Of Truth and Beasts

Chapter 8

For Chane, this third sea voyage was a torment of trial and error. He disembarked at a few ports along the way, heading off alone just past nightfall, to collect small bottles from various shops.

Several times he sought out livestock, looking for collections of cattle or goats so that one missing animal would not raise immediate notice. He drank only once from the dark, life-giving substance gathered via Welstiel’s feeding cup. Overflushed with life, he began using the cup to fill his collection of bottles. These he stored in the bottom of his pack for times ahead when there might be less opportunity to hunt alone.

Soon, however, he came to a decision, one he could not put off. He began excusing himself from Wynn’s company on the ship to work alone in his cabin. He did not reappear for several nights. His first attempt at recreating Welstiel’s concoction was a painful failure.

He spent three delusional days and nights between dormancy and coherence, where fear of the sun escalated. Either he had not used enough corpseskirt—boar’s bell—or he had incorrectly estimated other ingredients. When the concoction’s effect wore off quicker than expected, he increased the amount of corpse-skirt by half.

The result was so much worse.

He squirmed in convulsions on his bunk, the sounds of waves pounding upon the ship’s hull nearly deafening him. During the days, he could not stop the sense of burning, as if sunlight crawled and wormed through the hull to seek him out.

Wynn repeatedly knocked every night, calling to him through the blocked door.

But on the fifth night of so much horror, even the beast within him fell silent as if dead and gone, and he knew he was closer to the correct formula. When he came out late on the sixth evening, still not having gone dormant, Wynn was on him in an instant.

“What are you doing in there? Why are you locking yourself in your cabin?”

Her tone was demanding, but her eyes were filled with worry.

“I need privacy,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back so she would not see them shake. “Soon we will be among crowds again. I take my solitude while I can.”

She looked sad and frustrated at his obvious lie, but she did not press him further. There was no way to tell her, not for the way she always viewed Welstiel’s pack of toys. That was always the way she would see it, or anything to do with him. And what would she think of Chane trying to recreate anything of Welstiel’s, the one who had plagued her and her companions across half a continent?

Three nights later, Chane tried again, though the last dose had not fully worn off. Worst of all, he was running out of thrice-purified water.

During the journey’s earliest part, he had caught clean rain in a bowl held out of a porthole. This was boiled in a glass vessel sterilized with wood alcohol, and he had to hold both glass and burner steady against the ship’s rolling. Steam rose into a ceramic, elbow-shaped pipe, cooling and dripping into another sterilized container. The process was repeated twice more with the same water. Less than a fourth of the rain remained in a thrice-purified form.

It had not rained again since before he had prepared the last dose.

Chane had only enough water for one more attempt, with no possibility to continue trial and error once they reached Soráno. When he finished the third batch before dawn, its color, consistency, purity, and opacity perfectly matched the remaining half vial that Welstiel had made.

Side effects seemed inescapable, though Chane was learning to bear the amplified terror, that paranoia of the sun just outside the covered porthole. But as he held up a vial’s capful, far less than the dosage he had first thought necessary, he hesitated with the draught a fingernail’s breadth from his lips.

How had Welstiel ever borne this ... drug of the dead ... without one sign of discomfort?

Chane watched the violet liquid in the cap betray his trembling hand. He threw the fluid into the back of his throat, washing it down with a gulp of water from the ship’s casks. As he stared at the three remaining vials made from this batch, he hoped he would not have to discard them like the last two.

He did not—but final success brought him no relief.

When the sun rose outside the ship, Chane was curled in the corner at the bunk’s head, shuddering in a wide-awake hell for the third time. On the fourth night, rather than the fifth, he managed to leave his cabin to find Wynn, though she was no less worried.

Time lost meaning as waves rushed past, one after another. One night past dusk, Chane stood on the deck, wind at his back as he heard Wynn’s light steps.

“Soráno is close,” she said. “We’ll make dock before another bell.”

He looked down to find her gazing toward the passing coastline, though her living eyes would never make it out in the dark. Wisps of brown hair danced across her olive-toned cheek below her eyes.

They were going back into the world again.

