Percepliquis

CHAPTER 12

Royce heard whispering.

He estimated it was an hour before dawn. Although he wasn’t certain, it would surprise him if he was very far off. Royce had experience keeping track of time underground. He had developed a surprisingly accurate method during his incarceration in Manzant. During those days, tracking minutes had focused his mind, keeping it off other, more painful thoughts. This was the first time in many years he had allowed himself to remember those days. He had carefully locked them away, packaged them into a back corner of his mind with a dark blanket laid over top, just in case he accidentally looked that way. Only now did he welcome the memories. The pain they caused worked much the same way as keeping track of time had in Manzant, much the same as biting a finger, or squeezing his fist until the fingernails dug half-moons into his palm. They distracted him from thoughts of loss far more fresh-far more crippling.

More than a decade had passed since the First Officer of the Black Diamond had betrayed him, since he had tragically killed Jade and as a result was sent to Manzant Prison by his best friend. Manzant was a dwarven-constructed prison and salt mine. He could still remember the dark rock with streaks of white and fossils of shellfish. The walls were shored up with timber. Dwarves never used wood. Men added that years later as they carved deeper, hauling the chunks of rock salt out to the elevator in baskets. It was easy to tell the man-made sections from the dwarven by the height of the ceiling. Those being punished worked in the dwarven tunnels, and Royce often found himself there.

He recalled the constant clink of pick on stone and the heat of the fires boiling the brine out of underwater lakes. Huge pans, bubbling and hissing, filled the stale air with steam. If he closed his eyes, he could see the line of bucket men and the walkers chained by their necks to the huge wheel powering the pump. He could also see men driven to exhaustion until they collapsed into the furnace pit.

Water was plentiful, so it was available to those who worked, but Ambrose Moor, the owner of the prison mine, did not waste his profits on food. They were lucky to receive a single small meal a day, usually the spoiled remnants of what a crew of indentured sailors refused to eat. This was just one of many deals Ambrose arranged to minimize operation costs. Royce would fall asleep to dreams of killing Ambrose and the thoughts lingered throughout the day. In the two and a half years he spent in Manzant, he killed Ambrose five hundred and thirty-seven times-no two alike. He killed many people in Manzant and not all of them were imaginary. He never thought of them as people. They were all animals, monsters. Whatever humanity a man had possessed going in was leached out by the salt, pain, and despair. They all fought for rotten food, a place to sleep, a cup of water. He learned how to sleep light and how to appear like he was sleeping when he was not.

Never seeing daylight, never breathing fresh air, and being worked to exhaustion each day, and beaten for mere recreation, had killed many and driven others insane. For Royce, Manzant was only part of his prison, the latest incarnation. The real walls he had been building up brick by brick for years. Escaping Manzant was impossible, but it was ultimately easier than escaping the prison of his own making.

Nim had started him on the path, and later Arcadius and Hadrian had guided his way, but it was Gwen who had finally unlocked the cell door. She shoved it open and stood just outside calling, assuring him it was safe. He could smell the fresh air and see the brilliance of the sun. He was almost through, almost out-almost.

The whispering came from near the pool.

He thought everyone was asleep. They had traveled a long distance that day over hard terrain. No one had called for him to stop, but he had seen them stumbling-all except the dwarf. The little rat never seemed to tire but continued to scurry, and more than once, Royce had spotted a little smile behind the mustache and remains of his beard.

He had almost killed Magnus that first night they had spent at The Laughing Gnome. The thought had danced teasingly on his mind. That was before Myron came back from dinner and got all chatty. Royce would not admit it to anyone, but the dwarf was useful, and on surprisingly good behavior-which showed even more good sense. More than that, he discovered he no longer had the desire. Like everything else, the dwarf’s crime had been made trivial by Gwen’s death. Both love and hate were banished from him. He was a desert, dry of all passion. Mostly he was tired. He had one last job to do and he would do it, not for the empire, not even for Hadrian-this was for Gwen.

He got to his feet silently, out of curiosity more than concern. The whispering was definitely coming from the party-not some intruder. He spotted the princess lying on her side, wrapped in twisted blankets. She was jerking and thrashing again, that creepy robe glowing different colors, fading out and lighting up. He had no idea if the robe was causing her to dream so violently or if her dreams sparked the robe’s response. He did not see how it was any of his business and moved on.

