CHAPTER 26

17th day of Sipar’s Fading, Year 618

For more than a ha’turn after Cresten’s encounter with the smugglers, Quinn kept his distance. He often eyed Cresten from across the tavern, but he said not a word to him. Despite Cresten’s desire to take on more jobs, the innkeeper seemed unwilling to place his life at risk again.

Cresten didn’t push the matter. For now Quinn’s guilt outweighed his need, but that wouldn’t last. He liked having a Spanner in his employ; he wanted to “play with the big boys.” Before long, his misgivings would fade.

In the meantime, Cresten continued to cut gaaz and practice his Spanning and sword work. Several times, Droë joined him on the strand. Neither of them mentioned the smugglers, or what she had done to help him. Cresten noticed no change in their interaction. He felt safer with her, though, and he no longer worried about her spying on him as he Spanned.

With what he had earned from Quinn and Poelu, and what remained of the coin Chancellor Samorij had given him, he had more money than he could spend. He hid his purse in the straw of his pallet, where he hoped Lam wouldn’t think to look. He hadn’t yet decided what he would do with his treys and quads, but he knew they were the key to whatever future he chose to pursue. He had reconciled himself to never seeing Lenna again; he wouldn’t remain in Trevynisle for her. But where should he go?

The question kept him awake some nights, the thrill of possibility holding sleep at bay. He wasn’t so foolish as to think himself rich. In time, though, if he was smart…

Quinn finally approached him on a stormy night in Sipar’s Fading, as Cresten ate roasted fowl and stewed greens in the tavern. He was bone weary after another long day in the shallows, and he didn’t realize the innkeeper had walked to his table until the man asked to join him.

At Cresten’s gesture, Quinn sat. He narrowed his eyes, staring at Cresten’s healing wound.

“Can’t hardly see a mark. I don’t think you’ll even have a scar.”

“Guess that means girls won’t think I’m handsome.”

Quinn hesitated, then smiled, as if just remembering their exchange with Claya. “You’ll do all right, I think.” He glanced at Cresten’s platter. “You want more?”

“No, thank you.”

The old man nodded, his gaze roaming the common room. Cresten sipped his watered wine.

“I was wonderin’,” Quinn said, “if you meant what you told me that night. That you was still willin’ to work for me.”

“I’m willing, under the right circumstances.”

Quinn frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“I want seven treys, five quads next time, and every time after.”

“You said before you were satisfied with five.”

Cresten shrugged. “I changed my mind. There seems to be plenty of gold about. I’m guessing you can afford an extra two and five.”

“That so?”

He lifted his shoulder again. “If I’m wrong, you don’t have to hire me. I’m sure there are plenty of other Spanners out there, willing to risk their lives with smugglers.”

Quinn’s brow bunched. “How’d you know they was smugglers?”

Too late, he remembered that the white-haired woman at the shop had said this in confidence.

“It wasn’t hard to figure,” he said, after the briefest of pauses. “You never told me what was in the parcel, and those men on the ship weren’t like any sailors I’ve known.”

Quinn’s look soured, but he didn’t argue. He eyed Cresten, then let out a sigh. “Seven and five is fair. No more, though. I might have raised your pay after a time. You’re gettin’ that raise now, you catch?”

“All right.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “What’s the job this time?”

The innkeeper grinned. “You enjoy it, don’t you? The danger, I mean.”

Why deny it? He would have worked for Quinn even without more pay. “I do.”

“Well, don’t take chances you don’t have to. It’s your life, but it’s my coin. And Paegar’s.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Meet me in the back courtyard when you’re done eating. I’ll tell you more there.”

He stood and walked away, not bothering to wait for Cresten’s reply. Cresten bolted down the rest of his meal, drained his cup, and left the table. He stopped in his chamber to make certain his sextant and purse were safe, and then made his way to the courtyard. Quinn joined him there.

This newest job, planned for the following night, was similar to the last one. Cresten would act as courier for Paegar, some smugglers, and another merchant.

The next morning, when Cresten walked to the gaaz beds, he carried with him a change of clothes and a knife given to him by Quinn. He hid these in the same place he had used the previous time, cut bricks under a bright sun for the entire day, and plodded back to the inn, exhausted beyond words. More storms darkened the sky as he walked. By the time he reached the tavern, a torrent had soaked him.

After his evening meal, he retrieved his sextant and left the inn for the rise. Quinn offered to accompany him, but Cresten demurred.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said.

Droë appeared mere moments after he reached the strand. His vision still swam from his passage through the gap, and he barely had time to pull on his breeches.

