Dog in the Dark

Chapter Twenty-five

After leaping over the side, Dänvârfij hit the water. Impact broke her hold on Én’nish as seawater closed over her head. She kicked to the surface and looked about in the dark. Panic came briefly until she saw Rhysís swimming toward her with Én’nish in tow.

Dänvârfij glanced up at the ship’s rail. She saw no crewmen, though she heard running feet on the dock beyond the Bell Tower.

“Get under the pier,” Rhysís whispered, and he went off, swimming with one arm and dragging Én’nish’s limp form by her collar.

Dänvârfij followed. There was nothing else she could do. The side of her neck burned, and more so the wound on her thigh, even with the water’s chill. The latter injury might be deeper than she had first thought. Even pulling Én’nish, Rhysís outdistanced her. He stopped, treading water, to look back.

“Can you make it?” he asked.

“Go,” she urged.

He kicked onward, swimming around the ship’s prow and in between the dock pilings. Exhausted and wounded, Dänvârfij followed him. It seemed far too long before they reached the shoreline and the walkway below the waterfront.

Rhysís pulled Én’nish out of the water as Dänvârfij barely got herself onto the floating walkway. Breathing heavily, they both knelt beside the young one.

Én’nish opened her eyes slightly and looked up at them. Rhysís pulled back one side of her bloodstained, split tunic. Dänvârfij had no idea how bad the wound might be, but regardless, the night’s failure turned her thoughts down darker paths.

Tavithê was gone, taken by the traitor and left lying in a ship’s hold. Two more of them had been wounded, and though she had done the same to Magiere, their quarry had escaped again ... because of the traitor.

Dänvârfij grabbed Rhysís’s wrist. “Brot’ân’duivé will go for the Cloud Queen. Eywodan is alone there. Go now, and I will watch over Én’nish.”

“No,” Rhysís said and continued attending Én’nish’s wound.

His abrupt disobedience struck Dänvârfij mute at first. “Rhysís—”

“No!” he nearly snarled, looking her in the eyes. “Én’nish is down, and you can barely walk. Do you think I will leave either of you? And what if the traitor does not go for the ship but comes after us? I would, in his place.”

Dänvârfij stared at him as he turned his attention back to Én’nish. She could not force him under the circumstances, and in truth, he could be right.

“If any of us can face the greimasg’äh alone,” Rhysís added, “it is Eywodan. They were old friends once, and they know each other’s ways.” He glanced at her thigh. “Get something to tie around that leg.”

Dänvârfij was at a loss as to what to argue anymore. She tore a strip from her soaked cloak and began wrapping it around her wound.

Magiere was numb as she leaned against Leesil and looked up at the Cloud Queen, deserted from what she could see. She tried with the back of her hand to wipe away the blood in her left eye. She barely remembered what had happened on the other ship.

Chap stood at the boarding ramp’s base. A dark stain matted the fur on his right shoulder. It looked worse than what she suffered; a scalp wound always bled too freely at first.

Brot’an, as well as Dirken and some of the others wishing to escape, had collected around her and Leesil. Most appeared uninjured other than minor cuts and bruises. They were lucky in getting off the ship before too many of the crew had been roused. And she wondered whether the crew would be coming soon, searching for their lost “cargo.”

She touched her forehead and tested with her fingertips to see whether the wound had stopped bleeding. Leesil let go of her and reached under his velvet tunic to tear off a piece of the shirt beneath it.

“Press that on the wound,” he said, and she did so as he looked to the ship. “Where is everyone?”

Brot’an stepped past both of them. “The ship appears deserted because it was taken by those who came after us. I saw a line in the rigging between the two vessels. Some, at least one of them, may still be aboard the Cloud Queen ... as I counted only four aboard the other ship.”

A more frightening thought struck Magiere. “Where’s Wayfarer?”

“Safe,” Brot’an answered. “I arranged for her and the boy to be hidden away under watch.”

Magiere wasn’t certain what that meant. But if Brot’an and Chap hadn’t come, she and Leesil could have been taken or killed. Still, it angered her that the old assassin had left Wayfarer with strangers. What had motivated him to come in the first place?

Magiere peered at Chap. How Brot’an had gotten the dog aboard the slave ship would wait until later.

“Chap, you lead,” Leesil said, and then switched to Numanese. “Brot’an, Dirken ... follow. All other come last.”