At first, he thought it might be Magnus and Gaunt whispering. He frequently spied them traveling together and talking when the rest were too far to hear. Drawing closer, he discovered the source-it was Elden. He could see the huge reclined form up on one elbow under the blanket. His conspirator was on the far side and blocked from view. Wyatt lay a short distance away. He too was awake and watching.

“What’s going on?” Royce whispered to the sailor. “Who’s Elden talking to?”

“The monk.”

“Myron?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Is it normal for him to talk to strangers like that?”

Wyatt looked at him. “He’s talked more to that little monk in the last three days than he has to me in the last decade. They were doing this last night too, and I swear I heard Elden crying. I once watched while a ship’s surgeon put a red-hot poker to a wound on his thigh. Elden didn’t make a sound, but last night that little monk had him weeping so bad his eyes were red the next morning.”

Royce said nothing.

“Funny thing, though, he was smiling. All day long, I saw Elden grinning from ear to ear. That’s just not like him.”

“Best get back to sleep,” Royce told him. “I’ll be waking everyone in another hour.”

Royce stopped again.

Hadrian could see him over the heads of the others from his position at the rear. This time, Royce knelt down, placed the lantern on the ground beside him, and scraped the dirt. Alric approached and stood slightly to one side.

The party spent most of that day, like the one before, traveling in a single column in the narrow corridor. Overhead, water dripped, soaking their heads and shoulders; likewise, their feet felt pickled from wading through ankle-deep pools.

“What is it this time?” he heard Degan mutter with disdain. “He’s stopping every twenty feet now. This is the problem with monarchies and the whole feudal system, for that matter. Alric is in charge by no other virtue than his birth, and the man is clearly incompetent. He lost his own kingdom twice over in a single year, and now he is in charge of us? We should have a leader who is elected on merit, not lineage. Someone who is the most talented, the most gifted, but no-we have Alric. And the king in all his minuscule wisdom has chosen Royce to guide us. If I were in charge, I would put Magnus out front. He’s obviously far more gifted. He’s constantly correcting Royce’s mistakes. We would be making twice the time we are now. I’ve observed that people respect you.”

Hadrian noticed Gaunt was looking at him. Up until that moment, he had not known who Gaunt was speaking to.

“No one says it, no one bows or anything, but you are highly regarded, I can tell-more than Alric, that’s for certain. If you were to support me, I think we could persuade the others to accept my command of this group. I know Magnus would.”

“Why you?” Hadrian asked.

“Huh?”

“Why should you be in charge?”

“Oh-well, for one thing I am the descendant of Novron and will be emperor. And second, I am smarter than that oaf Alric, by far.”

“I thought you said you wanted a system based on merit, not lineage.”

“I did, but like I said, I am far better suited to the task than he is. Besides, why else am I here if not to lead?”

“Alric has led men into battle, and when I say led, I mean it. He personally charged the gates of Medford under a hail of arrows ahead of everyone, even his bodyguards.”

“Exactly, the man is a fool.”

“All right, it might not have been the smartest choice, but it did show courage and an unwillingness to sit back in safety while sending others into peril. That right there gives him credit in my book. But okay, I see your point. He might not be the smartest leader. So if you want someone with brains and merit, then Princess Arista is your clear choice.”

Degan chuckled, apparently taking his comments as a joke. When he saw Hadrian’s scowl, he stopped. “You’re not serious? She’s a woman-an irritating, manipulative, bossy woman. She shouldn’t even be on this trip. She’s got Alric wrapped around her finger and it will get us all killed. Did you know she tried to free me from that dungeon all by herself? She failed miserably, got herself captured and her bodyguard killed. That’s what she does, you know. She gets people killed. She’s a menace. And on top of that she’s also a wit-”

Degan struck the wall with the back of his head, bounced off, and fell to his knees. Hadrian felt the pain in his knuckles and only then realized he had hit him.

Gaunt glared up, his eyes watering, his hands cupping his face. “Crazy fool! Are you mad?”

