Барб Хенди - The Night Voice

Chap stepped forward, gauging the men at the tables. Chane followed a half step behind and let him take the lead here. Finally, Chap fixed on a lone man smoking a long-stemmed pipe and taking short sips from a dark clay mug.

He was perhaps thirty years old, though he looked worn for that age, with a round face and thick black hair. He wore a shabby white fur around his shoulders. His boots were furred but well-worn. A heavy canvas pack was propped against the legs of his chair, immediately within reach. He was obviously used to being on the move.

His hands were calloused and scarred.

Chap dipped the man’s mind for any rising memories. At first, he saw nothing ... except maybe an echo of himself. Then came an image of dogs running ahead of a sled.

Chap huffed once for “yes,” and Chane stepped immediately ahead.

“Pardon,” Chane said. “Do you speak Numanese?”

The man looked up from his mug. “Some.”

“I wish to hire a guide with a sled.”

The man studied Chane’s face.

Chap had known Chane back when his skin had not been quite so translucent. His eyes had once held more color too, a deeper brown as opposed to their light brown, almost clear appearance now. The longer he existed as an undead, the more these changes became apparent.

Chane ignored the guide’s scrutiny and held up a pouch. “How much?” he asked, implying he already knew the man’s trade. The man set down his pipe and gestured to a chair across the table. Chane sat. Chap positioned himself at the table’s open side between the two.

“I am Igaluk,” the man said. “How far inland do you travel?”

Chap and Chane had discussed this at length while on the last ship.

“Five days inland, southeast, and then five days back,” Chane answered.

Again, the man studied him. “So you know exactly where you go?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you need a guide?”

Chane’s expression didn’t flicker. “I do not. I need someone with a sled and dogs.” He paused long enough to drop the pouch on the table with an audible chitter of coins.

Chap wrinkled his jowls, for that action and small noise would attract unwanted attention.

“And someone who does not ask many questions,” Chane added.

Igaluk shrugged. “I can take you.”

When discussion turned to price and needed supplies, Chap turned his attention to the rest of the room in watching for undue attention by anyone present. One awkward moment pulled his attention back to the bartering.

“Tomorrow ... night?” Igaluk asked sharply.

“Yes, as I said,” Chane countered. “Shortly past dusk.”

This was followed by Chane’s familiar explanation of a “skin condition.” There was the added complication that he also required a thick canvas tent with an additional tarp over it, which went well beyond the normal. When traveling on ship or in civilization, protection from sunlight was not difficult. The wilderness was a different matter.

These odd requirements made Igaluk’s dark brow wrinkle, though in the end he agreed.

With a nod, Chane rose. “I will meet you here, outside, tomorrow after full darkness.”

He turned toward the counter, and Chap followed. Chane then stopped to crouch as if picking something off the bottom of his boot. Glancing aside, he looked into Chap’s eyes.

“I will purchase the tent myself,” he whispered. “Then we set camp away from this place. Once daylight comes, you must keep watch and make certain no one approaches ... us.”

The bizarre nature of their situation suddenly struck Chap. He was to spend the following day guarding an undead—the same as ... the same one as his daughter.

With no other choice, he huffed once. As Chane rose and stepped to the trading post’s counter, to acquire what he needed, Chap’s mind drifted to the nights ahead. He knew precisely where he had hidden the orbs of Water and Fire. Something else might still be there as well. For in hiding those, he had done something unforgivable.

He had needed to take the body and mind of his last guide on that journey. Without hands of his own, there had been no other way to bury the orbs in secret. He now clung to that necessity—that justification—to do more and perhaps worse than was necessary.

Far to the south, Leesil crept along the nighttime sands of the Suman desert just below the foothills of the Sky-Cutter Range. They’d left Magiere, Wynn, and Brot’an back at camp at least half a league behind, as only he and Ghassan needed to reach a well the fallen domin claimed he knew of. They both carried two large, empty waterskins.

Stealing water out here was more than thievery, worse than murder. It meant the deaths of many in taking something that so many needed to survive. They would both be killed if caught, and although Leesil knew they had no choice, he didn’t like this. He also didn’t like depending on anyone except Magiere or Chap ... or even Wynn, sometimes.

Worse, without Ghassan, he wouldn’t have known what to look for, and he still wasn’t certain. Wells were always hidden in some way as the most precious possession of a family, clan, or tribe. These peopled killed any but their own in order to get more if they ran out. Or at least that was what Ghassan had said. And yet the ex-domin knew where to find such, or at least where to look.

“There,” Ghassan whispered, pointing over the rock crest behind which they crouched.

Leesil looked carefully but spotted nothing.

“That cluster of small stones,” Ghassan added. “See how three larger ones are on top ... and would not be naturally? Someone put them there and kicked dust and dirt on them to hide any sign of the change.”

Once Leesil saw this, he recognized it for what it was. He and Ghassan had been forced to steal from eight other wells along the journey. Somehow—though Leesil didn’t know how—their luck had held. The key to thievery was to know what you wanted, take it quickly, and then get out.

Leesil didn’t hesitate.

With one last look about, he vaulted the rock crest, scurried light-footed down the gradual slope, and then ran for the three stones and crouched low. After another look around, he began removing stones, finding only dirt beneath them. For an instant he even thought of using the cold-lamp crystal Wynn had loaned him.

He wasn’t that desperate yet, for the light might give away their position.

Carefully, he began spreading and probing the parched, dusty earth with his fingers. And there was something there. He felt a hard but flexing semi-smooth surface and brushed part of it clear. Though it was hard to see in the dark, this wasn’t the first time he’d touched that kind of hardened leather.

Leesil found the edge of the thick, leather plate and flipped it quietly off to stare down into a black hole in the packed earth. There was no rope, bucket, or urn to lower. That would’ve made it easier for thieves. Or at least any who found this place and were unprepared.

Leesil softly clicked his tongue three times. The domin rose from hiding beyond the crest and hurried toward him. Leesil began unwrapping the leather-braid rope from around his waist.

Before he’d even finished, Ghassan bound the rope’s loose end to one waterskin’s loop handles. He then dropped a stone into the skin’s wide mouth to help it sink. Once Leesil finished unwrapping the rope’s other end, Ghassan dropped the skin into the hole.

Leesil lowered the rope until its tension slackened for an instant and then let it sink.

“Keep watch,” he whispered.

He was well armed, and Ghassan had his own methods of defense. Between the two of them, they could probably handle six or seven men. The danger was in being caught by a larger number. And out here, any group they’d spotted had been larger than that. They’d hidden from all of them.