As the dog, with Brot’an and Dirken behind, stalked up the ramp, Leesil tried to lift Magiere’s arm over his shoulders, but she held him off. She could fight if need be—if he let her.

Perhaps he was too distracted to argue, for he turned silently up the ramp, and Magiere followed him.

When they reached the deck, Chap, Dirken, and Brot’an had spread out. Chap returned first and huffed twice for no, which meant he’d found nothing. Brot’an and Dirken returned with the same result. Leesil motioned the rest of the freed slaves toward the bow, and they did as he directed.

“Stay—hide,” he told them, and turned to Magiere and switched to Belaskian. “Stay here and guard them, no matter what you hear.”

That jolted her, and when she opened her mouth, he shook his head.

“I don’t want to bring them below until we know what’s happened here,” he whispered.

That wasn’t the only reason, although maybe he was right.

“Keep Chap with you,” Magiere told him. “He and Brot’an might sense anything wrong more quickly than anyone else.”

Leesil nodded, handed over her white metal dagger, and turned away. Chap was already waiting at one aftcastle door. Magiere stood pressing the piece of shredded shirt cloth against her scalp as Leesil motioned Brot’an toward the other door. Dirken followed that way as well.

With reluctance, Magiere backed toward the huddle of freed slaves. Leesil and the others were gone, leaving her dizzy, bloodied, and guilt ridden on deck.

By Brot’ân’duivé’s count, only one anmaglâhk remained here, if Fréthfâre was secreted elsewhere in the port. He had counted four on the Bell Tower. He killed Tavithê and flushed another from the crow’s nest. The two who’d been wounded on deck were both women, so he knew who they were.

The one here had to be either Rhysís or Eywodan.

The human called Dirken followed at his heels as they headed down the stairs beneath the aftcastle. Brot’ân’duivé saw Léshil and Chap step into the passage’s far end, and each pair turned its separate way into the ship’s depths. When Brot’ân’duivé reached the hold and continued into its darkness, Dirken followed him.

At a click of tin, light glowed in the space, and Brot’ân’duivé glanced back to see that Dirken had grabbed a lantern off the deck along his way.

“You are Lhoin’na?” Dirken asked.

“No, I am ... something else.”

“Those others, on the Bell Tower, looked like you ... darker than a Lhoin’na.”

Dirken said no more as Brot’ân’duivé walked into the ship’s hold and stopped midway to close his eyes. He listened to every sound and tested every scent in the stale and musty air. Then he pointed.

“That way.”

They exited through the hold’s far door and made their way down a short passage Brot’ân’duivé had not visited before. This was the lowest deck—down below the passenger’s quarters. At the passage’s end, a thick door was barred from the outside. Iron braces had long ago been installed on both sides; the door had been designed to lock something or someone in if necessary.

Brot’ân’duivé did not wonder why.

He heard movement beyond the door. Someone—more than one—was locked in there now. He looked sidelong at Dirken.

“Be ready to step past me. It would be best for those inside to see a human face first.”

Dirken frowned as he nodded.

Brot’ân’duivé hefted the bar from its brackets. He ratcheted the lever handle and stepped aside as he pulled the door outward. Sounds of rapid movements, those of bodies rustling and pushing past each other, came immediately from inside.

“Settle down!” Dirken barked. “We’re here to get you out.”

Brot’ân’duivé stepped around behind Dirken but held back. Several men in the room gasped or cursed.

“It’s one of them!” a man called out.

“Don’t be a fool!” Dirken shouted over the rest as he held up the lantern. “Or do you think just one would open the door for all of you?”

Some of the crew did not appear to listen. The panic and arguing grew louder. Then a young man stepped forward, squinting; there was a bad bruise on his forehead, and his right eye was swollen shut. It was Hatchinstall, the captain’s first mate. Through the dim light, he peered at Brot’ân’duivé’s face.

“It’s one of our passengers!” he called back to the others.

As Brot’ân’duivé had feared, at first the frightened sailors had seen only a tall an’Cróan in the doorway. More squinted at him, perhaps noted his scars, and began to quiet.

“What happened?” Brot’ân’duivé asked.

The young mate’s good eye was glazed. “A group, looking like you, boarded and killed half the men. We couldn’t stop them.... Nothing we tried did any good.”

“Where’s your captain?”

Hatchinstall shook his head. “Don’t know. They dragged me down here but ... not him. Maybe they locked him in his quarters.”

Brot’ân’duivé took a slow breath. That was where Léshil would go first.

