David Farland - Sons of the Oak

He kept his books on the table, right there by the mugs. He had plenty of ale stains on the parchment.

Though he was none too tidy, Captain Stalker was a careful man. He was used to testing the wind for signs of a storm, watching breakers for hidden reefs. He ran a tight ship, a profitable ship.

He was, in fact, moderately wealthy, though his rumpled clothes and windblown hair suggested otherwise.

Right now, he smelled a storm coming.

It had not been more than a couple of hours since Sir Borenson had booked passage, an aging force soldier straight from the king’s court. With the death of the Earth King it was only to be expected that some might flee Mystarria-lords who knew that they would be out of favor under the new administration.

But much that Borenson had said raised warning flags. The man was notorious. Everyone in Mystarria knew him by name, and four men at the inn knew his face. He’d been the Earth King’s personal guard, and had taken the task of guarding his sons.

And now he was fleeing the country with his wife and children, only hours after some dark character had come offering a reward for information on folks just like him.

“There may be two boys,” the fellow had said. “Both of them with black hair and dark complexions-like half-breeds from Indhopal.”

It didn’t take the brains of a barnacle to know who he was after. The princes of Mystarria were born to a half-breed from Indhopal-Queen Iome Sylvarresta Orden.

The reward for “information” was substantial.

The two sailors threw themselves down on stools. One whistled for a couple of fresh mugs, and a fat mistress brought a pair.

Both sailors leaned forward, smiles plastered across their faces, and eyed Captain Stalker.

“Well?” he asked. He knew that the word was good. He could see it in the men’s bearing, their desire to make him dig the news out of them.

“It’s ’em,” one of the sailors, Steersman Endo, said with a sly smile. “We ’eard the news over by the palace.”

Endo was a wiry little man with the albino skin and cinnabar-colored hair of an Inkarran. Like most Inkarrans, he couldn’t bear sunlight, and so headed Stalker’s night crew.

“There was a battle last night, just west of ’ere. Soon as the Earth King croaked, someone attacked the Queen’s Castle up at Coorm, caught everyone nappin’. So the queen squids off with ’er boys, headin’ east to ’er palace at the Courts of Tide. But she never makes it. She just disappears.”

Was it possible? Captain Stalker wondered. Was the queen really taking her children into exile?

Possibly. There was some logic to it. The queen had aged prematurely, having taken so much metabolism. She’d be dead in a year or two, and the children weren’t ready to lead. She’d want to keep them safe.

And history was against her. There had been an Earth King once before, ages past, a man named Erden Geboren.

Like Gaborn Val Orden, he rose to power precipitously, and folks adored him. He was great at killing reavers, but like Gaborn, he could hardly bear to kill a man.

And when his own sister turned against him, he seemed to have just died, to have passed away from the lack of will to fight.

But Stalker knew something that few others did. There was the matter of Erden Geboren’s family, his children.

Many folks wanted to make his eldest son the next king. Whole nations rose up in his support, demanding it.

But the cries were short-lived. In fact, the idea died out within a week- when Erden Geboren’s children were found slaughtered in their beds.

Iome would surely be familiar with the tale. And she would have learned from it.

“We’re going to make a lot of money,” one of the sailors, a deckhand named Blythe, said. “Shall I go find the feller what was lookin’ for ’em?”

Captain Stalker whetted his lips, thought for a long moment. “No,” he said at last.

“There’s fifty gold eagles reward!” Blythe objected.

“Fifty gold eagles?” Stalker asked. “That’s only twenty-five for each prince. How many gold eagles do you think that the Court here spends a year, buildin’ roads and buyin’ armor and repairin’ castle walls?”

Blythe shrugged.

“Millions,” Stalker said, the word ending as a hiss. “Millions.”

Blythe couldn’t imagine millions. Fifty gold eagles was more than he would make in twenty years as a deckhand. “But…but we could get-”

Stalker needed to make him see the bigger picture. “What do you think will ’appen to them boys?” Captain Stalker asked. “What do you think that feller is gonna do-bugger ’em? Slit their throats? No, he has something else in mind.”

Blythe clenched his fists impatiently. He was a strong man, used to climbing the rigging and furling sails, hard work by any measure.

Captain Stalker saw the anger building. “Be patient,” Stalker said, reaching to his coin purse. He fumbled through a couple of silver eagles, decided that only gold might win the man’s attention for a bit. He threw four gold eagles on the table. “Be patient.”

“Patient for what?” Blythe demanded, and the captain realized that it wasn’t just money he was after. There was a hunger in the man’s face, an intensity common to craven men. He hoped to see the children die.

“Think of it,” Stalker said. “We hold the children a bit, and what’s this feller that wants ’em goin’ to do?”

Blythe shrugged.

“Raise the price, that’s what. Not fifty gold eagles. Not five ’undred. Five hundred thousand, that’s what I figure they’re worth-minimum!”

Captain Stalker had an uncommonly good eye for profit. Everyone knew that. Even Blythe, who knew little but pain and sunburn and the stiff wind on his face, knew that. It’s what made the Leviathan such a successful ship.

Blythe looked up at him hopefully. “What’s my cut goin’ to be?”

Captain Stalker eyed him critically. He wasn’t a generous man, but he decided that right now he couldn’t be stingy. “Five thousand.”

Blythe considered. It wasn’t equal shares, but it was a fortune. Blood flushed to his cheeks. His pale eyes glowed with undisguised lust. “Coooo…” he whispered.

Endo leaned back on his stool and took a swig from his mug, sealing the deal.

“Five thousand,” Blythe said giddily. “We’re goin’ to be rich!” He squirmed on his stool, peered up at his accomplices as if inviting them to celebrate.

“One thing,” Captain Stalker said, and he leaned close to Blythe to let the sailor see that he was serious. “You speak a word about this to anyone, and I will personally cut your throat and use your tongue for fish bait.”

Iome surprised herself by sleeping. She didn’t often sleep. She woke in the morning to the creak of the door coming open.

Sir Borenson entered softly, tiptoeing to the hearth to stir up the embers and get a fire lit.

The children were all asleep, and Fallion still lay in Iome’s lap. She drew the blanket back over him and hugged him, regretting that she had not held him more often.

“Lots of folks awake down in the common room,” Borenson whispered. “Lots of rumors flying. Everyone in the city has heard how Asgaroth attacked Castle Coorm, and how the queen somehow took his life in single combat.”

Iome grinned, even though the news disturbed her. “All of these years we’ve been hiring spies when we might as well have just resorted to the nearest inn.”

“Common folk know an uncommon lot,” Borenson quoted an old proverb. He grinned. “Rumor says that the queen is holed up at the Courts of Tide. And to prove it, the queen’s flag is flying, to show that she is in residence.”