Wynn didn’t know what they would find in the port city of Soráno. She’d read a good deal on the Sumans, farther south, and knew something of the Lhoin’na to the east. But as she walked beside Shade through the streets, she couldn’t help noticing something startling about these people. That realization came only a breath before Chane’s shocked rasp.

“They all look like you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Wynn had never been in this part of the world, never been farther south than Witeny. While growing up, she’d seen people in Calm Seatt with her complexion, hair, build—but very few.

Fine boned, though round cheeked, the people of Romagrae Commonwealth weren’t as tall as the Numans of Malourné, Faunier or Witeny, nor as dark-skinned as Sumans. Nearly everyone walking past wore strange pantaloons and cotton vestment wraps of white and soft colors. But they all had olive-toned skin with light brown hair and eyes, just like her.

Wynn was still a little daunted when she noticed Chane staring at every passerby. His open fascination began making her uncomfortable.

Soráno’s streets were clean, most of them cobbled in sandy-tan stones. Smaller, open-air markets appeared more common than in Numan cities, or at least Calm Seatt. She spotted three in sight along one wide main street. Everyone appeared to be either some kind of merchant or farmer with crops that grew well beyond the seasons up north. The number of items available was overwhelming.

Arrays of olives, dried dates, fish, and herb-laced cooking oils were abundant. Occasionally some scent reminded Wynn of what Domin il’Sänke or his quarters smelled like during his visit—spicy and exotic. She slowed briefly as they passed stacked bolts of fabrics with wild, earthy patterns common in the Suman nations farther south.

Suppertime was long past, so most vendors were closing up for the night. Chane was still staring at the inhabitants as he walked beside Wynn. It was getting annoying.

“So, this is where you are from,” he said. “These are your people.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wynn answered. “I’m a citizen of Malourné and a sage of Calm Seatt. That is my home, my people.”

“But ... how did you come to live there?”

Whenever asked, Wynn referred to herself as an orphan, stating that her parents had passed over. In truth, she knew no such thing, but they were certainly dead to her. Chane had never before asked for more than that.

“Domin Tilswith found me in a wooden box at the front gates,” she said finally. “There was no note and only a large purse of coins hidden beneath the blanket, enough to meet an infant’s needs for quite a while.”

Chane stopped walking. “But this must be the land from where you came.”

Wynn didn’t believe in ancestral memories or cultural links by blood. People were shaped by their experiences and environment—and by themselves. Any half-wit knew this. The vendors and patrons of the market street were just another crowd of strangers encountered along the way.

Chane kept studying her.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head quickly and looked away, watching the people. They all went about their lives beneath the strange street lanterns of colored glass, which bulged evenly like perfectly made pumpkins of pale yellows, oranges, cyans, and violets.

“And now?” he asked. “Do we find an inn or procure a wagon to leave immediately?”

Shade rumbled softly and closed on Wynn with a sharp huff.

“What’s wrong, girl?” Wynn asked.

She was about to reach down and touch Shade’s head when the dog darted off straight through a market stall’s remains.

“Shade! Come back,” Wynn called, and ran after the dog.

She heard Chane shout something from behind her, but she ignored him. She was too busy trying to keep Shade’s whipping tail in sight as it bobbed and weaved through the thinning crowd and the remains of closing stalls.

“Shade, this is no time for games! Come back here ... now!”

Shade slowed briefly, tauntingly, at a corner. Wynn almost caught up, but then Shade bolted off again, vanishing from sight.

“What is the matter with that beast?” Ore-Locks called, his voice farther behind than Chane’s.

Wynn ran on. Stalls and shops gave way to larger buildings and quieter streets. Nearly out of breath, she stumbled into an open area. The shore was in plain sight, and she guessed she might be south of the docks on the city’s outskirts.

There was Shade, sitting by the side of a dirt road.

Wynn caught up, panting too hard to scold Shade anymore. She grabbed the dog’s scruff, more to brace herself than anything else, and bent over with long, heaving breaths.

“Don’t ... do ... that,” she said, gasping. “What is wrong with you?”

