Dog in the Dark

Chapter Twenty

As the Bashair entered the harbor in Drist, Dänvârfij kept her expression impassive, though she was tense. All of her team except Fréthfâre was up on deck and awaiting her orders. Dusk had come, and daylight was fading quickly.

On the journey from Chathburh, they had passed several large cargo vessels but from too far to read the names painted on their hulls. She had delayed her team from taking this ship and staked everything on beating the Cloud Queen to this destination. If she had miscalculated, the ramifications could be severe.

Fréthfâre would likely wrest control from her with the support of all but perhaps Eywodan. Dänvârfij cared nothing for herself in that, but Fréthfâre would lead them only to failure in their purpose.

As the Bashair drifted into the docks, Dänvârfij focused on what lay ahead. Under the light of massive pole lamps, six long piers jutted from the waterfront, and vessels filled nearly every available space. A massive ship flying a yellow-and-green flag was docked at the third pier’s end, and its name was painted on the prow—the Bell Tower. She had rarely seen ships so large allowed to dock rather than anchor farther out and use skiffs for transport. Other differences here became readily apparent.

Chathburh had been a sprawling port city; this place was compact but unnervingly busy, even with nightfall coming. Dockworkers and sailors clambered along piers, ramps, and decks: hauling cargo to and from vessels, teaming the moorings and riggings as they shouted over the general dull din. The milling crowds might prove an advantage or obstacle.

A small schooner pulled away from the far side of the second pier and drifted out to sea. Down on the pier, a dockworker waved and shouted to the Bashair to take the open spot.

“Gently in!” Samara called.

His pilot cranked the wheel hard, and the crew prepared lines to cast. It took little time to settle the small Suman vessel, and then half the crew began strapping on cutlasses distributed by the first mate.

Normally the crew settled down once they reached a port, or prepared to go ashore in shifts. Something was different about Drist.

One sailor scrambled up the central mast to a watchman’s platform barely big enough to sit on with dangling legs. With a case of quarrels strapped to his shoulder, he began cranking back the cable on a large crossbow. As soon as the ramp was lowered, two armed sailors ran down to take posts at its bottom and watch everything around them.

Dänvârfij saw similar safeguards on all the other docked vessels. Perhaps Samara’s mention of an “unlawful place” had been more serious than she first thought. She leaned out over the rail.

The city loomed between high, dark hills cresting above the shore to both north and south. Buildings of mixed sizes and shapes, dingy and worn by coastal weather, were so closely mashed together that only a few inward roads showed between them. Typical for a port city, the air was tainted by the stench of fish, salt brine, livestock, and smoke.

If she stayed on this continent a hundred years, she would never grow accustomed to the smell. This place was the worst by far.

“Look at them.”

Dänvârfij resisted being startled, finding Rhysís suddenly beside her. Arrays of people hurried along docks or milled about the bay doors of large warehouses. Carts and bearers vied to get in and out. Every color and form of attire that Dänvârfij could imagine was scattered among them.

Caramel-skinned Sumans in earthy-colored garb led goats harnessed in lines. A small number of even darker-skinned people, with tightly curled black hair, were dressed in one-piece shifts of cloth, or in pantaloons and waist wraps of stronger colors beneath black patterns. These tried to navigate a cart of shimmering cloth bolts around clusters of armored men.

The number of Numans was almost overwhelming. Some dressed like vagabonds, while others wore finery beneath voluminous cloaks.

Dänvârfij heard clear footsteps coming across the deck.

“We will not stay long,” Captain Samara said as he approached. “I hope to resupply and finish a small cargo exchange by midmorning tomorrow. If you wish to stay here and wait for your family, you should disembark and find lodgings by then.” Glancing at the city, he shook his head. “But I do not recommend it. Perhaps you could catch your kin at the next port?”

Dänvârfij had no intention of disembarking, but she feigned a polite smile.

“No, we wait here, but can we spend tonight ... on the ship? Leave ... tomorrow before ... you sail?”

Samara nodded. “Of course. It is senseless for you to go out there at night.”

“My thanks,” she said.

The captain walked away, and Rhysís whispered, “When?”

Dänvârfij returned to watching the port. “Not until the crew is asleep, those on watch grow weary, and fewer people are ... out there. Can you kill the one up in the mast without him falling?”

“Yes.”

“Én’nish and I will handle the two at the ramp’s end. The rest should be simple.”

Én’nish had seethed over the pointless delay in taking this ship. Now she partly saw how they had a better opportunity. Halfway between the mid of night and dawn, the piers were almost empty. Well before that, most ships, including the Bashair, had pulled up their ramps. Besides the armed lookout up in the mast, only three humans, two on the aftcastle and one at the prow, were on deck.

