“It’s as I told you, Captain,” said Whyl, “the Scribe isn’t who he says he is.”
“It’s as I told you, Captain,” Fenric deferred, “Whyl isn’t who he says he is.”
Kaille pulled the feline to his chest and whispered, “And you cat, are you lying to me as well?” It yawned and he nodded, satisfied, looking back at the two men. “And who are you both, really?”
“He’s a spy,” Whyl said immediately. “A traitor to the crown.”
“No, he’s a spy and a traitor,” Fenric disagreed. “He weaves a web so thick that it blocks out the sky.”
“How can he say this,” Whyl demanded. “He, who uses the name of a dead man?”
“I should ask the same, Whyl!” Fenric yelled. “Who sent you?”
“Maybe you did, Fenric,” Whyl hissed. “Maybe it was you or one of your copies.”
“Captain,” pleaded the Scribe, his pistol shaking, “I knew Whyl Winesmith, and I know I’m looking at the man who killed him.”
“Why are we uttering this nonsense to him, anyhow?” Whyl asked, seeming to realize for the first time that Kaille was technically unarmed. “He doesn’t even have a weapon.”
Still holding the orange feline, the Captain realized that he’d finally reached the long-delayed moment of truth. Which man who stood before him was the liar—the one with blade or the one with gun? He quickly ran back and forth over what he knew about both men—over the boy Benson’s thoughtful testimony and the conspiracy theorist Jas’s shouts of warning. One of his shiphands was right. One of these men had evil intentions. Kaille, the kind of person who tended to make rapid decisions based on details he could hardly remember noticing, was entirely out of his depth. There was nothing…
Well, there was one thing, if he was honest…
He felt hurt at being dismissed from the encounter by Whyl.
Just like that, the decision was made. Kaille deployed his weapon.
A hissing cat flew across the hall and landed, livid, upon the chosen target’s sandy head. The ensuing struggle was brief, punctuated by the yelping and yowling of two dismayed creatures. As suddenly as it had begun, however, it was over. The cat departed—disappearing down the hall in a streak of orange. Whyl roared in fury as deep scratches bled down either side of his face.
With the same motion he used to throw off the feline, Whyl lunged forward and took hold of the sobbing girl. He lifted her from the couch, holding her possessively to his chest, dagger to her throat.
“You never did believe me, did you Captain?” asked Whyl, his voice now hard-edged and unfamiliar. “What was it you said to that oaf Jas? That I didn’t carry my name?”
“How did you know that?” Kaille asked, his frown deepening.
“Come on!” Whyl spat, throwing his head back in amusement. “This is what I do—this is what I’m famous for. Give me an hour, and I can have even the most cynical of men eating out of my hand.” Whyl relaxed his grip on the girl’s arm and reached into his pocket. He lifted from it a bound leather book. “For the price of some invented journal entries I had your sailor falling over himself to unchain me,” he said, waving a notebook in the air and displaying his free wrist, red from his time in shackles, but now at liberty. He tossed the journal to the floor where it slid beneath the small couch, and added with a scoff, “A standard gullible fool—the type upon whom I built my career. And so I must know, Captain. How’d you know it was me?”
“I didn’t,” Kaille said with a modest shrug, taking a page from Fenric’s book and only sharing the facts he wanted known. “I guess I do now.”
Whyl grinned at him crookedly, shifted his grip to the girl’s collar, and pointed his dagger at Kaille respectfully. A low, hollow laugh rumbled from his throat. “That was good. You’re good,” he said, his knuckles growing white upon the girl’s neck. “I don’t say that a lot.”
“Let the girl go,” said Fenric.
At this interruption, Whyl’s dagger shot back to the girl’s throat. “You know what, you gray-haired spider?” he shouted, instantly impassioned. “You let her go. Let go of your grand illusions and your failed schemes. And while you’re at it, let go of the Heirs. Let go of your epic, mistaken idea that you can somehow stop what’s already happened. The course of history is ours to change, and outdated institutions like yours need to give way.”
“Uncle!” cried the girl when she was jerked painfully during the course of this speech.