Chane joined them, though he wasn’t panting. Ore-Locks took a little longer, huffing and puffing on his thick, shorter legs, iron staff in one hand and their chest heaved up on his shoulder.

“Get that animal a leash,” he coughed.

Shade wrinkled her jowls and whipped her tongue over her nose at him. But Chane was looking ahead, beyond all of them.

“Can you not smell it?” he said. “Shade did from farther off.”

Wynn straightened up, following his gaze.

Back from the shore, wagons of all shapes and sizes were stationed about large timber buildings with corner posts the size of the nearby palm trees. At least six campfires glowed in the dark, illuminating those milling about. Men and women loaded boxes or tended to horses tied off at rails. One elder woman led a team of mules into a nearby stable half as big as the other structures.

Wynn felt soft pressure against her leg, and looked down as Shade pressed closer.

—no ... Chane ... wagon ... stay ... Wynn ... people—

Shade’s broken words, spoken in Wynn’s own remembered voice, made the dog’s intentions quite clear.

“A caravan station,” Wynn whispered.

Shade huffed once.

Chane glanced down at Shade. He had already decided they should travel inland on their own. With Ore-Locks and Shade, they could camp by day and journey by night, just as he and Wynn had done on their way to Dhredze Seatt.

Wynn stroked Shade’s head, thoughtfully watching the caravan camp, and Chane knew she had changed their plans again. Or this time, Shade had.

“Let’s see if any are headed inland and barter for passage,” Wynn suggested.

“I will do so,” Ore-Locks said, about to stride off.

“Wait,” Chane cut in, stepping closer to Wynn. “We should just purchase a small wagon and go on our own. We can set our own pace.”

She looked up at him, some realization dawning. Clearly she understood what he had not said. There were complications in traveling with others, with no place for him to have secure privacy during the day.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “The caravan might be—”

Shade snarled loudly and clacked her jaws at Chane.

“Stop that,” Wynn scolded, and grabbed Shade’s muzzle.

Chane watched the two of them lock gazes in sudden stillness. Ore-Locks watched closely as well, though he did not ask what was happening. Suddenly, Wynn flinched.

“What?” Chane asked, wanting to pull her away from Shade.

“She ... she thinks,” Wynn began. “She insists her way is safer.”

“No,” Chane said, his attention shifting between her and Shade. “We are better off on our own. I can protect us.”

Shade snarled so loudly that Chane looked about, fearful the noise might gain unwanted attention. Wynn seemed troubled at being caught between them. With a slight shake of her head, she closed her eyes, still holding the dog. When she opened them again, she glanced uncomfortably at Ore-Locks before she stood up.

“Shade’s not going to agree to that,” Wynn said to Chane.

“Shade?” Ore-Locks repeated. “Since when is the animal making our decisions?”

Wynn looked only at Chane. “She’s worried about the Fay, that if I’m too isolated in the wilderness ... they will try to kill me again.”

“Fay?” Ore-Locks asked. “Kill you? What are you talking about?”

No one answered him.

Chane closed his eyes briefly. Shade was right, and it should have occurred to him before the dog forced the issue. It unsettled him just how much Shade seemed aware of and how far she might go for her own agenda concerning Wynn. But the dog had made her point, and Wynn had clearly agreed. They needed to travel in greater numbers.

Ore-Locks stood waiting for an explanation.

Chane stepped forward, waving the dwarf along. “Come. We will speak more later. For now, it is time to barter.”

Following behind, Wynn was still shaken by Shade’s vehemence. The dog had once again shown her the same frightening images of the Fay trying to lash her to death with the roots of a downed tree. And Wynn had felt a more personal fear, a determination from Shade that she had not felt before.

Once Shade set her mind on something, shaking it from her jaws could be as difficult as with her father, Chap. In spite of Shade’s harsh methods for making her point, Wynn couldn’t disagree.

They soon reached the nearest team of mules being disconnected from a weathered wagon twice their height. There were some faded hints of its once garish paint. All around, people loaded or unloaded, hauling bundles in or out of the great timber buildings with shake roofs high above. Some tended animals, while others prepared communal meals over open fires. Low voices filled the air.