“What’s going on?” Arista called back down the line.

“This idiot just punched me in the face! My nose is bleeding!”

“ Hadrian did?” the princess said, stunned.

“It was… an accident,” Hadrian replied, knowing it sounded feeble, but not knowing how else to describe his actions. He had not meant to hit Gaunt; it had just happened.

“You accidentally punched him?” Wyatt asked, suppressing a chuckle. “I’m not sure you have a full understanding of the whole bodyguard thing.”

“Hadrian!” Royce called.

“What?” he shouted back, irritated that even Royce was going to join in this embarrassing moment.

“Come up here. I need you to look at something.”

Degan was still on his knees in a pool of water. “Um-sorry ’bout that.”

“Get away from me!”

Hadrian moved up the line as Wyatt, Elden, and Myron pressed themselves against the walls to let him pass, each one looking at him curiously.

“What did he do?” Arista whispered as he reached her.

“Nothing, really.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You punched him for no reason?”

“Well, no, but-it’s complicated. I’m not even sure I understand it. It was sort of like a reflex, I guess.”

“A… reflex?” she said.

“I told him I was sorry.”

“Anytime today would be nice,” Royce said.

Arista stepped aside, looking at him suspiciously as he passed.

“What was all that about?” Alric asked as he approached.

“I, ah-I punched Gaunt in the face.”

“Good for you,” Alric told him.

“About time someone did,” Mauvin said. “I’m just sorry you beat me to it.”

“What do you make of this?” Royce asked, still on his knees and pointing to something on the ground beside his lantern.

Hadrian bent down. It was a leather string with a series of stone beads, feathers, and what looked like chicken bones threaded through it.

“It’s a Trajan ankle bracelet,” he told them. “Worn for luck by warriors of the Ankor tribe of the Ghazel.”

“The ends aren’t torn,” Royce said. “But look how they are bent and twisted. I think it just came untied. And it is partially buried under the dirt, so I am thinking it’s been here awhile. Regardless, we are in their neighborhood, so we’d better start moving a bit more cautiously. See if you can keep the chatter down to a minimum.”

Hadrian looked at the bracelet and caught Royce by the arm as he was about to move forward again.

“Here,” he said, keeping his body positioned to block the view of the rest of the party. He placed Alverstone into Royce’s hand.

“I was wondering where that went.”

“Time to re-claw the cat, I think,” Hadrian said. “Just be a good boy, okay?”

“Look who’s talking.”

The party moved forward again. Hadrian did not return to the rear. He thought it was more likely they would encounter Ghazel from the front, and he also did not relish the idea of returning to Gaunt.

The corridor widened until they could walk three abreast. Then abruptly the passageway ended. It stopped in a small room where the far side narrowed to no more than a crack. In the center was nothing more than a sizable pile of rocks.

Gaunt shook his head in disgust. “I told you he was incompetent,” he said, pointing at Alric. “He was so sure this was the right passage, and here we are days later standing at a dead end.”

“You said I was incompetent?” the king asked, then looked to Hadrian. “No wonder you hit him. Thanks.”

“What about us?” Gaunt asked. “How many days of food do we have? How much time have we wasted? We’ve been down here-what? Three days now? And it took us two days from Aquesta. That’s five days. Add five days to get back and even if we were to leave right now, we will have been gone ten days! How long do you think we have until the elves reach Aquesta? Two weeks? We’ll blow most of that time just retracing our steps.”

“I did not hear you suggesting a different choice,” Arista said. “Alric picked as best he could and I don’t think anyone here could have chosen any better.”

“How surprising- his sister is defending him.”

Mauvin stepped toward Gaunt and drew his blade. The sword picked up the light from the lanterns on its mirrored surface and flashed as Mauvin raised the point to Gaunt’s neck. “I warned you before. Do not speak of my king without respect in my presence.”

“Mauvin, stop!” Arista ordered.

“I’m not going to kill him,” he assured her. “I’ll just carve my initials in his face.”

“Alric.” She turned to her brother. “Tell him to stop.”

“I’m not certain I should.”

“See! This is the oppression I spoke of!” Gaunt shouted. “The evils of a hereditary authority.”