Dänvârfij had asked the three on watch whether she and hers could stay up and observe incoming ships to spot the one bearing their “family.” The guards did not find this strange and assented without even bothering to ask their captain.

Perhaps Sumans valued kin and blood more than Numans did, and Én’nish committed this to memory for future use. The rest of the small crew was below, likely asleep, and the captain was in his own cabin.

Eywodan and Tavithê stood near the aftcastle door to below, and Én’nish, with a blade held reversed and hidden behind her forearm, waited beside the aftcastle stairway. Rhysís leaned against the starboard rail with his assembled short bow hidden beneath his traveler’s cloak. He looked up now and then to the sailor with the crossbow upon the mast’s platform above.

Én’nish watched Dänvârfij near the prow and waited—longed—for the signal to act. She slipped her other hand around her back and beneath her tied-up cloak to grip the handle of her bone knife. Tension was not appropriate, but it quivered in all of her muscles.

A soft chirp carried across the deck.

Eywodan and Tavithê slipped below for the sleeping crew. Rhysís nocked an arrow, raised his bow, and fired.

Én’nish heard a soft thud from above, but the man did not fall to the deck. She spun and rushed up the ladder steps onto the aftcastle. Neither sailor on watch would be alarmed.

She had purposely done this several times in the night—always hurrying to the ship’s rear as if she had heard the snap of sails in the wind or the call of a crew inbound from the open waters.

The two sailors stood close together at the aft with their backs turned. Only one glanced aside at the last instant.

Én’nish thrust her stiletto through the base of his throat before he offered a greeting, and she slashed the other’s throat with her hooked bone knife. The latter’s eyes turned vacant as he dropped.

It was over too quickly. She should have volunteered to go below instead of remaining up here. Not risking the noise of toppling the bodies overboard, she left them and hurried down to the deck.

Dänvârfij, with a bloodied stiletto in hand, came toward her. Then Rhysís joined them.

“Weight the bodies,” Dänvârfij instructed, “and lower them quietly over the far side, away from the dock.”

Rhysís nodded and turned toward the aftcastle. Én’nish followed. By the time they finished and returned, Eywodan and Tavithê had emerged from below. Even in the dark, Én’nish could see they were stained.

“Ten left alive for our need,” Eywodan said, “including the cook. They are locked up, and I convinced them of the wisdom of silence.”

“The captain?” Dänvârfij asked.

“Still asleep in his cabin. We made little sound.”

“He knows too much about us.” Gripping her stiletto, she started for the stairs. “He should be silenced. Then I will report to Fréthfâre.”

Én’nish watched her go. It was done, and they had finally taken the ship. But she raised her bone knife and studied the streaks of blood across the silver-white metal. It had all gone perfectly, quickly, and quietly ... with too little satisfaction for her.

And it was not the right blood on her blade.

Two evenings later, the Cloud Queen reached the harbor in Drist. Leesil stood beside Magiere and stared out at the mass of activity, with its assault of colors, noises, and smells.

“Ah, dead deities,” he murmured. “I thought Chathburh was crowded. Where’s the captain going to dock this hulk in there?”

Magiere shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Wildly busy, the port boasted only six overly long piers. All of the docked vessels except for one were smaller than the Cloud Queen. But Leesil’s question was soon answered.

He noticed that larger ships were docked at the piers’ ends, and one spot at the end of the second pier was open. Captain Bassett shouted orders, and it wasn’t long before the crew threw mooring lines over the side.

Chap, Brot’an, and ... Wayfarer crossed the deck to join Leesil. At the sight of crowds all over the waterfront, the girl clutched Magiere’s arm. When she spotted a massive vessel, so big that it looked close enough to touch, docked at the end of the third pier, she flattened in against Magiere. As Magiere wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders, Leesil looked to that behemoth of a ship.

It was flying yellow and green colors, which he hadn’t ever seen before. Probably from some other nation in the region besides Malourné. The name Bell Tower was painted on the hull’s front end.

“Where does that ship come from?” Brot’an asked a nearby sailor.

Leesil wondered how that vessel’s captain had even gotten permission to dock such a monster.

The sailor glanced the same way and spat in disgust. “Witeny.”

Leesil shrugged at Magiere. Witeny must not be popular with the people of Malourné. But any chance to converse with the crew vanished as men on deck began strapping on weapons and loading crossbows.

“What now?” Brot’an said, watching it all closely.

Leesil was baffled, as the crew had never done this at any other stopover. As soon as the ramp was lowered, two sailors with loaded crossbows jogged down to take positions at the bottom. He noticed the same at every other ship in sight, and he started to get a bad feeling about this place.