While a few bore the same coloring as the people of the city, others were paler or duskier. There were two Sumans, perhaps from desert tribes, though no Numans among the caravans, and certainly no dwarves. It appeared that race or culture did not matter here. Most wore thick leather clothing, tough enough for their long journeys, and either floppy hemp and reed hats or head wraps of rough cloth.

A young woman in leather breeches and a patchwork vestment of earthy colors crouched at a nearby fire. She tended a large iron kettle, boiling some eggs, and she was about to drop in tea leaves as well, making a meal and drink all at once.

“May I speak with a team leader?” Wynn asked, hoping someone here understood Numanese.

The girl rose, her black coiled braids not even shifting. She pointed at a large man in a suede coat crouched before a wagon’s wheel, which he inspected with great attention.

“A’drinô,” she said. “Chieftain A’drinô handles all trade for our clan.”

“Thank you,” Wynn replied, heading off, though Ore-Locks was already on the move.

She hoped the dwarf would follow her lead before trying to strike any deal. She untied her cloak to expose her gray sage’s short robe.

“Master A’drinô?” she asked.

He turned from the wagon wheel and stood up, hands on his hips, as if the interruption was unwelcome. Then he saw her companions and grew puzzled. He was as tall as Chane and clean-shaven, with a long, red-gold braid down his back, tied in place with a fraying golden ribbon.

Wynn offered him a polite nod. “I am Journeyor Hygeorht of the Calm Seatt branch of the Guild of Sagecraft.”

“Calm Seatt?” he repeated, his accent marked with elongated vowels. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes. I’m delivering an official communication to the premin of the Lhoin’na guild branch. Are any caravans headed that way?”

“What do you offer for passage?” he asked bluntly.

“Service as guards,” Ore-Locks cut in, gesturing to himself, Chane, and even Shade.

He already sounded too assertive—which was the way of dwarven barter. But Wynn hoped he wouldn’t get any worse.

“We have guards,” A’drinô returned, but he did eye Ore-Locks and then Chane for a moment.

“Not like us,” Ore-Locks said flatly. “Not even close.”

His manner had the wrong effect. Wynn could almost see the chieftain’s expression closing up. Ore-Locks was normally quite effective at bartering. A’drinô clearly thought the only gain here was for the dwarf, and the caravan chieftain’s brow wrinkled.

Wynn was about to jump in when Chane said quietly, “We will take the night watch. Your own guards will be rested for daylight journeying.”

A’drinô eyed him. “You’ve done night patrol? You know what is required?”

“Yes, as has the ... wolf. She is well trained.”

Wynn clamped her hand over Shade’s nose, in case Shade understood what he’d said.

A’drinô finally nodded. “Well enough. My men can use more sleep, but you’ll have to supply your own transportation and food. We’ve no room, and we leave at dawn.”

Chane watched Wynn’s expression change from relief to alarm as the caravan chieftain walked away. They had no wagon as yet, and the city would be closed up for the night.

“I will find a wagon and horses,” he assured her, glancing back the way they had come. “You and Ore-Locks try to find more food at the nearest market—anything still available.”

“Shouldn’t I handle the barter?” Ore-Locks added, and crossed his arms, still gripping his staff in one hand, as if put out by his near failure.

Normally he would be correct, but Chane was not going to settle for just any wagon. They still had a potentially long journey ahead, should Wynn find clues among the Lhoin’na to the remains of the long-forgotten seatt. They could not afford to buy the type of team and wagon necessary.

“Fresh food is just as important,” he told Ore-Locks. “Help Wynn barter for proper stores.”

If this flattery affected Ore-Locks, he did not show it.

“Come on,” Wynn said. “We have only tonight. We’ll meet back here.”

With one last glance at Chane, Ore-Locks followed Wynn and Shade toward town.

Chane waited until they were out of sight and then headed shoreward. A caravan station on the outskirts would not be the only place to land cargo in a port. He worked his way along the waterfront’s southern end, watching for any sign of a major stable nearer the warehouses. It did not take long.

