Jacrys’ voice faltered; his skin tingled with pins and needles. When he finally remembered to breathe, the noisy rasp that filled the room with the wet sound of death unexpectedly unnerved him.
But I’m not dying. Not yet.
Through sheer force of will he rose from the cot – his deathbed – and drew Thadrake’s knife from the block of cheese, then staggered towards the stairs.
It’s not her, you dumb rutter. Get back into bed. You can’t get down there; you’ll die in the stairwell.
But Jacrys ignored his own advice. It was her, just below his window, emerging from the tavern beneath his own room. She had probably been enjoying breakfast with her friends. The one with the roll of sailcloth looked like the bowman, Garec Haile, still alive despite taking an arrow in the lungs that night in Orindale.
Get back into bed, he told himself sternly, you’re hallucinating. This is it; this is the end – of course you’d see her at the end. And Garec’s dead; you know that, you killed him yourself.
At the top of the stairs, the former spy, white, wide-eyed with pain and looking like a man possessed, clenched his teeth over the blade and braced his hands against the narrow walls. Blood soaked his tunic in a scarlet bib as he sucked in tortured breaths through his teeth. His lungs felt heavy, like waterlogged bags of sand in his chest. He took a step, then another. Pain lanced through his hips; his leg muscles twitched. Another step.
I’m coming for you, Brexan. I’ll be down in just a moment.
Redrick sneaked into a doorway. ‘It’s him, the short one, sonofabitch,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve gotta get back to the table. I never should have boxed the damned thing up. I should have known, should have felt them coming, worthless frigging tan-bak. Shit!’
He peeked from his hiding place. Gilmour was still there, searching the crowds, hustling back and forth along the wharf, obviously panicked about something. His little partisan friends scurried after him.
‘What are you looking for, Gilmour?’ he asked. ‘What do you think you know? And where is Steven?’ Redrick watched another moment then stepped onto the road. The table wouldn’t help him; Blackford probably had the crate so tangled in crane lines, it would take all day to reach it. ‘All right, fine. Better this way, with the surprise element, than from the Bellan. He expects me up there.’
Blackford spun around. Someone’s coming! He took an interminable moment to search the captain’s cabin for a hiding place, then gave up – it was no use, the creature haunting Redrick Shen would find him in a heartbeat. He had to lie, and make it look convincing. The crate was his only option.
He moved quickly behind the wooden box and pretended to check the top and sides, as if ensuring the box wouldn’t fall open during transfer. Make it look good. You’ve got to make this look good.
There was a soft knock at the cabin door. Blackford snapped to and shouted, ‘Who is it?’
‘Captain Blackford, sir, it’s Kem. The crane’s ready, sir. I have the lines here.’
Blackford exhaled quietly in relief and bade him enter; Kem came in, followed by three sailors, each dragging a length of hawser.
Kem looked the box over for a few moments, then announced, ‘We’ll have to turn it on its side, sir,’ he said.
Blackford’s heart thudded. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He considered slipping over the rail, disappearing into the Pellia streets and making for home – he could be there in less than a Moon.
‘How’d he- uh, she- Well, you know, how’d it get it in here in the first place?’ Kem asked, brushing a callused palm over the rough slats of the packing crate.
Remembering himself, Blackford shook his head.’ That’s not your concern. Just get it onto the deck and wait there for me.’
Run, fool. Redrick’s gone. You’ll be home in less than a Moon.
‘Yes sir,’ Kem said smartly, then turned on the others and shouted, ‘Right you lot, let’s get this motherless whore turned over.’
Blackford ignored them and was pushing past the crate, making for the companionway, when he saw the chest of drawers. It was fashioned from some ebony-coloured wood from southern Rona, and tucked discreetly away in a recessed area beneath the berth.
That’s it, Blackford thought, a leap of excitement making his heart beat faster. Unless he has it with him, that’s where it’ll be.
Kem and the sailors worked behind him, quickly and efficiently, desperate to avoid damaging the stone table – given the probable punishment for damaging it, Blackford could understand why. However, he wasn’t about to search the chest until he had the cabin to himself. The sailors wanted to see Redrick – the monster possessing him – leave the Bellan, for ever, but Blackford knew scared men would say anything to save their own lives. If they caught him searching the captain’s cabin, they’d squeal on him in a heartbeat.
Despite the cold, the men were sweating.
‘Kem, go and fetch another two men to help you,’ Caption Blackford ordered. ‘You three, get above decks and have that dough-headed horsecock of a crane operator slacken the hawsers. Now!’
‘But sir,’ Kem began, ‘we’ve got-’
‘Now!’ Blackford shouted again.
‘Yes, sir,’ they said in unison. At least they had shared accountability should the table fall and crack.
The moment the cabin was empty, Blackford knelt to rifle through the chest. It didn’t take long. The stone, a hand-sized lump of grey rock wrapped in a bit of cloth was nestled at the back of the top drawer. He pocketed it, carefully closed the drawer and hurried above decks.
Home in less than a Moon, he thought, but not without this rock. He crossed the main deck and made his way towards the gangplank. Kem, two additional sailors in tow, spotted him and called, ‘Should we carry on with the crate, Captain?’
Without slowing, Blackford nodded and said, ‘Yes, please- I mean, yes, at once! I’m off to fetch Redrick. We’ll be back in a moment.’
Home in less than a Moon. Blackford reached the pier, turned along the wharf and didn’t look back, even after the explosions echoed across the harbour.
‘Gilmour, what are you doing?’ Brexan asked.
‘Milla, the girl I told you about, the one with Kantu?’ He searched the crowd, looking for children. ‘I think she’s here somewhere. I can feel her.’
Garec, still shouldering his disguised weapons, felt like he was looking pretty suspicious, hurrying back and forth with a rolled length of sailcloth over his shoulder. ‘What does she look like?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Gilmour said, ‘like a little girl, maybe forty, fifty Twinmoons, not much more.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Garec said. ‘How many little-’
‘Fantus!’ someone shouted from the tavern, ‘Fantus, get down!’
Gilmour turned to see a strange young man waving frantically and charging into the road. The stranger was obscured for an instant while a cart laden with headless jemmafish passed between them. When the explosion shattered the morning, the cart flipped end over end, spilling its cargo and splintering on the cobblestones.
With the instant’s warning, Gilmour shouted something unintelligible to his friends and dived for the gutter, but it wasn’t enough. Mark’s spell struck him solidly, casting him up and through the thin wooden walls of a workers’ hut. He fell through the stove, burning his back and arms, and crashed into the block-and-tackle crane next to the Falkan frigate.
Garec couldn’t make out what the stranger had shouted, but he watched as Gilmour wheeled, shouted as well, then threw himself face-first onto the street.
Acting on instinct, Garec tightened his grip on the sailcloth roll and grasped a fistful of Brexan’s sleeve. He heaved himself backwards, hauling Brexan with him, and slammed into Captain Ford. The three of them tumbled into the street beside the tavern as the dockside windows burst outwards in a cloud of flying glass. Several shards ripped through Garec’s tunic, tearing open his back.