“Somebody shut him up,” Royce snapped.

“Mauvin,” Hadrian said.

“What?” Mauvin looked at him, confused. “You punched him!”

“Yeah, well-that was then.”

“Lower your blade, Mauvin,” Alric said, relenting. “My honor can wait until we are through with this.”

Mauvin sheathed his weapon and Gaunt pushed himself away from the wall, breathing heavily. “Threatening me doesn’t change the situation. We are still at a dead end and it is-”

“It’s not a dead end,” Magnus stated. He stomped his boot twice, got to his knees, and placed his ear to the ground. Then he looked up and glared at the pile of rocks. He got back to his feet and began throwing the rocks aside. Beneath were several pieces of wooden planking and, below them, a hole.

“That was hidden on purpose,” Wyatt said.

“This doesn’t mean we are in the right passage,” Gaunt argued. “I don’t remember the monk ever saying anything about going in a hole. There’s no way to tell this is the right way.”

“It is,” Myron replied.

Gaunt turned on the little monk. “Oh, so you’re keeping information from us, is that it? Or are you merely incompetent and just forgot to tell us about this part of the journal?”

“No,” he said meekly. “There’s nothing in the journal about this.”

“Then surely you are more pious than I thought, for Maribor himself must be giving you information he keeps from the rest of us.”

“Maybe,” Myron replied. “All I know is that’s Edmund Hall’s mark.” He pointed. “See there, carved into the stone.”

Royce was first to it and, holding his light above the floor, revealed the etched inscription:

“E.H.,” Gaunt read. “How do we know that stands for Edmund Hall?”

“You think there’s a parade of people coming through here with those initials, do you?” Royce asked.

“That’s the exact way he wrote his initials in the journal,” Myron explained.

“What about these, Myron?” Royce asked as he pushed more rocks away to reveal more etchings. These were much brighter-fresher than the EH.

Myron glanced at them for only a moment before saying, “I don’t know anything about those.”

Hadrian stepped up, blew the dirt away. Then he turned to Arista and Alric. “Didn’t the Patriarch say he sent other teams?”

“Yes, he did,” Alric agreed. “Three of them, I think.”

“According to the empress, they all failed,” Arista added.

Hadrian glanced at Royce. “I think we know about the third group he sent, but they didn’t come this way. Still, I’m guessing these are the initials of either the first or the second team.” He looked at Royce again. “If you were going to handpick a group to come down here, and you could choose anyone, who would you pick to lead such a group?”

“Breckton, maybe,” Royce replied. “Or possibly Gravin Dent of Delgos.”

“Well, we know they didn’t pick Breckton, and look at the first initials, GD. Now when was the last time anyone saw Gravin? He wasn’t at the Wintertide games this year.”

“Not last year either,” Alric said.

“He was at Dahlgren,” Mauvin said.

“Yes, he was!” Arista confirmed. “I remember Fanen pointing him out and saying what a great adventurer he was and how he worked mainly for the Church of Nyphron. He called him something… a-a-”

“Quester?” Mauvin asked.

“Yes, that’s it!”

“Now let’s think about that,” Hadrian said. “They would need a scholar, a historian. Dent was at Dahlgren. Wasn’t there someone else too? That funny guy with the catapult, what was his name?”

“Tobis Rentinual?” Mauvin asked. “He was a real nut.”

“Yeah, but do you remember him saying something about how he named the catapult after Novron’s wife, because of all the research he did into ancient imperial history?”

“Yes. He said something about having to learn a language or something, didn’t he? He was all boastful about it, remember?”

“That’s right.” Hadrian was nodding. “Look at that second set of initials, TR.”

“Tobis Rentinual,” Mauvin said. “It even looks like how he would draw his letters.”

“What about the others?” Alric asked.

Hadrian shrugged. “I’m really only guessing at the first two. I have no idea about the others.”

“I do,” Magnus said. “Well, one of them, at least. HM, that’s Herclor Math.”

“Who?” Hadrian asked, and looked around, but everyone shrugged.

“Of course none of you would know him. He’s a mason-a dwarf mason-and a good one. I would recognize his inscription anywhere. The Maths are an old family. A Math even worked on the design team of Drumindor. His clan goes back a long way.”

