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Alise walked with him in silence as they checked the last three lines. She heard the low murmur of voices and glanced up. On the roof of the deckhouse, Hennesey was standing, a wide smile on his face as he told some sailor story to a strange woman. Her scaled face reflected light from the tethered globes. So. That must be Tillamon, Reyn’s sister. She seemed captured by the mate’s tale. The Rain Wild woman was well bundled against the night’s damp chill. Someone had thought to bring her an Elderling gown. Probably Sylve, Alise thought to herself. In the reflected light of the failing torches, it glimmered copper and bronze. She was smiling up at Hennesey as he concluded his story, and they both laughed aloud at the finish of it. Much as she wanted to meet Reyn’s sister, Alise knew that now would not be a good time for pleasantries.

Leftrin halted beside her. His eyes were narrowed and a slight scowl bent his lips. She took his arm and drew him along with her as she approached the galley door. ‘They do as we do, my dear. They take what joy they may find in life as they can. As you well know that Skelly has run off to do tonight, also. The shadows of harsh times creep over us. For in a battle between dragons and men, my love, it is not only the Elderlings who must decide where they stand, but you and me as well.’

They stepped into the cramped little galley of the ship. The room was deserted. A single mug, half full of coffee, graced the table. The small room smelled of coffee and cooking grease, tar and people living in close quarters. Alise felt her heart lift. ‘It’s so good to be home,’ she said.

He folded her into his arms, his hand sleeking her Elderling robe to her body. His mouth found hers and he kissed her, slowly and gently, as if all the time in the world belonged to them. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, she was breathless. Words came in a whisper. ‘Now is all we really have, isn’t it?’

He tucked her against him, his chin resting on top of her head as if she were an instrument he was preparing to play. ‘Now is enough,’ he murmured. ‘Now is enough for me.’

...

Day the 2nd of the Plough Moon

Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders


From Reyall, Keeper of the Birds, Bingtown

To Detozi, Keeper of the Birds, Trehaug, and Erek


Standard message tube, wax applied.


I am sure you are aware of the unhappiness of many of our patrons. The Bingtown Traders’ Council has now filed a formal petition asking that the Guild accept a Committee of Traders to look into allegations of corruption, spying and the selling of secrets. Messages and even birds have gone missing now. I think it likely we can blame some of the missing birds on the unwieldy message tubes and attachments that we are now being required to use!

Three of our apprentices have reported being approached by Trader families wishing to breed and use birds of their own to establish private message flocks. I do not need to explain to you how this would undermine the Guild. A whole way of life and livelihood will be lost if this comes to pass.

We have been directed here to adhere strictly to all rules about messages between bird keepers. Appending an additional message to an official message sent by a client is now cause for dismissal from the Guild. We must do bird counts three times a day, including eggs and fledglings, and any bad eggs or young birds that die in the nest must be witnessed by three bird keepers of journey level or higher before they can be disposed of. Bird keepers in Bingtown are allowed only to touch birds specifically registered to their own coops. Informally helping one another, allowed in the past, is now forbidden.

Have these measures also been enacted in Trehaug or Cassarick or the lesser settlements? I will tell you that there are rumours that the Guild is sending out ‘testers’, but the gossip does not tell if these are men attempting to bribe bird keepers, or if they are messages designed to tempt those who tamper and spy. It saddens me that I rise to being a full Keeper of the Birds in these distrustful times.

In happier news, Erek, your Swift Birds appear to be breeding true. Two of the offspring set records this last week in a race back to Bingtown after being released from a ship that was four days out of port. I have submitted the breeding records to the Guild Masters, noting that you were the one who saw the potential and began specifically breeding this line. I hope they will recognize your expertise.