When he spotted a likely place up an inland side road, he looked all ways for anyone in the streets. Testing the wide stable doors, he found they would not budge. The fact that they were barred from the inside actually brought him some relief. This also meant there had to be another exit—or entrance. The stable master had closed up for the night and would need another way out.

The closest people were more than two blocks away, so he slipped around the building’s side, down the cutway, reaching an alcove off the rear alley. The stable’s rear door was padlocked from the outside. It took little effort, and a little noise, to dislodge the locking plate from the doorjamb.

Soft knickers greeted him inside, along with the scents of leather, hay, and dung in dusty-smelling air. Pitchforks and hay bundles lined the back wall to the open rafters, but a black gelding and a bay mare stood in the nearest stalls. Both were the youngest and healthiest among six others. He searched until he found harnesses pegged on the front wall and pulled down the newest-looking pair. As to a wagon, he had no such choice.

The only one inside was a large, two-wheeled cart, but it was not large enough. As the only vehicle, it made little sense for a place so near the docks, and there were six horses and multiple harnesses.

Chane stepped back outside and circled the stable all the way to the alley at the alcove’s back. Just around the left side, he found a large wagon in the alley and hurried over to inspect it.

The seat was long and thick. The entire bed was walled with planks that had outer brackets for lashing a tarp over cargo. Folded canvas was stacked in the back. It was perfect, except for two things.

The front left wheel was chained down to an iron ring embedded in the alley’s cobble. Chane decided to wait on breaking that until he was fully ready to leave. The other problem became evident as he walked back to the stable’s rear door.

To harness the horses, he would have to lead them out to the wagon. He had expected to be able to do so inside, and then open the main front doors and drive off. Now he would have to harness two horses, one by one, in the open. If he was seen at this time of night, someone might question what he was doing.

He had no further options except to search elsewhere, hoping for something more accessible, but that seemed unlikely. Besides, once he was off, even if someone found the wagon and horses missing at dawn, they would not likely trace it to a caravan station with wagons and teams of its own. He simply needed to hurry and finish without being seen.

Chane piled the harnesses on the wagon seat and returned to lead the black gelding out. It followed him without protest, and he harnessed the animal quietly. When he hurried back into the stable for the bay mare, she nickered softly as he took her halter.

“Shhhh,” he murmured, stroking her velvet nose.

She followed him out, and he backed her into position beside the gelding. As he buckled down the last of her harness, the barest creak carried through the quiet alley.

“Is someone there?” a masculine voice called.

Chane slipped around the wagon and flattened against the building’s backside.

Footsteps followed, and a stocky man with a dark beard and tied-back hair, both traced with gray, came around the alcove’s corner. He stopped, spotting Chane immediately. At first, he appeared more surprised than concerned. Perhaps theft was not common here.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and when Chane did not answer, his expression clouded. “Don’t you move!”

In another breath, the stable keeper would shout for the authorities.

Chane bolted along the building’s side, but before he reached the corner, the man ducked back out of sight. Chane rounded into the alcove, and the tines of a pitchfork drove for his face. He twisted to the side, though an outside tine slid along his temple.

A slight sting rose as the skin beneath his hair split. He grabbed the fork’s base with his left hand, and another tine’s tip scraped along his wrist. When he struck out, his right fist caught the stable keeper on the cheekbone. The heavy man toppled backward through the open rear door as Chane jerked the pitchfork away.

And the beast inside of him struggled to awaken.

Chane stood staring as the man stirred limply just inside the doorway. All he wanted was another kill, another true moment as it should be. Perhaps it would be his last chance. No one would know, even Wynn, except ...

Even the beast seemed only dully piqued, as if groggy from dormancy. In its strange complacency, reason plagued Chane.

Once he returned to the caravan station, they would not leave straight off. A stolen wagon was one thing; a dead man was something else. It might bring a more thorough search for a perpetrator.

The beast inside of him suddenly became more aware, and wailed in frustration.

Chane bit down, but there was nothing between his teeth. He could haul the body away in the wagon, dump it along the shore where it would take longer to discover, and return safely to Wynn.

He still hesitated, for Wynn had forbidden him to kill any sentient being.

No ... she had forbidden him to kill in order to feed.