“He’s not your uncle, little girl,” Whyl whispered cruelly into her ear. “He’s not even who he says he is.” Looking back at the Scribe, he hissed, “Are you, Iggy?”
Fenric watched the dagger with utter devastation in his eyes as it trembled upon the hollow of the girl’s exposed throat. His arms reached forward in a desperate plea.
“Now look,” barked Whyl with business-like acumen, inching backwards down the hall with his hostage, “this is how it’s going to work. Little Pinky and I are going to—”
He never had the chance to explain what they were to do, however. In that instant a large flowered vase fell heavily down upon his head. Whyl dropped to the ground, rendered unconscious amid shards of delicate ceramic. The girl was left shivering where she stood and the dagger went clattered across the floor.
Stepping into the newly vacated space came Jas Hawkesbury, his expression ferocious. “Standard gullible fool, am I?” he asked, spitting upon the motionless Whyl. “Fooled you.”
* * * * *
“Don’t be a fool, boy. Put down the hammer,” said Auk, feigning calm. “This can be between us.”
“Stop calling me boy!” Cricket shrieked, choking up on his weapon. “And I happen to like it better this way.”
“Ye could hurt someone—” Auk pointed out.
“Aye, you!” yelled Cricket, clearly pleased with this thought. “So come on, lets do this!”
“I don’t want to fight ye, boy—I mean, Cricket,” said Auk. “Ye’ve had a tough life, but fighting won’t make it any easier. That’ll just make it worse.”
“I don’t know, if I killed you it might make things easier,” Cricket said. “Throw you overboard, make it look like an accident. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get another promotion.”
The boy lifted the hammer with difficulty and sent it flying at Auk. The Second shifted, avoiding the blow, and the hammer continued its swing to the deck. With effort, Cricket hefted it again.
The two paced in circles, with Cricket feigning attacks and Auk continually giving way. As they paced, the Second’s foot caught on a loose rivet and he stumbled against the ship’s rail. Cricket took this moment to swing his hammer again, and Auk ducked. The heavy hammer swung over the rail, hitting the outer hull of the ship and ricocheting back towards the sea. With the momentum, the tool was pulled overboard and the red-haired boy was flung along with it.
Cricket found himself bending over the rail, his arms pin wheeling to find balance. He knew he was falling—saw the heartless twinkle of the sea below—and let out a strangled cry.
A hand grabbed the boy’s leather jerkin, stopping Cricket’s forward motion but leaving him hanging over the water. He wrenched his head backward, only to see that it was Auk who’d stopped his fall.
“You think your secret would die with me?” Cricket yelled back. His body shook in violent fear. “Well the Monkey knows too! You think you can kill both of us without someone catching onto you, monster?”
Auk roared in frustration, tugging the boy’s shirt with all his might. Cricket was lifted clear of the rail and dropped to the deck. He collapsed into a heap, gasping.
“I wasn’t going to let you—” Auk began.
His words were cut off by Cricket’s laughter. “You see?” he cried from where he’d fallen. “Do you see? Do you see? I own you!”
Auk clenched his fists and cracked his neck, then let his hands fall limp to his side. He turned without a word and left the red-haired boy yelling after him.
“I own you, filthy animal,” Cricket scre
eched into the night. “You’re mine!”
* * * * *
Fenric lowered his pistol as the girl in the pink dress rushed into his arms. “What’s happening?” she asked, her frightened eyes on the limp body of Whyl Winesmith.
After a consoling hug, he turned her around, pointing out the two sailors who stood uncomfortably in the corridor. “Lucy,” he said, “I’d like you to meet the courageous Master Hawkesbury and the esteemed Captain Kaille. It seems as though we both owe them our lives.”
“My Lady,” said Jas with a shocked, but courteous bow.
“Miss,” said Kaille with a nod.
“But uncle,” Lucy said after a perfunctory curtsy to each, “please, what’s happening?”
“Is there an empty sitting room to which we might move this discussion, my dear?” asked Fenric, trying to console her without sharing too much information. “I must attend to a few quick things, but then I’ll come find you.”
Lucy nodded reluctantly. She explained where they could meet and set off to prepare.