“Get them up on deck,” he told Dirken and then turned down the passage at a run.

A hostage kept separate in upper quarters accessible to the deck would be guarded.

Leesil hadn’t expected to find anyone in the passengers’ cabins. He and his companions were this ship’s passengers. But as he and Chap turned the other way from where Brot’an had headed, the notion of where to look first came to mind.

Any crew left alive for future needs would be locked away below. Less than a handful would be needed to manage the vessel. But one, most of all, would know the routes and ports along this coast.

Silence in the first level below deck ate at Leesil’s nerves.

Chap was the first to creep in on the door to the captain’s quarters. Leesil waited as Chap sniffed the space below the door, and the dog lifted his head back up.

—Two—inside— ... —One—elf—

Leesil wondered how Chap could know that by smell, though the dog probably could tell by strength of scent whether anyone was in there. Then again, if even one was an’Cróan ... well, one of them wouldn’t be here unless someone else was present.

Leesil reached back and under his velvet tunic for his box of lock picks.

—No—a blade—

Leesil blinked—Chap couldn’t possibly know the door was unlocked.

—Why—lock?— ... —A blade—now—

Leesil reached for his right winged blade.

—No— ... —Anmaglâhk—blade—

Leesil hesitated. In Calm Seatt, Brot’an had given him anmaglâhk weapons—a stiletto and a curved bone knife—when they’d gone to get Wynn out of her own guild’s keep. He hated those weapons and had disposed of his own long ago. For some reason, he’d kept the ones Brot’an had given him.

The stiletto was hidden in a sheath in his boot.

Leesil had to trust his old friend’s greater instincts. He drew the stiletto and palmed the hilt, with the blade flattened behind his wrist and forearm. Exhaling slowly, he reached quietly for the door lever and turned it with a light push.

The door opened, and he fixed on two figures before a porthole at the chamber’s rear.

Beyond the broad desk covered in charts, Captain Bassett stared at him with wide eyes. Someone nearly as tall as Brot’an stood behind him and held a curved bone knife against his throat.

The anmaglâhk, with a long braid of hair, looked at Leesil and then glanced down at Chap. He had to have known someone was outside the door, but clearly he hadn’t known who would enter.

Leesil realized Brot’an had been right, that the anmaglâhk team had taken their ship and likely murdered half the crew to set a trap for Magiere and him. More people suffered and died because of them.

“Let him go,” Leesil said dully in Belaskian.

Chap entered the cabin and veered left as Leesil followed, sidestepping the other way.

“You for him,” the anmaglâhk answered in perfect Belaskian. “A fair trade ... and I let him live. But the majay-hì leaves now.”

Leesil took another step along the cabin’s far side. Hope and fear crossed Bassett’s face, and Leesil shriveled inside. He could not imagine the cruelties that had taken place on this ship. One more innocent suffered because of him, because of a task Magiere felt compelled to complete....

Because of those damned orbs.

“Let him go with Chap,” Leesil said. “And I’ll leave with you.”

The anmaglâhk’s expression remained unreadable. When Leesil glanced aside, Chap’s eyes were already on him.

—Save—the captain—if you must— ... —But—you are—an assassin—facing—an assassin—

Those words, what Chap had called him, made Leesil sick inside.

—Act—like one— ... —You—we—are—better than him—

It took great effort for Leesil not to let his expression change. Could he save the captain and kill an anmaglâhk?

“If we are agreed,” the anmaglâhk said, “discard your weapons.”

—Wound—the captain—

Again Leesil fought to kept his expression blank, but a part of his old self began awakening.

—Do—this— ... —I will—go over—the desk—before—the anmaglâhk—can react—

In years past, serving Lord Darmouth, Leesil had helped hunt down the warlord’s enemies. Now and then one of his targets took a hostage as this one did now, someone Leesil didn’t need or want to kill to get to the one he’d been ordered to kill. He knew what to do and needed no further prompting from Chap.

“All right,” Leesil answered.

He leaned down, unstrapped his left winged blade, and let it drop to the floor. As it fell, he watched for the anmaglâhk to relax even slightly. It didn’t happen. He twisted over the other way, but because of the stiletto hidden behind his right hand, undoing that other sheath wouldn’t be easy. He feigned difficulty and leaned farther across to work the straps with his left hand.

His right blade started to come loose.

“Kick them away,” the anmaglâhk ordered.

“All right, all right,” Leesil grumbled.

