Breaking the Gloaming (2 page)

Chapter 3

SMUGGLING LOYALTY

“Fortune is like the market where,

many times, if you can stay a little

the price will fall.”

The smuggler breathed easier when he sailed into the River Tyne before dawn. A light wind pulled his boat through the calm, brackish water, like it was carving through glass. Men might be more likely to catch him and kill him here, but at least the ocean was behind him.
 

In fifty voyages between Sunan and Valemidas, he had never seen tempests like those of the past month. Storm clouds had taken on personality, black and furious. Lightning had struck with such fierceness that he could still feel the thunder reverberating in his head. Waves rose to four times the height of his main sail. Next time he needed a bigger boat, and maybe a crew.

If this trip succeeded, he could afford that next boat. His services were in high demand. One buyer was a double-crossing spy who wanted information. There was also a pair of greedy merchant brothers who wanted goods for the black market. Who they were or what they wanted did not matter to the smuggler. He would take anyone’s gold. His right to nobler pursuits had been stolen many years past.
 

He stayed close to the south bank of the river as he passed Valemidas. The city was asleep and beautiful. He should not have liked the foreign capital more than he liked his own, but its grandeur was undeniable. The buildings grew up at irregular heights, their steep slate roofs pale in the moonlight. No building reached half the height of the palace that arose from a rocky bluff over the river. The towers and spires and walls were uneven but harmonious, in the way a garden grows from straightly planted lines into a jumble that allows each bloom to capture the most light.

The smuggler pulled his eyes away from the city to monitor the river. Even though his boat was alone on the water, he let down nets to play the part of a fisherman. His first buyer, the spy, had left clear instructions about the precautions, as if the smuggler needed to be reminded of the peril. It was his business to evade detection. No one else had made as many prohibited voyages between the two great cities.

The sun had just crested over the ocean behind him when he spotted a small outcrop in the distance. This was where he would meet the spy. No other vessels were in sight. Valemidas was safely behind him and a dense forest awaited him. Tall green trees lined both sides of the river, which was still too far across to throw a stone. He veered to the middle of the water, telling himself it was because the wind shifted and pretending that he did not fear trees. What man feared a forest? A man who grew up in a desert, he laughed to himself.

Once he was even with the rocks protruding from the otherwise flat southern riverbank, he tacked straight toward them. The boat had hardly touched shore when a dark figure leaped aboard and slammed into him. Next thing he knew, a hooded man was holding him over the rail.

“Where is His Excellency?” The man demanded. The smuggler felt some relief on hearing the cue.

“His Excellency Ilir sits on the golden throne, but I follow your call like a desert thrush.”
 

The man let him loose on the deck and flung back his hood.
 

“Some welcome, Sebastian,” the smuggler said as he rose to his feet and smoothed his clothes. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
 

The spy’s face was stern, marked by the royal tattoo beside his left eye. The tattoo and their place of birth might have been the only things the two men had in common.
 

“Are you alone?” Sebastian began searching the tiny boat.

“Of course I am. No one can abide my smell for long. The woman I brought with me survived only a week before jumping into the sea to rid herself of me.”

“Were you followed?” The spy ignored the attempt at humor.

“Does it look like it?” The smuggler shrugged and nodded toward the empty river. The Sebastian he remembered had smiled as a boy. Apparently that boy died sometime after he came to Valemidas.
 

The smuggler pulled out a flask and took a drink. “You are too tense, Sebastian. Rum?” He offered him the flask. “Makes for a great breakfast.”

“I drink only water,” Sebastian said. He pulled out a small bag that jingled with coins. “What messages do you have for me?” At least he seemed satisfied that they were alone. The smuggler found him boring yet terrifying—a poor mix.
 

“I bring two messages, but I expected a bigger bag. A bag of gold for each message?” The smuggler held out his hand.
 

To his surprise, Sebastian gave him the bag. He opened it and was surprised again to see silver instead of gold.

“That is for the message from my father.” Sebastian reached into his cloak for another, slightly larger bag. “This one is for the message from His Excellency. If your words satisfy me, you can leave with both.”

“A hard bargain.” The smuggler grinned and was met with a blank stare. Boring and terrifying. He figured he had little choice, as not speaking would result in some torture to make him speak. Besides, he wanted the gold.

“Your father has been raised to the Triumvirate,” the smuggler said. “So until His Excellency reaches eighteen in a few months, your father and the two priests, Malam and Ilias, rule Sunan as its stewards. His Excellency invited your father because he is the only family he has left…except for you.” The words brought the first flinch of emotion to Sebastian’s face, as the smuggler knew they would.
 

The smuggler continued, “The two priests lead the competing sects of the faith. Malam wants Sunan to invade, to convert the Valemidans into worshipers of His Excellency, and to kill those who refuse to repent. Ilias comes up with excuses for delay, for peace, for whatever is not war. He says those who believe in our god can coexist with those who believe in the god of Valemidas.”

“I know all this,” Sebastian interrupted. “What is the message from my father?”