In the meantime, Kaille and Jas had already begun stuffing the unconscious Whyl into a large decorative trunk further down the hallway.
“What do you think his name is, really?” asked Jas, pushing in a booted foot at what he hoped was an uncomfortable angle.
“It’d probably be safer if we didn’t know,” said the Captain, ready to be rid of their erstwhile prisoner. He pushed the man’s head down, noticing with regret that the cat’s deep scratches had already stopped bleeding.
Task complete, the sailors stood. Fenric joined them, and the three towered over the trunk, staring at the contorted liar in their midst.
“You might want to finish him off now,” said Kaille, not quite believing that he could say such a thing.
Fenric stared ahead thoughtfully, raising his pistol again and aiming it at Whyl’s head. His hand tensed.
Fenric considered pulling the trigger, seeing so easily in his mind’s eye the moment during which he’d nearly lost the child—his reason for living. The man was an assassin and a spy. He didn’t deserve to live—in fact, his existence would make the Scribe’s infinitely harder. Yet, was that a reason to kill? Whyl, as he called himself, was the employee of an enemy, not necessarily an enemy himself. It was possible he could be won from his dark path, or at least be made useful. Did Fenric not owe it to this man to give him a second chance?
Without a shot fired, the pistol was lowered. “I’m not the type who usually believes in the purity of black and white,” said Fenric, looking sideways at the Captain. “I don’t pretend to be unsullied in my dealings. But I know this: I’m not a murderer.”
Kaille nodded, understanding the Scribe’s meaning. Raising a boot to the trunk lid, he let it slam shut.
*
Chapter 13:
The Task
* * * * *
So You’ve Decided To Go To Scadia!
The Land of Silk and Spices:
A Travel Guide to the Scadias
Introduction
By Lirey Litwin
*
Scadia has endless wonders to offer the determined tourist, and I just can’t wait to show you how! In these pages you’ll learn all about how to travel like a local, and in no time you’ll be navigating the bustling marketplaces with ease, discovering the unmarked treasures of the tea district, and traveling by elephant to the majestic waterfalls! As your nose grows accustomed to the spices in the air and your skin becomes used to being pampered in layers of silk, you’ll begin to wonder why you’d ever want to leave such a paradise!
But enough of that! What you need first is a brief history of the area. Scadia is considered the “Gateway to the Mist.” Besides sounding very poetic (wink!), this was the way the first Illians who landed there thought to describe the large expanse of fog-covered hills leading to the foreign continent beyond. The bays and rivers of Scadia are the final access of the sea to the many countries beyond—lands such as Pogra, Donma, Saburo, Wapar, and Nomkea. Travel to these areas, a “Journey Through the Mists,” is too difficult for most, and so their traded goods all come through the Scadias, making the small lynchpin country a rich place of trade and culture.
The people of Scadia are called Scadians. If you call them “Scads,” like the Eischland Traders did many centuries ago, you’ll be considered an enemy of the state, and will greatly endanger the enjoyment of your vacation! Don’t forget, Eischland isn’t allowed to trade directly with Scadia even to this day! There are many ways to offend a Scadian’s proud sense of honor, so read Chapter 12 (No No’s and Boo Boo’s for You You!) very carefully.
Once you’ve learned a few phrases (see Chapter 7) you’ll be ready to go out and buy yourself some silk! Scadians hold tight to their recipe for this airy, beautiful fabric, but they have no qualms selling it in all its forms (see Chapter 4)! Scarves, dresses, cloaks, and anything else you could imagine can be found in the thriving marketplaces, all dyed to the most vibrant of hues. You’ll never see such colors again in your life, I swear it!
Once you’ve had your fill of shopping, it’ll be time to eat (see Chapters 8-10)! Scadian lamb and hillbeast make for hearty, saucy dishes, rubbed in spices and cooked lovingly over hot stones. You can almost taste the magic in the air as you dig into these uniquely flavored dishes, and you’ll have a new respect for the Curry Flower, which is credited with much of Scadia’s flavor profile!
If you’re returning to Scadia, then welcome back! If this is your first time traveling “Into the Mist,” then come be our guest! I almost envy you, dear first-time travelers. You may only be a stranger to the Scadias once, and the discovery of this new world is pure magic at every turn!