“You Spanned here,” she said.

“I have work to do tonight.”

She regarded him, grave as a ghost. “The same as last time? With those men?”

“Different men, but yes, the same.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to.” He spoke with surety, but hoped she would anyway. He didn’t want Quinn watching his every move, but he welcomed the Tirribin’s protection.

“I don’t mind.” She bared needle teeth. A hint of rot sharpened the air around them. “I might even get another meal out of it.” She laughed, high and crystalline.

Cresten tried not to shudder.

She accompanied him to the wharf, remaining hidden while he treated with the smugglers. Then she walked with him into the heart of the city, where he delivered his parcel.

They returned to the waterfront, and Droë held Quinn’s gold while Cresten paid the smugglers. From there, they walked back to the strand so he could Span back to the rise, Moar’s five rounds held under his tongue. The entire transaction took less than a full bell. No one threatened him, or tried to harm him. Quinn paid him and let him know more jobs would be coming.

The innkeeper proved true to his word. Three days later, he met with different smugglers and bore their goods to yet another merchant, this one not far from the wharves. All went as it should, but as Droë walked with him back to the strand and his hidden sextant, she broke their customary silence.

“I saw your friend last night.”

“My friend?”

“Lenna.”

He stumbled, nearly fell.

“Is she all right? Did she mention me?”

“She’s healthy, for a human. Her years are more confused than I remember. She’s been Walking a good deal, honing her craft. She’s leaving.”

Cresten halted in the middle of a narrow lane. “Leaving?”

“That’s why she called for me. I didn’t want to enter the palace, and I think she was afraid to ask me to come, but she wanted to speak with me once more.”

Leaving. Lenna is leaving.

He had resigned himself to not seeing her or speaking with her. But to know she would no longer be at the palace…

“Where is she going?”

“Herjes.”

At first he thought the Tirribin must be mistaken. Windhome’s lone Walker – its first Walker in years – and they were sending her to Herjes? Not Milnos or Vleros? Not Aiyanth or Daerjen or Oaqamar?

Thinking about it more, however, he saw logic in the assignment. Herjes wasn’t a great power, nor was it prone to frequent wars, like the Bow and Shield. But trade in spices, firearms, and wines had brought the isle considerable wealth, it was strategically located near Aiyanth, Milnos, and Westisle, and its young leader was said to be ambitious. What better way to raise his isle’s status than to outbid other powers for the services of a Windhome Walker?

“Is she excited?” he asked, his voice flat.

“I think she’s frightened, but yes, excited, too.”

They resumed walking, neither of them speaking. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Droë’s gaze.

“I told her I had seen you.”

He eyed her sidelong. “And?”

“She wanted to know how you are and what you’ve been doing.” “You didn’t–”

“I told her you cut gaaz and make money working for a tavern keeper. That was all I said.”

Cresten couldn’t say if he was relieved or disappointed. His existence, described that way, sounded boring, pathetic even. If the Tirribin had said, He treats with smugglers, Lenna might have feared for him, and disapproved. She might also have been impressed.

“She told me to tell you that she’s sorry for all that happened, and that she misses you.”

“Truly? She said that?”

Droë nodded, still studying him. “Do you think that means she loves you?”

More than anything, he wanted to say yes. It would have been a lie, though, to her, and to himself. “No. It means she’s sorry and she misses me. Nothing more.”

They covered the remaining distance to the shoreline in silence. Cresten’s stomach had soured, and he feared the Span to the rise would sicken him.

She’s leaving. She’s going to Herjes. You’ll never see her again. She’ll find someone, marry, have a family, a life. You won’t be a part of it.

More than ever, he wanted to leave Trevynisle. Not to follow her, but simply to be gone, to forget her.

Seven treys, five quads. It will take years to earn the coin you need.

“I’ve made you sad,” Droë said, halting near the spot where he had left his clothes.

“Leaving the palace made me sad. This is…” He shrugged, made a small, meaningless gesture. “I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

Droë smiled at that and blurred away.

Cresten undressed slowly, folding his clothes with undue care, and set the rounds under his tongue. He aimed his sextant, thumbed the release, and hurtled into the gap, his senses so dulled that this once he didn’t mind the journey or think it overly long.

When he returned to the tavern, the innkeeper regarded him, concerned and suspicious.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing. It all went as it was supposed to.”

“Then why do you look like you saw a ghost?”

Cresten shook his head. “I’m tired. That’s all.” He held out his hand.

Quinn gave him his treys and quads. “No trouble with the smugglers? Or in the city?”