Chane had struggled and fought with himself to follow her wishes. Even if he left the stable keeper alive but unconscious, the moment the man woke, he would raise the alarm.

The beast within him wobbled as it rose. Shaking off some lethargy, it lunged to the limits of its chains.

Chane reached down and grabbed the man’s head in both hands. With one quick wrench, he broke the stable master’s neck. The man’s body tensed once all over and went slack upon the stable’s straw.

The beast shrieked. Chane winced, as if hearing—feeling—its rage at being denied.

He hauled himself up the doorframe and dragged the body out to toss it in the wagon’s back. He jerked a tarp across, took one last look around the stable, and grabbed a sack of oats, a bucket, and a pile of blankets.

Every motion was mechanical, but inside, Chane ached from what he had not done more than for what he had done. One brief chance at release, for his own need, and he had not taken it.

Finally, he picked up a heavy shovel leaning against one wall and slammed the sharp end against the chain holding the front wheel. It broke easily, but so did the shovel. He tossed the shovel in the wagon and climbed aboard, grabbing and flicking the reins.

Driving the wagon south out of town, he went even farther than where he judged the caravan station lay. He dumped the body over the rock lip above the shore, not bothering to watch it splash into the water, and tossed the broken shovel after it. When he turned inland over the rough ground, finding the road back toward the city, it was not long before he spotted the campfires in the night.

Chane had acquired what they needed. At least in part, he had done so as Wynn required.

Wynn was quite satisfied as she led the way back carrying three heavy skins of fresh water. Ore-Locks hauled a burlap sack nearly filled with potatoes, carrots, and some strange type of apple she’d never seen before. And, of course, there was more smoked fish.

They’d also found speckled eggs, a clay jar of olives in their own oil, and a little goat cheese sealed in wax. If Chane was successful, they could also scavenge seaside driftwood to bring, should they have trouble with dry firewood along the way.

When they reached the caravan camp, fewer people were up and about. Some had settled into bedrolls around the embers of dying fires. Wynn saw no sign of Chane anywhere.

What would they do if he couldn’t acquire transportation that could be covered during the day?

“Here he comes,” Ore-Locks said. “But why is he ... ?”

Ore-Locks didn’t finish as Wynn followed his gaze.

Chane drove a wagon along the dirt road. He wasn’t coming from the city, but rather from the south. He pulled up, tied off the reins, and dropped to the ground. Two fine young horses in new harnesses were hooked to the large wagon with high sides and a thick rear gate. This was more than what Wynn expected, and her pleasant surprise turned to discomfort.

“How much did you have to pay?” she asked quietly.

“Nothing in coin,” he answered. “I traded for it.”

“Traded?” she echoed. “Traded what?”

Her discomfort grew when he didn’t answer straight off.

“Some of Welstiel’s rods,” he said. “The metal alone is worth a good deal.”

Wynn had never liked that Chane kept all of Welstiel’s arcane possessions. Trading away any of them was fine with her, especially if someone was going to melt them down for their metal.

She smiled, patting the neck of a pretty bay mare. “Well done. You’re getting as good at barter as Ore-Locks.”

Then she noticed a dark line running out of his sleeve and down to the palm of his hand.

“Are you hurt?”

“It is nothing,” he said, turning away. “We should get the wagon ready.”

Just before dawn, Chane lay curled in the wagon’s covered bed, listening to the bustle of team masters preparing the caravan to leave. Ore-Locks, Wynn, and even Shade were up on the front bench, ready to head out.

No one had come looking for the wagon or horses.

Chane still wore his heavy cloak and had put on the gloves and scarf, as well. The mask and glasses lay next to his head, along with both of his swords. Should the caravan be attacked during daylight, he would know it, hear it, and be ready.

He pulled the narrow, leather-bound box from Welstiel’s pack and opened it, taking out a glass vial containing the violet concoction.

“We’re off,” Wynn said, though not to him.

Ore-Locks grunted acknowledgment as the wagon lurched forward.

Chane downed part of the vial’s contents and then returned it to the padded box. He could already sense the burning rays of the sun just beyond the canvas above him.

It would be a long day.