* * * * *
The trunk lid had no sooner been closed when an aged man in elegant finery turned the corner and came upon the odd group. He was holding at arm’s length the vase in which Captain Kaille had spit out his dinner, and was regarding it with a mixture of amusement and disgust.
“Ah, Fenric,” he said upon seeing the Scribe, “There you are. The letter was nowhere to be found, but I’ll have my servants search the room from top to bottom once they’ve been freed from this ridiculous party.”
“Of course, my friend,” said Fenric, thrown slightly off balance by the interruption.
“I hope each year that the guests won’t feel tempted to move too far past the ballroom,” said the newcomer wryly, “but I suppose I must resign myself to the inevitable.” Peering into the vase, he added, “I didn’t much care for the rolls either.”
“I think we frightened a few stragglers a little while ago,” Kaille lied loudly, eying the vase with guilt and pointing to the hallway behind them. “It might not be too late to catch the vandals.”
“It’s no bother,” said the man, setting down the vase and dusting his hands. “We’ll pay the cleaning staff double to work their magic, as we do every year.”
“That seems wise,” said Fenric, stepping between the Lord and the Captain. “My Lord Delahaye, may I introduce you to Captain Kaille, the man of whom I spoke.”
“Ah, Captain Kaille, is it?” asked the Lord Delahaye, shaking the Captain’s hand firmly. “Are you any relation to the Umbury Kailles?”
“I…” the Captain began, confused. “I could hardly say…”
“It’s no bother. I had a Gardener who…never mind. Why don’t you come up to my study,” invited Delahaye. “I’ll repay you in brandy for chasing off my party’s troublemakers.”
“That’s a fine idea!” Fenric said, motioning for the other three to be on their way. “Please, go ahead without me. I must speak with my niece.”
The Lord Delahaye gave the Scribe a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on the child,” he said. Turning to the sailors, he nodded and stepped off. “Please do join me. It seems we’ve missed our opportunity to speak conveniently.”
Flushing red, the Captain followed the Lord Delahaye’s lead with Jas on his heals. Fenric followed for a few steps o
nly, and then came to the room where Lucy waited.
“Uncle!” she cried, charging forward for a hug.
Putting his hand gently on her head, he said soothingly, “There, there child.”
Lucy pushed away as though she’d been burned. “Don’t call me that!”
“Right,” Fenric recalled, pulling away and dropping himself onto a long blue couch. “You’re protesting the station of childhood. How could I forget?”
Arms crossed, Lucy looked back into the hallway, thinking aloud, “This is the worst party ever.”
Fenric could tell his niece was in a mood to be disagreeable, so he merely asked, “And what’s been so terrible about it?”
“He said I was a child in front of everybody!” she cried, plunging herself face-first into the cushions at the other end of the long seat.
“He who?” Fenric asked, his mind alert.
Lucy lifted her face from the cushions. “Master Lorey!” she wailed.
Fenric was struck dumb for several moments, wondering how the old man he’d spoken to earlier that evening had made it from his sickbed to the ball. Then with a chuckle he recalled the man’s son. “What should you care what the young Master Lorey says?” Fenric asked. “You’ve only just met the boy. He said those exact words?”
“No!” Lucy admitted. “But Emibelle said it and he didn’t disagree!”
“I’m not sure silence is always the best indication of concurrence…”
“He just kept talking about fairies,” she cried, “as though I’m some baby who can’t tell the difference between bedtime stories and reality—”
“Bedtime stories teach us about reality,” said Fenric, thinking this might be his way into the conversation, “that’s their great beauty—”
“Uncle!” Lucy cried, frustrated. “That’s not helping!”
“I’m sorry,” he said genuinely. “It’s the curse of those who’ve grown up too quickly that they’re no longer able to relate to the young.” Taking a deep breath, Fenric tried to re-center his thoughts. Honesty, he decided, would be the best approach. “Truth is, I’m afraid of seeing you grow up. You sit here before me, telling me you’re ready…but all I can think of is the man with dagger and the countless other assassins who are searching for you this very minute.”