“Why did they initial the stone?” Wyatt asked.

“Maybe to let anyone who might follow know they got this far,” Magnus replied.

“Why didn’t they mark the bloody three-choice passage?” Mauvin asked.

“Maybe they planned to,” Arista said. “Maybe-like us-they didn’t know if they picked the right one, but planned to mark it on the way out, only-only they never came out.”

“Maybe we should carve our initials too,” Mauvin suggested. “So others will know we were here.”

“No,” Arista said. “If we don’t come back out, there will be no others to follow us.”

Each of them looked toward the hole with apprehension.

“At any rate,” Royce said, “this looks like the place. Who’s carrying the rope?”

They tied three lengths of rope together, and with Hadrian on the line, Royce climbed in. They fed out two-thirds of it before Hadrian felt the line stop and Royce’s weight come off.

He waited.

They all waited. Some sat down on whatever flat spots they could find. Elden remained standing. He had an unpleasant look on his face as he eyed the hole. Despite Arista’s comments, the dwarf busied himself carving each of their initials into the stone.

“You want to call down to him?” Alric asked. “He’s been in there a while.”

“It’s better to be patient,” he replied. “Royce will either call up or yank on the line when he wants us to come down.”

“What if he fell?” Mauvin asked.

“He didn’t. On the other hand, what is more likely is that there’s a patrol of Ghazel and he’s waiting for them to pass. If you get nervous and start yelling down, you’ll get him killed, or angry. Either way it’s not a good idea.”

Mauvin and Alric both nodded gravely. Hadrian had learned his lesson the hard way on that first trip the two made to Ervanon. Learning to trust Royce when it was dark, you were alone, and the world was so quiet you could hear your own breathing was not something you did overnight.

Hadrian remembered the wind whipping them as they climbed the Crown Tower. That was a big tower. He must have climbed a hundred of them with Royce since, but aside from Drumindor, that was the tallest-and the first. He had marveled at how the little thief could scale the sheer wall like a fly with nothing but those hand-claws. He gave Hadrian a pair and sat smirking as he tried to use them.

“Hopeless,” was all he said, taking the claws back. “Can you at least climb a rope?”

Hadrian had just returned from his days in the arenas of Calis, where he had been respected and cheered by roaring crowds as the Tiger of Mandalin. He was less than pleased with this little twig of a man treating him as if he were the village idiot. So infuriated had he been by Royce’s smug tone that Hadrian had wanted to beat him unconscious, only Arcadius had warned him to be patient. “He’s like the pup of a renowned hunting dog who’s been beaten badly by every master he’s had,” the old wizard had told him. “He’s a gem worthy of a little work, but he’ll test you-he’ll test you a lot. Royce doesn’t make friends easily and he doesn’t make it easy to be his friend. Don’t get angry. That’s what he’s looking for. That’s what he expects. He’ll try to drive you away, but you’ll fool him. Listen to him. Trust him. That’s what he won’t expect. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to be very patient. But if you do, you’ll make a friend for life, the kind that will walk unarmed into the jaws of a dragon if you ask him to.”

Hadrian felt a light tug on the rope.

“Everything okay, pal?” he called down softly.

“Found it,” Royce replied. “Come on down.”

It was like a mine shaft, tight and deep. Hadrian had descended only a short distance when his eyes detected a faint light below. The pale blue-green light appeared to leak into the base of the shaft, which, he could now estimate, was no more than a hundred feet deep. As he reached the bottom, he felt a strong breeze and heard a sound. A very out-of-place sound-the crash of waves.

He stood in an enormous cavern so vast he could not see the far wall. At his feet were shells and black sand, and before him lay a great body of water with waves that rolled in white and frothy. Along the beach, he spotted clumps of seaweed and algae that glowed bright green and the ocean gave off an emerald light, which the ceiling reflected in such a way as to make it seem like they were not underground at all. He felt like he was standing on the beach at night under a cloudy, albeit green, sky. His nose filled with the pungent scent of salt, fish, and seaweed. To the right lay nothing but endless water, but straight out, just visible at the horizon, were structures-the outlines of buildings, pillars, towers, and walls.