“It was all fine. I swear. When will you send me out again?”

“Soon, lad. Very soon.”

Cresten nodded and retreated to his room, wishing he could sleep for a turn or two, knowing he would be up with the dawn and back under Poelu’s critical eye. His last thought before falling asleep was that at least one of them was getting out of Trevynisle.

Quinn gave him a fourth job a few days later, and a fifth soon after. Cresten completed both without incident.

Two nights later, Quinn sent him out again. This time his instructions were slightly different.

“Paegar wants to see you,” the innkeeper said. He didn’t seem happy about this. “He wants you to come to his door. Says he wants to make sure you’re following instructions.”

“You don’t believe him?”

Quinn didn’t answer right away, and Cresten wondered if he should have swallowed the question. But the innkeeper surprised him. “I think he wants to hire you direct, instead of through me. He could probably pay you more and still save some coin that way.” Quinn eyed him, awaiting a response.

“I work for you,” Cresten said. “And even if he pays me more, I’d have to start paying for my room again, wouldn’t I?”

Quinn smiled. “You’re a smart lad.”

As it happened, the merchant this night was the same whitehaired woman he met the night the smugglers tried to kill him. He had yet to deal with any merchant or smuggler a second time. He wondered if this further increased the danger.

Quinn insisted on accompanying him to the rise, and as Cresten prepared to Span he said, “Have a care tonight, lad. This is a more… sensitive item than the others you’ve delivered. Make sure you’re not followed.”

Cresten assured him that he would.

Droë joined him at the strand, as always arriving with uncanny precision, just after he slipped on his breeches. They walked together to the waterfront, where Cresten searched for a ship called the Kelp Runner. She was the last boat on the longest of the three piers, and he thought her deserted. He approached the vessel warily, scanning the wharf, expecting to be waylaid. Droë, he knew, watched from a distance, ready to blur to his rescue should any threat arise. Still, he felt vulnerable. Quinn’s warning had set him on edge.

“Ahoy, the Kelp Runner,” he called from below her rails.

Silence.

He glanced back at Droë before trying again.

After a fivecount, he heard motion within the vessel and then footsteps.

“Ahoy,” came the response, the voice deep but thin, like distant thunder.

A shadowed form appeared above him, framed against a darker sky.

“Who’s that?” A man’s voice, the words thickened by an accent Cresten couldn’t place.

“I was sent by Quinn.”

“Who is Quinn?”

Cresten stared up at the silhouette. This had never happened before. “Quinnel Orzili.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s… You should have a parcel. Something I’m supposed to deliver. And then bring you gold.”

The man didn’t answer.

Instinct drove him to say, “He works with Paegar.”

The man might have nodded. “Wait there.”

He stepped away from the rail, vanishing from view. A short time later, Cresten heard more footsteps, closer this time. A plank at the ship’s stern. A man – perhaps the same one – emerged from the darkness, stopped a couple of paces short of Cresten, and held out a small, pale parcel.

Cresten reached for it, only to have the man snatch his wrist with his other hand.

“What’s your name?” he asked in that elusive accent.

Cresten should have lied, but in his fear could only manage the truth. “Cr- Cresten Padkar.”

“Padkar. Easy to remember. That thing in your hand – not much you can do with it, but to us, very valuable. Muck this up, or try to steal, and we spend the rest of our days hunting you. Catch?”

He dipped his chin.

The man squeezed his wrist, grinding bone on bone. “I say, you catch?”

“Yes, I understand.”

The man released him. “Go. Bring us our gold.”

Cresten took two steps backward, then pivoted and hurried away, his wrist aching. The parcel was small but heavy, the cloth around it rough against his fingers.

Droë fell in step with him as he reached her.

“You’re frightened,” she said, the hint of a rasp in the words. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“I thought I heard him threaten you.”

“It’s all right, Droë. These are rough men. Sometimes they threaten. He didn’t hurt me.” Much.

He wondered if she could tell he was lying. They didn’t speak as they navigated the lanes to the merchant’s shop.

“Ah, Quinn’s friend,” the white-haired woman said as he closed the door behind him. She favored him with a smile.

“What do you have for me tonight?”

He crossed to the wooden counter and handed her the parcel. She hefted it, her smile slipping. She glanced up, meeting his gaze, then turned and pushed through the dark curtains to the back of her establishment. When she returned, she carried three purses. She lifted them one at a time. “Moar’s, the… the sailors’.” She raised the third. “And this is for Quinn. Payment for something else.”

“All right.” Cresten placed one purse in each pocket and tied Quinn’s to his belt. “Thank you.”