The right winged blade hit the floor, and the stiletto slipped down his right wrist. He snatched its tip as he toed a fallen winged blade as if to nudge it away.

Leesil shifted his weight in a step and snapped his right hand out as his eyes locked on Bassett’s shoulder.

The stiletto struck low, piercing the captain’s upper right arm.

Bassett cried out, twisting from the wound. His left shoulder struck the anmaglâhk’s chest as his legs buckled, and his weight dropped. The anmaglâhk automatically tried to get a grip on his crumpling hostage.

Chap was already in midleap as Leesil scooped up his right winged blade.

Chap landed atop the desk and lunged. He hit the captain’s chest and slammed Bassett and the anmaglâhk back against the central porthole in the rear wall.

Leesil rushed in as Chap and the captain tumbled away, and the anmaglâhk had no choice but to turn on him. Leesil’s first swing missed, and he hadn’t even had time to strip the sheath off his blade. In the same instant, he saw two straightened fingers thrust toward the hollow of his throat, and he barely twisted his head away.

The strike hit the hollow between his collarbone and shoulder, and his left arm went numb. The pain came as the force made him topple against the desk. One thought filled his awareness in that instant.

The anmaglâhk didn’t use his bone knife.

Leesil knew his opponent wanted him alive; he had no such notion in kind.

The space between the desk and rear wall was tight, and he let himself fall back atop the desk. The pain in his shoulder told him that the muscle had been torn by that finger-strike. Wounds didn’t matter—all that did was who died.

Leesil saw the anmaglâhk’s empty hand lead the man’s next attack. The bone knife came as well, but wide and to the side. That was a mistake, for Leesil wasn’t alone in this. He kicked at the man’s hand, and his foot slid in along that forearm to the anmaglâhk’s elbow.

That stall was all Chap needed as the dog lunged up from behind the desk.

Chap’s jaws snapped closed on the wrist above the bone knife. As the anmaglâhk tried to wrench free, Leesil levered himself up off the desktop.

The sheathed point of his winged blade rammed the base of the anmaglâhk’s throat. Force made the sheath’s tip split. Blood squirted across the leather.

Leesil grabbed the man’s other wrist and threw his weight against his blade to grind the tip in. The anmaglâhk tried to gasp but only choked, and his eyes filled with shock. The wrist in Leesil’s grip began to go limp.

The tall anmaglâhk’s eyes never closed as he slid down the wall.

Chap released his grip, but Leesil did not until ...

—Enough— ... —It is—done—

Still the man’s eyes were open, staring out.

Leesil didn’t know what to feel as his other arm weakened. His sheathed blade merely slid from the bloody gash in the man’s throat and down his victim’s chest.

“Léshil!”

When he spun, Brot’an was inside the cabin door. Dirken followed with a few others behind him.

The shadow-gripper’s gaze dropped, likely looking to one of his own left dead against the back wall. Something flickered across Brot’an’s face. Was it pain or regret?

No, neither, not in him.

“Captain!”

The first mate pushed around Brot’an and rushed to crouch near Bassett, but Leesil found the captain glaring up at him. Pain didn’t hide the wounded man’s growing fury.

“They were after you?” Bassett accused, his voice sharpening. “Those killers were after you ... on my ship!”

“They saved us,” the first mate said, tilting his head at Brot’an as he pulled Leesil’s stiletto from the captain’s arm. “This one let the rest of the men out.”

It was all too much for Leesil. He didn’t want to recognize what was inside him: put there by his mother and his father, used by Brot’an to kill a warlord, and still lingering even though he tried to smother and forget it.

The need to protect his own had called up the assassin in him.

In that, old habits—old ways—made him wonder at Brot’an’s timely arrival.

“Set sail,” Leesil told the captain, but like Chap’s, his gaze remained on Brot’an. “There are more of them here in port ... and they’ll be coming.”

“You brought this down on us,” the captain whispered.

“Get the ship ready!” Leesil shouted back.

“How? A third of my crew is onshore and another third dead!”

“I’ll help,” said Dirken, halfway behind Brot’an. “I’ve got a few more with me who can do the same.”

Hatchinstall stood up. “I’ll go get the rest of the crew. Most will be drinking at the Three-Legged Horse or playing cards at Ancient Annie’s.”

“What about Wayfarer and Paolo?” Leesil asked, stepping around beside Chap.