Across the sea lay the city of Percepliquis.

Royce stood on the shore, staring across the water, and glanced over his shoulder when Hadrian touched down. “Not something you see every day, is it?”

“Wow,” he replied.

It did not take long before all of them stood on the black sand, gazing out at the sea and the city beyond. Myron looked as if he were in shock. Hadrian realized the monk had never seen an ocean, much less one that glowed bright green.

“Edmund Hall mentioned an underground sea,” Myron said at length. “But Mr. Hall is not terribly good at descriptions. This- this is truly amazing. I’ve never thought of myself as big in any sense, but standing here, I feel as small as a pebble.”

“Anyone lose an ocean? ’Cause I think we just found it,” Mauvin announced.

“It’s beautiful,” Arista said.

“Whoa,” Wyatt muttered.

“How are we going to get across it?” Gaunt asked.

They all looked to Myron. “Oh, right-sorry. Edmund Hall made a raft from stuff he found washed up on the beach. He said there was a lot of it. He lashed planking with a rope he had with him and formed a rudder out of one side of an old crate. His sail was a patchwork of sewn bags, his mast a tall log of driftwood.”

“How long did it take him?” Gaunt asked.

“Three weeks.”

“By Mar!” he exclaimed.

Alric scowled at him. “There’s ten of us and we have an expert sailor and better gear. Let’s get looking for our raw material.”

They all spread out like a group of beachcombers looking for shells and starfish on a lovely summer’s day.

There was a good deal of debris on the shore. Old bottles and broken crates, poles and nets, all amazingly well preserved after having been down there for a thousand years. Hadrian picked up a jug with writing on one side. He carefully turned it over, realizing he was holding an artifact that by its mere age was profoundly valuable. He did not expect to be able to read it. Everything from the

ancient time of Percepliquis would be in Old Speech. He looked at the markings and was stunned to find he could understand them: BRIG’S RUM DISTILLERY. DAGASTAN, CALIS.

He blinked.

“Where’s Myron?” It was not so much the question as the voice that pulled Hadrian’s attention away from the jug.

Elden had spoken. The big man stood like a wave break on the sand, his head twisting around, searching. “I don’t see him.”

Hadrian glanced up and down the beach. Elden was right-the monk was gone.

“I’ll find him,” Royce said, annoyed, and trotted off.

“Elden?” Wyatt called. “Can you give me a hand here?” he said, trying to pull up a large weathered plank mostly buried in the sand. “We can use this as the keel, I think.”

Alric and Mauvin were dragging over what looked like the side of a wooden crate. “There’s another side to this back there among those rocks,” the king informed Wyatt.

“That’s great, but right now can the two of you help us dig this beam out?”

Gaunt wandered the beach halfheartedly, kicking over rocks, as if he might find a mast hiding under one. Magnus noticeably avoided the water, sticking to the high beach area and glancing over his shoulder at the waves as if they were barking dogs he needed to constantly assure himself were chained.

Arista came running down to where the four dug the beam out of the sand. “I found a huge piece of canvas!” she said, and did a little dance.

Hadrian noticed her feet were bare. She held her shoes in her hands, swinging them by the heels, her robe swaying. As he looked at her just then, she could have been any number of girls he had known from taverns or small towns-not a princess at all.

“Don’t you like my celebratory dance?” she asked him.

“Is that what that is?”

She rolled her eyes. “Com’on and help me get the canvas. It will make the perfect sail.”

She ran back down the beach and Hadrian followed. She stopped and, bending down, pulled on the corner of a buried piece of canvas. “We’ll have to dig it out, but I bet it is big. I think-” She stopped when she spotted Royce and Myron walking toward them.

“There you are,” Hadrian said in a reprimanding tone. “You had Elden worried, young man.”

“I saw a crab,” Myron said, embarrassed. “They have these huge claws and run sideways-they scurry very fast-like big spiders. I chased him down the beach, but he disappeared into a hole before I could get a good look. Have you ever seen a crab?”

“Yes, Myron. I’ve seen crabs before.”