With respect and affection,

CHAPTER NINE
Passing Ships

Hest was trapped in someone else’s life. This was not the existence of the heir son of a Bingtown trader! He had never lived in such miserable conditions, let alone travelled in them. He’d lost count of the days he’d been confined below decks. He still wore the same garments he had been wearing when the Chalcedean had abducted him. Now they hung on him, their tailoring a victim of his greatly reduced diet and heavy labour. He knew he stank, but his only option for washing himself was cold river water, and he knew the dangers of using it. The chores the Chalcedean gave him put him out on the deck in the weather as often as not. His hands and face were chapped and sore from exposure to rain and chill and sun; his clothes were fading and tattering. He could not remember the last time his feet had been dry. He was starting to develop sores under his toes, and the wind-reddened skin on his face and hands stung constantly.

He still had nightmares about disposing of Redding’s body. Dragging Arich’s body out along the narrow walkways in the dark and rain and eventually shoving him over the edge had been disgusting and unpleasant work. They had heard his falling body crashing through branches but there had been no final sound. It had made Hest queasy but it paled in comparison to his final parting with Redding. The Chalcedean had made him carry Redding’s body, and they had gone quite a distance, choosing always the tree paths that seemed least used. Eventually they had been balancing along a limb that had no safety ropes at all. Redding’s body was slung across Hest’s shoulders as if he were a hunter bearing home a deer. The familiar fragrance of Redding’s pomade mingled with the smell of the blood that dribbled down Hest’s neck. With every step, his limp burden had grown heavier and more horrific. Yet he had no choice but to lurch along in front of the man with the knife at his back. He suspected that if he had fallen while carrying the body, the man would have thought it of little consequence. The Chalcedean had finally chosen a spot where the narrowing limb of their tree crossed branches with another. Hest had propped Redding there and left him for the scavengers to find.

‘Ants and such will take him down to bones in just a few days,’ said the Chalcedean. ‘If he is found, which I doubt, no one will be able to tell who he was. Now we go back to your room and obscure all sign that you were ever in Cassarick.’

He had meant it quite literally. He’d burned the children’s hands in the pottery hearth and destroyed the elaborate boxes that had held them. Redding’s cloak became a sack to hold the precious stones he’d salvaged from the boxes. He’d departed briefly, warning Hest not to leave. Hest suspected that he went to murder the woman who had rented him the room. If he did, he accomplished it very quietly. Perhaps, Hest told himself as he gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering, he had only bribed her well. But he was gone a very long time, leaving Hest alone in the room that smelled of burnt flesh and spilled blood. Sitting in the dimness, he could not shake the image of Redding’s ruined face peering back at him from the crook of the tree. The Chalcedean had slashed it repeatedly, cross-hatching it with cuts until his familiar features were eradicated. Redding’s eyes had stared out from the dangling tatters of his once-handsome face.

Hest had always thought of himself as a ruthless Trader. Deception, spying, sharp deals that bordered on theft; he had never seen any advantage to being fair, let alone ethical. Trade was a rough game and ‘every Trader needs to watch his own back’, as his father often said. It had pleased him to think of himself as rough-and-tumble, a man hardened to everything. But never had he been a party to murder. He hadn’t loved Redding, not as Sedric over-used that tired word. But Redding had been an adept lover and a jolly companion. And his death had left Hest alone in this mess. ‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,’ he had told the dying flames. ‘It’s not my fault. If Sedric had never made his insane bargain, I wouldn’t be here now. It’s all Sedric’s fault.’

He had not heard the door open, but he had felt the draught and seen the hearth flames flicker. The Chalcedean was a black shadow against the blackness beyond. He pulled the door quietly closed. ‘Now, you will write a few letters for me. Then, we shall deliver them.’

Hest had been beyond questioning what was happening to him. He wrote the letters as he was told, to names he did not recognize, signing his own name to them. In the notes he bragged of his reputation as a clever Trader and directed them to meet him before dawn at the impervious boat that was tied up at the docks. Every letter was identical, stressing discretion and hinting that a great fortune awaited them now that ‘our plans have come to fruition’, and citing names of Traders that Hest had never even met.

Each letter was neatly rolled, tied with twine, and sealed with a drop of wax. Then the Chalcedean smothered the fire in the hearth and they left the stripped room, carrying the missives with them.

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