By the time he emerged from the shop, the moon had risen, red and hazed. Dim shadows stretched across the lanes. The city looked like it had been dipped in blood.

At the wharves, Cresten approached the ship once more and called a greeting.

“Padkar,” came the reply, immediate and unaccented. “Leave it on the plank.”

“The plank–”

“At the stern. Leave it and go.”

A shiver went through Cresten, and his legs shook. He set the purse on the plank, and strode back to the lane as quickly as he could without running.

“It was all right this time?” Droë asked as he joined her.

They started back toward the strand.

“I think so. I hope so.” He peered back at the ship. Even with the moon higher in the ebon sky, he couldn’t see the plank, much less the purse he had left there.

Once at the strand, he asked the Tirribin to hold Quinn’s gold, and to give him a few moments of privacy. He stripped off his clothes, put Paegar’s gold in his mouth, and Spanned across the city to the man’s house. He dressed, approached the door, and knocked.

The door opened, revealing the young woman he had seen last time. She didn’t give him time to speak. Disdain curled her lip, and she shouted for her father.

Moar came to the entry a tencount later.

“The Spanner,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cresten held out the rounds, and Moar plucked them from his palm.

“Everything went as it should?”

“So far.”

Moar frowned. “So far?”

Cresten feared he had said too much. “Yes, it’s all been fine.”

Moar stepped closer, looming over him.

“You have more to do? Have you been to the ship yet?”

“Yes! I was only– Quinn said you wanted me to come here.” The words tumbled out of him. “I need to retrieve something for him and go to the tavern.”

“Well, you’d better be moving on, then. You should be finished by now.” He gestured at the bulge under Cresten’s shirt: his sextant. “Everywhere you go with that bloody thing, you draw attention to yourself, and to our affairs. You catch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out of here.”

Cresten spun and left, heart pounding. He searched for anyone who might be watching him, but saw no one. As he removed this set of clothes he decided that Moar’s fears were unfounded. Paegar and Quinn both – they had convinced themselves that all the world cared about their business.

He thumbed the release on his sextant and sped back through the gap to the strand. There, he pulled on his breeches, not bothering with his shirt. He called for Droë. She blurred into view and stopped beside him, the purse held out before her.

“You’re not as frightened now,” she said. “I’m glad.”

“Thank you, Droë. I’m grateful for all your help.”

She canted her head and smiled up at him. “So you want me to go with you next time, as well?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” she said before leaving him. “I like it. I’m glad we’re friends.”

At the rise, Cresten stumbled out of the gap, his head aching, the world around him spinning. Too many Spans this night. When he could manage it, he pulled on his clothes one last time and staggered down the hill to the tavern. He walked in a weary daze, only taking notice of his surroundings as he neared the Brazen Hound.

He halted. Something was wrong.

The quiet. Aside from a dog’s distant barking, he heard nothing. No voices. No laughter. He surveyed the building. The windows had been shuttered, though it was a mild night. No light leaked out around their edges or seeped from the door.

The door, which stood ajar.

Cresten drew his blade and crept forward, hand shaking. He almost called for Droë, but wasn’t certain she would come. His breathing sounded loud, his every footstep echoed like cannonfire.

He pushed the door. It swung open a short distance before catching on something. He couldn’t tell what.

But the stench knocked him back a step. The iron smell of blood, overlaid with the stink of human feces and piss.

Cresten eased inside, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. Bodies littered the floor. Claya and the other serving girls lay in a cluster near the bar, their throats slit, blood pooling around their bodies.

Lam’s corpse had stopped the door, his body cleaved from neck to groin. The smell of shit came from him.

And from Quinn, sprawled on the floor of the common room, gutted as well, his throat carved open for good measure.

Cresten walked to him, breathing through his mouth, fighting not to be ill. He would miss Quinn. The innkeeper had been good to him, had given him work and taught him a few things. But theirs had been a partnership born of opportunity and mutual need, and this was no time to grieve.

A creak from the door made him whirl and tighten his grip on the knife. The hinges squeaked a second time. The wind.

Time to go.

He ran to his chamber and reclaimed his belongings, including the hidden purse from within his pallet. He strapped to his belt the short sword he had taken from the palace armory, and swung his carry sack onto his shoulders. Quinn’s gold hung from his belt.

I have money now. I can go anywhere.

He returned to the great room, scanned the carnage again, and eased out into the moonlight, taking care to leave the door as he had found it.

“Spanner.”

He stiffened, hand still on the doorknob.

“You would have been better off not coming back.”