“Oh, so you know how fascinating they are! I was literally carried away-well, not literally. I mean, I wasn’t actually carried by the crab; lured is more accurate.”

“Royce, look at the canvas I found!” Arista said, repeating her little dance for him.

“Very nice,” the thief replied.

“You don’t seem suitably impressed. It’s going to be our sail,” she told him proudly. “Maybe we should have a contest for the person who finds the best part of the raft.” She followed this with a greedy grin.

“We could do that.” Royce nodded. “But I don’t think you’ll win.”

“No? Did you find something better?”

“Myron did.”

“Better than the crab?” Hadrian asked.

“You could say that.” Royce motioned for them to follow.

They walked around an arm of the cliff wall that jutted into the sea, causing them all to wade up to their ankles for a short bit. On the far side, resting on the sand about a half mile down the beach, was a small single-mast boat that listed off the keel. Its pair of black sails dangled from the yards, feebly flapping in the sea breeze.

“By Mar!” Hadrian and Arista said together.

A loose board on the boat’s deck creaked under Hadrian’s weight and Royce glared at him. Twelve years they had worked together, and still Royce did not seem capable of understanding that Hadrian could not float. The problem was that Royce apparently could. He made it look so easy. Hadrian walked like the caricature of a thief-on his toes, his arms out for balance, wavering up and down as if he were on a tightrope. Royce walked as casually as if he were sauntering down a city street. They communicated as they always did on the job, with facial expressions and hand gestures. Royce had learned sign language as part of his guild training but had never bothered teaching Hadrian more than a few signals. Royce was always able to communicate what he needed by pointing, counting with his fingers, or making simple obvious signs like scissoring his fingers across his level palm, imitating legs walking on a floor. He expressed most of his silent dialogue the way he was now: through rolled eyes, glares, and the pitiable shaking of his head. Given how irritated he so often looked, it was a mystery why he put up with Hadrian. After the first trip to the Crown Tower, both were convinced Arcadius was insane in paring them. Royce hated him and the feeling was mutual. Just as Royce recently confirmed, the only reason they had gone back together was out of spite-their shared dislike compelled them. Royce wanted to see Hadrian give up, or die, and Hadrian refused to give him the satisfaction of either. Of course, what ended up happening was something neither of them expected-they were caught.

Royce held a hand out palm up, and Hadrian stopped moving, freezing in place as if he were playing a kid’s game. He could see Royce tilting his head like a dog trying to listen. He shook his head and motioned for him to follow again.

The two had left the rest of the party on the beach, safely back near where Arista had found the canvas, as they scouted the ship. It looked abandoned, but Royce refused to take chances. What they found on deck only further suggested it was deserted. The wood was rough and weathering badly, paint was peeling, and crabs scurried about as if they had lived there for some time. The bow plaque indicated the name: Harbinger. Still, one last mystery needed investigation. The little ship was tiny compared to the Emerald Storm, just large enough to support a below-deck cabin, and they needed to see what was inside.

The door lay closed and Royce inched up on it as if it were a viper ready to strike. When he reached the cabin, he glanced back at Hadrian, who drew his swords. Royce carefully twisted the latch. The corroded metal stuck and he struggled to free it. Then the door fell inward with a creek and banged against the inner wall. Hadrian rushed forward just in case. He fully expected the cabin to be empty, but to his surprise, the faint light falling through the doorway revealed a man.

He lay on a small bed within the small cabin. He was dead, his face rotted, the eyes and lips gone and most of the flesh eaten, perhaps by the crabs. Hadrian guessed the man had died not too long ago, less than a year certainly, perhaps only six months. He wore sailors’ clothes and around his neck was a white kerchief.

Hadrian whispered, “My god, is that…”

Royce nodded. “It’s Bernie.”

Hadrian remembered Bernie as the wiry topman from the Emerald Storm. He along with Staul-whom Royce had killed-Dr. Levy, and the historian Antun Bulard had worked for Sentinel Thranic. They were the third and final team the Patriarch had sent in to obtain the horn. The last Hadrian had seen of them was in the dungeons beneath the Palace of the Four Winds.

“This looks like blood on the bed and floor,” Royce said.

“I’ll take your word for it-I just see a shadow-but what’s that around his belly?”

