Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 20
Next to him, Saara stared as openly as Jaeme, and the barmaid gasped. Across the bar, one of the soldiers was staring at Nikaenor like the kid had broken out a vial of blood and started chanting right there in the middle of the bar.
Jaeme didn’t know what in all hells that was, but it spelled trouble for all of them.
“We need to be going,” Jaeme said, scooping an arm under Nikaenor’s and hauling the boy up off the bench. “Headed out of town immediately, weren’t we, friends?”
Under his cloak, Nikaenor nodded furiously. Saara was already on her feet, striding for the door as if she might leave the two of them there to face the oncoming guard.
“Well,” Jaeme said. “Off we go.” He dragged the boy right off the bench and onto his feet, marching him toward the door.
“Wait!” the soldier commanded, and as his voice—which managed to be even louder than the sea lions—faded, everyone else in the tavern held absolutely still.
Jaeme didn’t have the first clue what was going on, but he did know that of the three of them, one grew scales and he and Saara were foreigners. He didn’t relish the idea of having to kill a Sevairnese soldier in self-defense. He might return to Mortiche having failed as a spy and started a war all in one trip.
But despite their short and awkward conversation—and clearly despite his better judgment—he felt somehow protective of these two.
“Run,” he said to Nikaenor.
Saara was already running. The three of them dashed out the door, ignoring the shouts of the soldier behind them. As they headed down the street, Jaeme realized he didn’t have the first idea where to go, but Saara seemed to. She raced out in front of them, her cloak streaming out behind her, a dagger gleaming in her hand.
Gods, the ship. How was he going to get back into town if the guard was looking for him? His trunk was still on the boat, his coin, everything he’d brought with him from Grisham aside from his sword and the clothes on his back.
They reached the end of the pier, and the raised platform streets gave way to low, wooden walkways suspended just over the marsh, with thick cattail reeds growing on either side. The reeds parted to reveal small dwellings of a pale wood and thatch, also on stilts, scattered sparsely along the path. Jaeme’s lungs started to burn as he followed Saara into the marsh, his boots splashing up water, soaking his pants to the knees.
The three of them didn’t speak until they were deep into the swamp, hidden by the draped leaves of cypress trees, though Jaeme did watch carefully behind them, and noticed Saara doing the same. Nikaenor, for his part, kept his cloak bunched around his shoulders and his hood drawn up over his head.
When they reached a sandy clearing and paused to catch their breath, Saara grabbed Nikaenor by the shoulder. “What in all hells was that?”
Nikaenor pulled his hood farther down over his face. “Don’t look at me! I don’t want you to see.”
Jaeme was still waiting for an explanation. “See what, exactly?”
The boy huddled further under his cloak. “I’m hideous. Malformed. Unfit for society.”
Jaeme rubbed his forehead. “What happened to you? The scales looked like they appeared when your skin got wet.”
Nikaenor nodded miserably. “It’s been happening for years. I don’t know why Mirilina cursed me like this, but I don’t like talking about it.”
“What about you?” Saara demanded, turning to Jaeme. “Have you also been cursed by your god?”
Jaeme stared at her. “What kind of question is that?”
Nikaenor eyed him. “You are cursed, aren’t you? Because my god wants me to be a fish, and her god wants her dead, and I feel the same way about you as I do about her.” He sounded about as miserable at that last admission as he was about his scale problem.
Jaeme’s palm began to itch, and he reached down to pick up a bit of sandstone and balled his fist around it.
“I don’t know what that means,” Jaeme said. “As far as I know, Kotali doesn’t want anything anymore. He and his stone were swallowed by the mountains long ago.”
Saara gave Nikaenor a smug look, and the boy sighed and cast off his hood. Beneath it, his neck had returned to normal, but Jaeme wondered what his legs looked like under the soggy breeches.
“You’re not from Vorgale,” Jaeme said. Vorgalians began their training at twelve and continued for a decade, and this boy barely looked old enough to have reached his majority.