Captain Bassett came striding over, and Magiere intercepted him.

“What’s going on?” she asked sharply. “Why are your men arming themselves?”

Bassett scowled, and it wasn’t hard to guess that he didn’t care much for her attitude.

“A brigands’ port,” he answered, “but still worth the stop. Goods traded here are hard to find elsewhere along the coast.”

Leesil didn’t like the sound of that, either.

“We have major cargo to exchange,” the captain went on. “Several days’ worth, so it would be best if we weren’t juggling a big job around passengers.”

Magiere raised her brows and glanced at Leesil. Wayfarer had already tucked in beside him as Chap started grumbling. Again, Leesil understood Numanese better than he could speak it.

They were somewhat politely being told to go ashore for a few days.

Much as the others weren’t happy about it, he wouldn’t argue. They could take care of themselves, and he couldn’t wait to get off this ship. He hoisted up his pack, already prepared to disembark.

“Not ... problem,” he said quickly. “We ... go.”

At Leesil’s assurance, however, the captain nodded and strode off.

Magiere pierced Leesil with an annoyed glance. This was likely a mix of uncertainty in taking Wayfarer into such a seedy-looking place and the captain rushing them off. She wasn’t one to be pushed anywhere.

Brot’an peered around the harbor as if looking for something specific. Wayfarer backed up, crouched down behind Chap, and planted herself so firmly that Leesil wondered whether he’d have to pick her up and carry her off the ship.

Chap looked up at him. —What—advice—for here—from—Wynn—

Leesil unslung his pack. “Hang on.”

He dug inside and pulled out the scant papers Wynn had sent with them. Paging through notes scrawled in Belaskian, he found something and frowned.

“Someplace called Delilah’s. She says it’s expensive but the safest, although ...”

—What is wrong?—

He wasn’t about to read the rest out loud and quickly stuffed the pages into his pack.

“Nothing. Just more boring stuff about the place’s history, nothing of worth.”

Magiere stepped closer. “Nothing ... else?”

Leesil sighed. “Just two short lines. She said when we get to the front desk, whatever Mechaela asks us to do, we have to do it. Apparently it’s the only safe place here.”

“I do not like this,” Brot’an put in.

Frankly, neither did Leesil, but the captain had made it clear he wanted them out of the way—and Leesil wanted off the ship for a few days at least.

“Let’s go and get some rooms. As annoying as Wynn can be, she’s usually right about these things.”

When he looked down, Wayfarer’s breath was coming short and fast. He flipped a hand toward Chap and Magiere.

“You think anyone’s going to bother those two?” he asked, grinning at the girl. “Even if so, who do you think would get the worst of that mistake?”

Chap licked his nose at him and glanced down the ramp.

“You’re not funny,” Magiere growled over her shoulder at Leesil.

“No, indeed,” Brot’an added.

With a wink, Leesil whispered to Wayfarer, “I am so.”

She rolled her pretty eyes, but at least he’d broken her panic, and he held out his hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet and kept her hand in his grasp. Shifting his pack, he started down the ramp into the crowds.

“Don’t let go,” he said.

“I will not,” the girl answered, a bit of a quaver in her voice.

Moments later they wove down the pier between sailors and dockworkers. The crowds grew only worse as they neared the waterfront. The people of various races and occupations—not to mention goats, sheep, and several large dogs on leashes—were almost more than Magiere could navigate out front without stalling again and again.

On their way, they passed a small, odd vessel with its ramp drawn up and Bashair painted on its side. Something about it stuck in Leesil’s head, as if he had seen it before but couldn’t remember where. He held tightly on to Wayfarer’s small hand as Magiere and Chap cut them a path and Brot’an followed behind.

Én’nish crouched on a warehouse roof and watched the port. In two days her team had accomplished much.

Rhysís was positioned a few rooftops to the south. Eywodan and Tavithê remained on the ship to keep it secure. At regular intervals Eywodan would bring a few of the crew on deck to feign duties and maintain an appearance of normality.

Én’nish had no idea what he had said to them, but they obeyed without question. He kept the ramp up, but a number of ships in harbor did so as well, so it did not appear strange. For the most part no one even glanced at the Bashair. Humans here kept to their own, in personal and other matters.

The team had also arranged quarters on land, and Fréthfâre and Dänvârfij were now in a filthy two-story inn at the port’s north end. Eywodan was certain he could manage the vessel with a crew of ten. The team was prepared to either abandon the ship or use it in pursuit, as need be. Fréthfâre and Dänvârfij wanted all possible outcomes covered.

They could not fail again, and this time their quarry would not escape.