“I will retrieve them,” Brot’an said quietly; these were the first words he’d spoken besides a name since he’d appeared in the cabin. “Do not let the captain sail until I return.”

To Leesil’s surprise, Brot’an stepped around him and went to crouch down and heft the body of the dead anmaglâhk. The anmaglâhk master walked out without looking at Leesil again.

Chap took a step to follow, but Leesil put a hand on the dog’s back.

“No, that’s enough ... for now.”

All he wanted was to go to Magiere.

Brot’ân’duivé strode down the boarding ramp with Eywodan’s body over his shoulder. For the first time since leaving his homeland, he was numb and yet felt pain as well.

Once on the pier, he had no wish to lead any remaining anmaglâhk back to the hotel. It might be the first place they would look, all the same. He needed to retrieve Leanâlhâm ... Wayfarer and the boy, and leave this pit of a city behind.

Brot’ân’duivé crouched on the pier and lowered Eywodan’s body into the water, and then he slipped over the side. With the body floating on its back, he pulled it as he swam beneath the second pier. He did not wish to be seen, but there was something fitting in taking Eywodan to water.

Eywodan knew—had known—how to sail. He liked the rivers, the lakes, and the sea. Once, when a coastal enclave had flooded during a storm surge, Eywodan had rushed to aid their people—as had Brot’ân’duivé that same night. When nearly everyone had been evacuated, swelling water had smashed debris against Eywodan’s knee. Brot’ân’duivé had carried him through the water in search of a healer.

It would not have mattered whether Brot’ân’duivé had reached Eywodan before Léshil this night. The outcome would have been the same, and still ...

Brot’ân’duivé halted to float in silence with only his eyes above the water as he fixed on the foot of the third pier.

Above on the waterfront’s edge Dänvârfij and Rhysís crouched beside a prone form that must be Én’nish. He could not hear what they whispered, but with their attention diverted, he swam to the base of the second pier and outside of the support beam closest to the shore.

There he heard them.

“It is not as bad as I feared,” Rhysís said, “Her organs were not cut, but Fréthfâre will need to stitch the wound.”

Dänvârfij rose with an audible sigh in the dark. “Thank the ancestors.”

“Go ... help Eywodan.... He is alone.”

At Én’nish’s weak whisper, Brot’ân’duivé could listen no more. They were broken, reduced to being thankful for injuries that were not lethal. He could take Rhysís or Dänvârfij right now if he wished. The two loyalists would not be able to fight well enough for both to survive.

He could finish this.

But Brot’ân’duivé looked into Eywodan’s dead eyes. He reached out with two fingers and closed them. He quietly rolled the corpse up onto the floating walkway below the shoreline.

After one final look at an old comrade who had become an enemy, he sank beneath the water and swam away. When he emerged farther on, climbing out below the waterfront’s southern end, he waited for water to finish dripping from him before he silently crept up the stairs.

Brot’ân’duivé peered over the waterfront’s edge. When Dänvârfij and Rhysís crouched to gather up Én’nish, he slipped into the streets and headed for Delilah’s.

Dänvârfij did not allow herself to think on what happened this night as she helped Rhysís lift Én’nish. He would have to carry the young one back to Fréthfâre.

They needed to regroup, heal, and plan yet again.

Dänvârfij had never seen enough value in Én’nish to outweigh her faults. But as Rhysís picked up the youngest among them, Dänvârfij took Én’nish’s hand.

“Rhysís will take you to Fréthfâre to be tended. I will go for Eywodan.”

Én’nish squeezed her hand.

Wounded as Dänvârfij was, she could accomplish that much. But when she turned to head up the waterfront, the flapping of a gull below on the walkway pulled her attention.

The bird stood perched on a large bulk and pecked at it.

Dänvârfij squinted in the night. The whole waterfront except for the bird’s squawks grew too silent in her ears. She drew a stiletto and let fly.

The gull’s piercing screech was cut short as the stiletto struck and its body skidded along the walkway.

Dänvârfij stood there breathing too quickly as Rhysís stepped near. When he saw what she did, he spun, looking all ways. Dänvârfij never took her eyes off Eywodan’s body.

“The traitor is here,” Rhysís said quietly.

“No, he is gone,” Dänvârfij whispered, numb, shaking her head.

Had Brot’ân’duivé left the body as a warning? Proof that he could slaughter any of them anytime he wanted? Or had he simply had his fill of killing his own for one night and made the choice to slip away?

She did not know the answer.