Nikaenor sighed. “No, I told you. I’m cursed.”
At the edge of the path, Saara was watching them both suspiciously. Jaeme turned to her. “And Nerendal wants you dead?”
“So it seems,” Saara said. She looked at Nikaenor. “Let’s go.”
“No,” Nikaenor said. “He’s cursed too. I know it. And he has to come with us.”
Jaeme held up his hands. “Whoa, now,” he said. “I was just escorting you out of town as my knightly duty. I’ve got a boat to catch in the morning and—”
“And you won’t be able to catch it,” Saara said. “Not with the guard after you.”
“And whose fault was—?” He paused as he caught Saara staring at his hand.
At the stone he held between his fingers, which he’d unconsciously squished like it was clay. He’d left long marks in the stone, and his fingers fit easily into the grooves.
“You are cursed,” Saara said.
Jaeme paused, staring at the stone. Kotali was the god of stone, the god of mountain. But it had never occurred to Jaeme that his power might come from Kotali himself, because, well, he’d never thought that Kotali might notice him or intervene in his life. If he was going to help anyone in Jaeme’s family, surely the god would have intervened on behalf of his father.
Nikaenor was now staring at the stone as well, and Jaeme dropped it off the sandy hill into the water with a plop. He meant to lie, say it had been a bit of softened earth all along, but if they fished it out and held it themselves, they’d know it to be false.
And while he’d never told anyone about this, not even his uncle, for fear of what he would think, it felt wrong to lie to the two of them about this. Like a betrayal, even though clearly Jaeme owed them nothing.
So he plucked another stone out of the dirt and squished it flat between his fingers, and then tossed it at Nikaenor.
Nikaenor reached out and caught it, then looked at the stone in surprise. Saara watched them both quietly, but whatever her reaction, she kept it fully to herself, which worried Jaeme more.
He forced himself to shrug it off. “It’s not good for much. Just toeholds and skipping stones.”
Nikaenor eyed him skeptically. “So Mirilina turns me into a manfish. And Nerendal wants to kill her. And you can turn stone into clay?” He shook his head. “That’s not a curse. It’s a circus trick.”
That stung, partly because Jaeme agreed.
Saara was still appraising him. “How much can you shape?”
“Not much more,” Jaeme said, picking up a larger stone from the water’s edge. He pressed it between his palms. It gave a bit, leaving hand prints, but nothing more. Jaeme cleared his throat. “Yes, well. It’s been very interesting to meet you both, but I have a boat to catch and—” Jaeme was about to turn to go, when a bright flicker caught his eye.
A flame danced in the center of Saara’s palm, the orange plume reflected against the deep brown of her eyes. Nikaenor, too, was staring at her, aghast.
Saara stared into the flame, not looking up for their reactions. “I thought I was imagining it back in Tirostaar,” she said. “I thought it was Nerendal playing tricks on me. But I used it in the bottom of the boat to keep warm . . . and it’s gotten stronger. It used to be barely a flicker.” She shrugged, closing her palm and extinguishing the fire. “You’re right. It seemed just a fanciful trick. But it has to mean something.”
“It means we’re supposed to be together,” Nikaenor said, a bit of the enthusiasm perking back up in his voice. “You and me.” He shot a look at Jaeme and his enthusiasm faded. “And him.”
Saara looked disgusted at this idea, and Jaeme took a step back. “Hey, now,” he said. “What proof do I have that you’re not a couple of blood mages who somehow put a hex on me?”
“How would we have gotten your blood?” Saara asked. “We’ve only just met.”
While that sounded like the kind of thing a blood mage might say if she’d somehow been tracking and manipulating Jaeme, he also felt a kind of kinship with these two. It was as if he had been close to them when he was too young to remember, but some deep part of him still knew. Jaeme couldn’t help but wonder if he was, at last, losing his mind like his mother.
Yes, he definitely needed to get back on the gods-damned boat as soon as possible.
“Will you come with us to Berlaith?” Nikaenor asked.