Still, confidence in their arrangements did little to quell Én’nish’s urgency. The traitor must die. Léshil and his tainted mate must be taken for their secrets. And she would make Léshil watch his love die, as hers had at his hands. Only then would she take his life.

A large cargo vessel drifted into port and docked at the end of the second pier. Every nerve in Én’nish vibrated once she made out the Numan letters on the hull’s prow.

The Cloud Queen was here.

Én’nish remained crouched, waiting and watching. A light sound reached her ears as Rhysís landed beside her on the rooftop. Neither spoke yet. Eywodan and Tavithê would have seen the ship as well but could not leave their posts.

“I will report to Fréthfâre and Dänvârfij,” Rhysís whispered. “Follow any of our quarry if they come ashore. Learn their final location ... but do not engage them alone.”

She nodded once, and then he was gone.

Én’nish watched for anyone familiar among the crowds on the second pier.

Leesil pressed on behind Magiere and Chap, and pulled Wayfarer along as he studied their surroundings. When they reached the waterfront, he spotted a floating walkway along the rock wall beneath the piers. Between every other pier post were switchback ramps and ladders leading upward from lower floating platforms for small boats.

With little choice, they pushed through the throngs until their group reached the city’s edge. A few streets in, they left the thickened masses behind for more sparse passersby in the growing dusk. Wayfarer had kept pressing up behind him along the way, but now she peered about, a little more curious.

“Better now?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said barely loudly enough to hear.

Chap watched everywhere as well, turning all the way around at least once. It was pretty clear to Leesil that the dog was less than pleased.

—Which—way—now—

Leesil took a breath to remember Wynn’s instructions. “Inland a few blocks and then to the left.”

The farther they went, the fewer people they saw, and after a little while this began to concern Leesil. Where was Wynn sending them? It was getting darker, and once they made the left, within a block and a half down a poorly cobbled street they passed only hard-looking, worn women in faded, low-cut gowns, sailors swilling from clay bottles, and a mix of what might have been merchants, both prosperous and shabby.

Leesil kept an eye on both sides of the street and noted eateries, taverns, and inns along the way. There was little to tell by the bland and dilapidated buildings, but he had an idea of what kind of illicit endeavors went on behind those closed doors. This was the hinterland between merchant and laborer districts, always the same in any city.

It was just darker and dingier than most he remembered. He had a hard time picturing what had brought Wynn of all people here. Looking ahead, he quickened his pace, nearly passing Magiere.

“I think that’s it.”

Beyond the next intersection, on its far left corner, stood a large, well-situated three-story building that covered a fourth of the next block. Its blue paint, at a guess in the dark, didn’t look too badly cracked, but the white shutters—around iron grates over the windows—were stained and filthy.

Leesil didn’t like the look of this. What was hard to break into was also hard to get out of in a hurry.

The building sported a sweeping ground-level terrace with two armed and lightly armored guards by the front columns. He took their measure.

Their leather outer tunics didn’t hide the chain shirts beneath. Though properly closed, the tunics were both worn in a loose fit. The guards hadn’t limited their mobility for the sake of appearances. They wore their swords low rather than cinched up to their belts. They were both ex-military or experienced mercenaries.

Well, Wynn was right about one thing: if this place hired such, it wouldn’t be cheap.

Both guards were watchful but relaxed as the quintet approached. A white sign above the door held one gilded word in Numanese: DELILAH’S.

“May we pass and take rooms?” Brot’an asked, never ceasing to amaze Leesil with how polite and harmless he could sound. If those guards only knew the truth about what was walking into their establishment.

“By all means,” one said. “Please see Mechaela at the front desk.”

Leesil hesitated again, and then Chap huffed and started for the front door.

Én’nish had trouble controlling herself as she silently slipped along rooftops to follow her quarry. The sight of Léshil and the traitor was almost too much for her.

She took note of their number: five in total, with Magiere, Leanâlhâm, and the majay-hì. Neither Osha nor the little human sage appeared to have caught up. This was useful and preferred: the fewer, the better. The necessary targets were present, and Brot’ân’duivé was the only anmaglâhk.

Én’nish kept well behind, fearing that the greimasg’äh might sense her, but she did not let them out of her sight. Not far into the city, they approached a three-story building with worn sky blue planking and soiled white shutters. Én’nish hesitated at the sight of iron grates across all of the windows.

The guards out front mattered little compared to those. The place was large and extravagant ... and fortified.

Her team had chosen a tiny hole of an inn where they might vanish. Yet this place would not be so easily invaded, and likely not in stealth. She waited as the quintet stopped, all gazing upward. Finally the majay-hì took the lead toward the door.

Én’nish lingered until they entered and then fled through the night on her way to report to Fréthfâre.