstitious nonsense,” he blurted out. “Well then, let me see it.”

Crash hesitated, not expecting the request.

“The weapon, kid. Let's see what you got.”

He didn't like it. Though he doubted the tavern master truly knew what the hilt was, he didn't want to risk putting it out in the open. The Shade could be watching at this very moment, perhaps disguised as one of the waitresses. Crash glanced at the back corner discreetly, surveying the four women; they wore low-cut, sloppy dresses, their hair piled on top of their heads. It was impossible to tell which one might be a spy—all of them looked suspicious.

He didn't know much about the Shade; only children's stories, leading back to the War of the Races. Supposedly, assassins of the Hive might also be part of the ancient Order, though they would never admit to it. There were many different colonies of assassins and the Shade stretched through all of them, a secret society of fanatic believers, servants to the Dark God. Some said that the Order had even pervaded the human world, infiltrating those with money and power.

He knew one thing, however—if the Shade was made up of assassins, they were all highly trained.

He set the bag on the table slowly, thoughtfully. Knowledge of the hilt would put Sora and the others in danger, but he didn't seem to have much choice. He would have to be careful on his way back, take plenty of detours, make sure he wasn't being followed.

He opened the bag and quickly brought out the hilt, allowing the tavern master to look at it, though he didn't set it on the table. Then he shoved it back in the bag before anyone could catch a glimpse. He could already feel eyes on the back of his neck.

“Hmph,” the man said. “Not exactly a sword. But all right. Here,” and he handed Crash a small, folded slip of paper, closed with a wax seal. “I'll let 'em know you're in town. They'll meet you at the bell tower in two days. Here are some further instructions.”

Then the man turned back to his books and continued his accounts, ignoring Crash as though he didn't exist.

Crash turned and glanced around the room again, but none of the waitresses' eyes met his. He left the pub quickly, dodging out into the streets, submerging himself into the deepest traffic possible. No one followed him, but he kept an eye over his shoulder, looking for anyone who might lurk in the overhang of a building, or perhaps trail at a distance. He saw no one.

But he could feel it in his gut. Someone—or something—was watching him.

* * *

Far away—fields and fields away, as a matter of fact—a silver-haired figure arrived at a large town. The outer walls were strung with hundreds of bells, which shimmered and clanged with each gust of wind. He wanted to stuff cotton in his ears. The sound was disgusting. It jarred his teeth. Made his fangs hurt.

Volcrian dismounted at the city gates and entered the town slowly, hood lowered, shuffling close to the ground. To a stranger, he would have appeared ridiculous—but he was scenting the area, picking up hints and traces of another visitor, a female, the same scent he had followed through the fields....

“Hey!” a voice hailed him. “You there! Halt! We inspect all visitors who pass through these gates.”

Volcrian turned, still bowed low to the ground, and opened his arms graciously to the approaching guard. “Sir,” he said, a slight smile on his lips. “I am but a humble servant of the Goddess, here to worship at the Temple.”

The guard, a dark-haired young fellow better suited for farm work, looked him over. He couldn't have been more than eighteen. “I'll be the judge of that,” he said, with an unexpectedly hard tone.

Volcrian grinned again, then stood up straight. He was a few inches shorter than the lad. “You still offer refuge to travelers, do you not? I request a night in the Temple and provisions. I am a starving wanderer and I need rest.”

The boy looked him over again. His appearance, at least, would echo his words. He knew his cheeks had grown more gaunt from the road, and his eyes were dark and sunken from nights of restless sleep. He had been having strange dreams of late... odd, worrisome dreams of being smothered in the earth, his arms locked to his sides, twisting and turning, full of rage....
Etienne,
he had thought.
It is Etienne rolling in his grave,
unable to rest until his killer was dead.

And yet, there was another darkness that accompanied his dreams, something that crept into the corners of his eyes, flaking like dirt.

Sometimes, he heard laughter.

“Well, you appear unarmed,” the lad finally said, breaking Volcrian from his thoughts. “If you'll follow me, I'll take you to the Temple. It's safer this way. We've been having... riots....”

Volcrian had hoped that the guard would leave him alone, but it appeared he had no choice but to follow him. Oh well, perhaps he would get free provisions and a place to stay the night. He was tired of sleeping on the cold, hard ground... and his horse wasn't much of a companion.

As they entered the town, Volcrian could see what the lad was referring to. People packed the streets, some of them setting up tents on the sidewalk, passing out food and rations amongst each other. They all appeared thin, sickly, some with skin that was covered with sores and blisters, or nails that had turned black. The sound of voices was even louder than the cacophony of bells outside.

He avoided their stares, focusing solely on the road in front, keeping his crippled limb close to his side. The people were superstitious in these parts; they wouldn't trust the disfigurement, and it seemed like a disease was already spreading.
Dirty humans,
he thought.
Disgusting. They live in their own filth.

They reached the Temple after almost half an hour of navigating the busy streets. Volcrian took to covering his face with his cloak, trying not to breathe in the sour smell of the sick people. Their hot breath and heavy sweat was a thousand times worse to his sensitive nose. The Temple towered above the rest of the houses, a domed roof with ornate gold designs running along its border, and a golden emblem at its peak. Even more bells and whistles adorned its walls, howling and whirring at each stroke of wind. Volcrian ground his teeth together. He couldn't stand the noise—how could anyone sleep with that racket? His fist clenched so tightly that his muscles cramped. His nails dug into the palm of his hand, drawing blood.