“Yes,” Jaeme found himself saying, with barely a trace of hesitation.
Gods. Either a blood mage was controlling them all, he was long past the threshold of insane, or Kotali had finally decided to kick some valor into Jaeme entirely against his will.
If the god was so inclined, there were other knights he might have started with.
“Which is insane,” he added. “This isn’t a thing I do—run off with random kids and abandon my responsibilities.” His uncle was waiting for him to report, and if the Council thought he’d abandoned his duty, he’d find his birthright stripped from him before he returned.
“My life stopped making sense,” Saara said, “the day Nerendal began to speak to me.”
“He talks to you?” Jaeme asked.
“Not anymore. Not since I left Tir Neren.”
Nikaenor stared at his own feet. “My life made a lot more sense this morning.”
Saara gave him a sharp glance, and Jaeme was beginning to wonder if she gave any other kind. “Do what you want,” she said. “But I’m going.” She turned as if she was done with the two of them and began to walk inland down the road.
Nikaenor stared in alarm from Saara to Jaeme, as if he were being torn in two. And Jaeme couldn’t help but admit that he felt the same.
“Well, kid,” he said. “I can’t leave you alone with her, can I? She looks as if she might murder you in your sleep.”
Nikaenor nodded, apparently taking little offense to being called weak, at least in comparison to Saara. “So you’ll come with us as far as Berlaith.”
That still sounded wrong, though Jaeme was certain by now that it wasn’t a lie. He felt something calling him, not in Berlaith, but past it. “No,” Jaeme found himself saying. “Not Berlaith. Farther north.”
Nikaenor paused and then nodded, and even Saara turned around. She didn’t argue, which Jaeme suspected was as much approval as he was going to get.
Jaeme took one last longing look in the direction of the docks, where his boat still sat in port, waiting for him with most of his belongings and what remained of his sanity. He should go back. He knew it. But every step in that direction felt like he was walking against a strong current that drew him north and west—the opposite direction of Mortiche, Jaeme’s uncle, the Dukes Council, and everything else to which Jaeme owed his allegiance.
But when Jaeme took a step to follow them, it felt like the first true thing he’d ever done in his life.
Yes, he thought. If this mess comes from Kotali, it’s absolutely a curse.
Nineteen
The city of Peldenar felt even more like a fortress than Kenton remembered, especially in comparison to the winding, white stone streets and foot bridges of Drepaine. Unlike the Andronish capital, the Sevairnese capital of Peldenar was built for military strength and practicality, even before Diamis had taken it over and made those two traits trademarks of his rule. The city was sectioned into five distinct districts, with guard garrisons and city prisons scattered liberally throughout. For a city of this size and population, the crime rate was relatively low, the roads well tended, the markets orderly. All of which many pointed to as a sign of Diamis’ successful leadership.
To Kenton, it was only a sign of Diamis’ successful ability to lull them all into a dangerous complacency while he went about destroying the world.
When the doors of the iron gate swung shut behind them for the close of day, Kenton looked back at the twenty-foot wall, at the soldiers standing atop it with longbows, some looking into the city and some facing out. The hairs on the back of Kenton’s neck stood up long after he and Perchaya had slipped around the buildings and out of sight.
Kenton walked close to Perchaya, their gait casual, hoping to seem to any observers like a couple out for a late stroll. She’d been much more capable on the road than he’d expected—doing at least her share of trapping, skinning, and cooking. Still, he knew she’d been having nightmares; he’d heard her awaken many nights with a start and a whimper. When that happened, he’d found himself wanting to put his arms around her, to hold her until she stopped shaking. But he hadn’t dared. He’d done enough. The last thing she needed was to feel like he was pushing himself on her, even if he meant it only as a comfort.
Perchaya seemed content to stay close to him now, as if the city put her on edge, too. This late in the night, even the most enterprising merchants were shutting their doors, leaving only the brothels and alehouses open. Still, the streets were well trafficked, with both civilians and guards—the latter necessary to keep the peace after Diamis revoked the unpopular, city-wide curfew Peldenar enforced under the Drim leaders.
