Барб Хенди - Dog in the Dark

The need to protect his own had called up the assassin in him.

In that, old habits—old ways—made him wonder at Brot’an’s timely arrival.

“Set sail,” Leesil told the captain, but like Chap’s, his gaze remained on Brot’an. “There are more of them here in port ... and they’ll be coming.”

“You brought this down on us,” the captain whispered.

“Get the ship ready!” Leesil shouted back.

“How? A third of my crew is onshore and another third dead!”

“I’ll help,” said Dirken, halfway behind Brot’an. “I’ve got a few more with me who can do the same.”

Hatchinstall stood up. “I’ll go get the rest of the crew. Most will be drinking at the Three-Legged Horse or playing cards at Ancient Annie’s.”

“What about Wayfarer and Paolo?” Leesil asked, stepping around beside Chap.

“I will retrieve them,” Brot’an said quietly; these were the first words he’d spoken besides a name since he’d appeared in the cabin. “Do not let the captain sail until I return.”

To Leesil’s surprise, Brot’an stepped around him and went to crouch down and heft the body of the dead anmaglâhk. The anmaglâhk master walked out without looking at Leesil again.

Chap took a step to follow, but Leesil put a hand on the dog’s back.

“No, that’s enough ... for now.”

All he wanted was to go to Magiere.

Brot’ân’duivé strode down the boarding ramp with Eywodan’s body over his shoulder. For the first time since leaving his homeland, he was numb and yet felt pain as well.

Once on the pier, he had no wish to lead any remaining anmaglâhk back to the hotel. It might be the first place they would look, all the same. He needed to retrieve Leanâlhâm ... Wayfarer and the boy, and leave this pit of a city behind.

Brot’ân’duivé crouched on the pier and lowered Eywodan’s body into the water, and then he slipped over the side. With the body floating on its back, he pulled it as he swam beneath the second pier. He did not wish to be seen, but there was something fitting in taking Eywodan to water.

Eywodan knew—had known—how to sail. He liked the rivers, the lakes, and the sea. Once, when a coastal enclave had flooded during a storm surge, Eywodan had rushed to aid their people—as had Brot’ân’duivé that same night. When nearly everyone had been evacuated, swelling water had smashed debris against Eywodan’s knee. Brot’ân’duivé had carried him through the water in search of a healer.

It would not have mattered whether Brot’ân’duivé had reached Eywodan before Léshil this night. The outcome would have been the same, and still ...

Brot’ân’duivé halted to float in silence with only his eyes above the water as he fixed on the foot of the third pier.

Above on the waterfront’s edge Dänvârfij and Rhysís crouched beside a prone form that must be Én’nish. He could not hear what they whispered, but with their attention diverted, he swam to the base of the second pier and outside of the support beam closest to the shore.

There he heard them.

“It is not as bad as I feared,” Rhysís said, “Her organs were not cut, but Fréthfâre will need to stitch the wound.”

Dänvârfij rose with an audible sigh in the dark. “Thank the ancestors.”

“Go ... help Eywodan.... He is alone.”

At Én’nish’s weak whisper, Brot’ân’duivé could listen no more. They were broken, reduced to being thankful for injuries that were not lethal. He could take Rhysís or Dänvârfij right now if he wished. The two loyalists would not be able to fight well enough for both to survive.

He could finish this.

But Brot’ân’duivé looked into Eywodan’s dead eyes. He reached out with two fingers and closed them. He quietly rolled the corpse up onto the floating walkway below the shoreline.

After one final look at an old comrade who had become an enemy, he sank beneath the water and swam away. When he emerged farther on, climbing out below the waterfront’s southern end, he waited for water to finish dripping from him before he silently crept up the stairs.

Brot’ân’duivé peered over the waterfront’s edge. When Dänvârfij and Rhysís crouched to gather up Én’nish, he slipped into the streets and headed for Delilah’s.

Dänvârfij did not allow herself to think on what happened this night as she helped Rhysís lift Én’nish. He would have to carry the young one back to Fréthfâre.

They needed to regroup, heal, and plan yet again.

Dänvârfij had never seen enough value in Én’nish to outweigh her faults. But as Rhysís picked up the youngest among them, Dänvârfij took Én’nish’s hand.

“Rhysís will take you to Fréthfâre to be tended. I will go for Eywodan.”

Én’nish squeezed her hand.

Wounded as Dänvârfij was, she could accomplish that much. But when she turned to head up the waterfront, the flapping of a gull below on the walkway pulled her attention.

The bird stood perched on a large bulk and pecked at it.

Dänvârfij squinted in the night. The whole waterfront except for the bird’s squawks grew too silent in her ears. She drew a stiletto and let fly.

The gull’s piercing screech was cut short as the stiletto struck and its body skidded along the walkway.

Dänvârfij stood there breathing too quickly as Rhysís stepped near. When he saw what she did, he spun, looking all ways. Dänvârfij never took her eyes off Eywodan’s body.

“The traitor is here,” Rhysís said quietly.

“No, he is gone,” Dänvârfij whispered, numb, shaking her head.

Had Brot’ân’duivé left the body as a warning? Proof that he could slaughter any of them anytime he wanted? Or had he simply had his fill of killing his own for one night and made the choice to slip away?

She did not know the answer.

Three days later, Magiere stood near the front mast of the Cloud Queen as the ship sailed south on its long run toward the port of Sorano. The deep cut above her temple was healing quickly, though not immediately as had other wounds she’d taken before.

Her world had settled into a brief calm.

“No, not like that,” Wayfarer said. “Use smaller stitches.”

“I am!” retorted the small boy who was sitting beside her and helping her mend a fishing net.

“He’s doing fine,” Paolo put in, sitting on her other side and peeling potatoes. “Stop bossing him around.”

“He needs to learn,” the girl insisted.

Magiere almost smiled. On that last terrible night in Drist, Brot’an had retrieved Wayfarer and Paolo—and all their gear—with astonishing speed. Not long after, Hatchinstall had returned with the crew who’d been onshore. Dirken and a few freed slaves had filled in the lighter duties requiring less skill. With a skeleton crew, the captain had set sail.

Paolo had taken over as the cook’s assistant, along with the boy, named Alberto, whom Dirken had brought. For some reason Alberto was quite taken with Wayfarer; he was likely charmed by her strangeness and beauty. When Leesil mentioned trying to get the two boys home, Dirken had shaken his head.

“Alberto has no home,” Dirken explained. “And Paolo can’t go back to his. If he does, his village chief will have proof that he broke his contract.”

Magiere had bitten down anger upon hearing this. Even freeing the boys might not stop what would come—only delay it. There seemed to be no answer that wouldn’t leave more victims.

However, when Captain Bassett expressed an interest in keeping Dirken as a deckhand, the man made it clear that if he stayed, so did the boys. Paolo didn’t object, and in truth, Magiere thought he was better off with Dirken than with parents who’d sell him to pay a debt.