“Linen-bloodstained. Looks like he died from a stab wound to the stomach, but it was slow.” Royce climbed out of the cabin and looked around the ship, bending down to study the decking and the lines.

“What are you looking for?”

“Blood,” he replied. “There’s blood all over the place, spots on the deck, handprints on the ropes, and on the wheel. I think he set sail wounded.”

“He could have been attacked on board.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. He looks to have initially survived whatever fight gave him the wound, that means the other guy must have been hurt worse, only there’s no other body.”

“Might have dumped it in the sea.”

“Mighta, but there would still be signs of a fight and blood-a lot of blood-somewhere. All I see are dribbles and drips. No, I think he was wounded, got the boat rigged, and set sail…” Royce ran to the wheel, then the stern. “Yep, rudder is tied. He set the ship, tied the rudder; then, feeling weak, he lay down below, where he slowly bled to death.”

“So who knifed him?”

Royce shrugged. “Ghazel?”

Hadrian shook his head. “It’s been-what? Three, four months? You saw that bracelet back there. The Ghazel have passed by here. They’ve seen this ship but haven’t touched it. If they killed him, they would have taken it. No, Thranic had a deal with the Ghazel, remember? He said something about a guide and safe passage.”

“So Merrick or the Patriarch managed to cut a deal with the Ghazel, letting them come in here?”

“Seems to be the case.”

Hadrian waved to the others and dropped a rope ladder over the side.

“All safe and sound, I trust?” Alric asked, coming aboard.

“Safe,” Hadrian said. “As for sound, I defer to our resident expert in the ways of seafaring.”

Wyatt stood in the middle of the ship and slammed his feet down on the wood of the deck. He then grabbed a rope and climbed up to the masthead, inspecting the lines and the canvas. Lastly, he went below. When he returned, he said, “A little worn and neglected, but she’s a fine ship as far as Tenkin doggers go.”

“Tenkin?” Mauvin asked.

Wyatt nodded. “And that’s Bernie in the cabin, right?”

“Pretty sure,” Hadrian replied.

“Then that means this isn’t just some underground salt lake.”

“What do you mean?”

“This boat sailed here from the Palace of the Four Winds. This must open out to the Goblin Sea-some cove the Ba Ran Ghazel discovered that goes underground and is navigable all the way under Alburn to here.”

“That’s how the Ghazel have been getting in and managing to send scouting parties around Amberton Lee,” Hadrian said.

“As nice as all that is,” Alric began, “how are we going to get this ship into the water?”

“We aren’t,” Wyatt told him. “It will do that all by itself, in about six hours.”

“Huh?”

“This ship is just going to jump in the water in six hours?” Mauvin asked incredulously.

“He’s talking about the tide,” Arista said.

“It’s low tide right now, or near it. I’m guessing at high tide the watermark will be up to the cliff’s edge. There won’t even be a beach here. Of course, the ship may still be touching bottom. We’ll set sail and hope the wind can pull us. If not, we’ll have to kedge off.”

“Kedge off?” Mauvin asked, and glanced at Arista, who this time shrugged.

“You take the ship’s anchor, put it on a launch, paddle it out, drop it in the water, and then with the capstan you crank and pull the ship toward the anchor. It’s not a fun drill. Sometimes the anchor doesn’t catch, and sometimes it catches too well. Either way, turning the capstan is never pleasant. All I can say is thank Maribor we have Elden.

“Of course, a ship this size doesn’t have a launch, so we’ll need to make something to float the anchor out with. Since we have six hours to kill, we might as well do that. I’ll need Royce, Hadrian, and Elden to help me set the ship in order, so could His Majesty grab a few of the remaining people and make a raft?”

“Consider it done, Captain,” Alric told him.

“We should also dispose of old Bernie, I’m afraid,” Wyatt said. “While it is tempting to just dump him in the sea, we probably should bury him.”

“Don’t look at me,” Gaunt said. “I didn’t even know the man.”

“I’ll do it,” Myron told them. “Can someone help me get him to the beach?”

“Good, then we’re all squared away,” Wyatt said. “We’ll set sail in six hours-hopefully.”