The bustle suited Kenton fine. He and Perchaya made their way to the back of the cloth district—home of the largest wool and textile market in Sevairn—where a block of larger houses among the shops and the slums attracted men who liked to live in between.
“Are you sure your friend will still be living in the same place?” Perchaya asked.
Kenton shook his head. “If he’s still in business, he’ll be there. But men in his occupation sometimes have cause to abruptly change residence.”
Eventually they reached a modest home in the merchant quarter. The neatly kept, drab two-story dwelling sat among larger, more ostentatious homes, squeezed blandly between them as if trying to hide in plain sight.
“Ah, yes,” Perchaya said, surveying the sign outside Paulus’ establishment. “Booksmithing. A dangerous, underworld trade if there ever was one.”
Kenton smiled. “Looks respectable, doesn’t it?” The shop still looked operational, though at this late hour all the downstairs lights were out.
“It’s a front?”
“The booksmithing is legitimate, but it’s only half the business.”
Perchaya raised her eyebrows skeptically. “And the other half?”
Kenton’s smile widened. “Smuggling. Imports, weapons, artifacts from before the Banishment. Drugs.”
Perchaya shot him a disapproving look, smoothing out the skirt she’d taken to wearing again over her trousers while in the city. “And you and he were so close because . . .”
“Because I used to run drugs for him,” Kenton said. “In exchange for other smuggled goods.”
“Weapons?” Perchaya guessed. She seemed surprising unfazed by the revelation.
Kenton shook his head. “Books.”
Even though this street was deserted, he didn’t want to discuss the matter further out here. He watched the upstairs windows, but couldn’t see so much as the flicker of a candle within.
“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” Perchaya said, eyeing the dark windows. “Your friend will probably be more likely to take us in if we haven’t just dragged him from bed.”
Kenton would much rather stay here with those he could trust than at an inn where—poor likeness of the wood-block printing aside—anyone might recognize him. Kenton had spent far too much time in Peldenar over his life to do otherwise. “Paulus will take us in regardless of the time of day. Trust me.”
“Oh, I trust you,” Perchaya said. “I just don’t trust your knowledge of basic social etiquette.”
Kenton grinned and led her toward the back of the house by way of a narrow alleyway that wrapped around the block.
When he reached the right door, he rapped on it, causing shrill barking from inside. Moments later, the door cracked open. A gray-bearded man peered out at them over a flickering candle. His brocade dressing gown had been hastily thrown on, judging by the way he hadn’t lined up the front buttons correctly.
“This had better be pretty damn impor—” The man stopped suddenly, and the door opened wide. “Kenton? By the Four, it’s been a long time.”
“Sorry to bother you so late, my friend,” Kenton said, clasping Paulus’ arm in greeting. “But we didn’t dare enter the city without the cover of night.”
“Especially tonight!” Paulus said. “Come in quickly. We can discuss social injustice over a glass of Mortichean red.”
Kenton didn’t love the sound of that—not the wine, but that this was a night of particular importance. But before he could ask what Paulus meant, the man ushered them in, a small black dog darting around their legs excitedly. The back of the shop smelled of ink and parchment and leather. Bulky shapes of desks used for basic copy work by Paulus’ apprentices sat evenly spaced in the dark room.
“And who might your lovely friend be?” Paulus asked, as Perchaya knelt to pet the small dog.
“Forgive me. Paulus Quince, this is Perchaya.” Kenton pitched his voice lower as he continued. “Her father is a friend of mine, a cloth merchant who ran into a bit of trouble with his debtors and was afraid she might be in danger because of it. I promised to take her with me until the danger passes.”
Paulus nodded gravely to Perchaya, kissing her offered gloved hand as she stood. “Sorry to hear of your father’s troubles, my lady,” he said. Then, to Kenton: “But you brought her to Peldenar for safety? Remind me to never let you mind my grandchildren.”