“Yes, the message from your father.” The smuggler took a swig from his flask to steady himself. The boat felt too still under his sea legs. “Seban says his way and your way are prevailing. He says His Excellency’s mind is young and loyal to the family. His Excellency understands the alignment of faith and politics. He understands the glory to be won here and after death. He understands your role. That’s all of it.”

The smuggler found it hard to believe that message was worth a bag of silver, but he was happy to take it.
 

“You want to give me that bag, too?” He asked.

“Nothing more from him?”

“That’s it.”

“Here.” Sebastian held out the bag but did not release it when the smuggler grabbed it. “You realize what will happen to you if you leave something out or lie?”

“I’m guessing I won’t be leaving with this bag?”

“You won’t be leaving at all,” Sebastian answered.
 

“You know me, Sebastian.” The smuggler pulled his cloak closer. “I care little for these games. I want the money. What could I hope to gain by misrepresenting anything to you? My family’s defeat is as final as the grave, as it has been for twenty years.”
 

Sebastian held the smuggler’s gaze for a long moment but eventually let go of the bag. The smuggler tucked it into his cloak and continued with the second message.

“His Excellency sends his fondest respects to you. He says the place is prepared for you, if you perform your duties. He said you must not reveal your true loyalties until the last possible moment. Stay true to your path until he calls upon you. You will be rewarded for your service to him.”

Sebastian looked away and was quiet. The smuggler began to sweat despite the cool morning air. He had never seen the spy so reticent.

“That is everything, Sebastian. I should be on my way, one more delivery before I return to Sunan.” The smuggler realized he had said too much as soon as the words left his mouth. No more rum for breakfast, he thought.

“You are only a threat to me now.” Sebastian turned to face him. “Someone else can deliver my messages back to Sunan.”
 

The dark man pulled out a dagger and stepped toward the smuggler.
 

The smuggler had no chance in a knife fight, but he had one advantage. No one knew this boat better than himself. As he backed away he pulled a lever on the deck, which gently pushed the boat off the bank. Sebastian ignored the movement.

“His Excellency’s father was right to exile you, Cid.” Sebastian showed his teeth the first time, as if the possibility of death brought out his true self. He snarled more than smiled. “You know His Excellency is my cousin. If my father had only stayed sober, he would have taken the throne when we killed your family. The throne would have been mine next. I would have been god’s presence to the Sunans. Such a thing cannot be denied when it is destiny. I will return to my rightful place.”

The smuggler was stunned by the words. What he thought he knew about Sebastian was all wrong. This was not going to end well. He had to survive to tell Ilias.
 

“Your secrets are safe with me,” the smuggler said. “I can help you.”

“No secrets are safe,” Sebastian replied, “and I am not taking any risks with you.”

Sebastian pressed closer, cornering the smuggler into the stern of the boat. The smuggler pulled hard on a thick rope to his right. It slipped off of a hook and the tension brought the boom of the sail swinging around. The boom slammed into Sebastian before he could move away.
 

The smuggler used the distraction and the momentum to charge and shove the spy over the boat’s rail. Sebastian splashed into the river below.

The smuggler quickly drew the sail to catch the wind. He raced away on the current of the river. His body shivered in a cold sweat.

It was true that he had left the politics of Sunan behind him, but maybe he would make an exception for Sebastian. Betraying the Valemidan prince might be forgiven. Betraying both the prince and His Excellency? That crossed a line even for a smuggler who abandoned morals long ago. He would do everything he could to keep Sebastian out of power.

He took another swig of rum and wiped his mouth. The next meeting would go better, he was sure of it. The merchants, Wren and Jon Sterling, wanted black-market goods from Sunan. They would give him wine and smile as they handed over gold. Sebastian could learn from that kind of dealing.
 

A small grin touched the smuggler’s face as he thought of the spy trudging back to Valemidas, drenched and furious.

Chapter 4

A CLOSE SHAVE

“How pleasant it is for a father
 

to sit at his child’s board.
 

It is like an aged man reclining
 

under the shadow of an oak
 

which he has planted.”

Justus Davosman could not relax despite his soft chair. He leaned back and stared at his reflection in the mirror as his two servants worked. The face he saw was tired but eager.

The older of the two servants held a long, sharp blade. She carefully dragged it across his skin, shaving off the one-day stubble. The younger girl hauled in proposed attire for the day. He pointed to a plain white tunic, with only a little lace. He wanted something more drab than what the nobles usually wore.
 

This morning he would meet with Prince Andor for the first time since the coup. His own adopted son was the prince again. Justus would never forget the first time he laid eyes on the boy.
 

Some twenty years ago, Father Yates had asked him to visit the orphanage in the Cathedral. The number of parentless children there had shocked him. In a long cellar hall of the Cathedral, dozens of boys and girls were lined up for a dinner of porridge. They scrambled to be first in line for the food, as if there would not be enough for them all. As soon as one of them clasped a bowl and a spoon, he or she would retreat to devour the meal. Three old women tried to maintain order, but there were too many children to control.

Soon after Sir Davosman had arrived, one little boy, far from the oldest, climbed onto the table where the food was being served. His boyish voice commanded the others to stay in line and wait for their turn. Many of the other children stopped pushing and obeyed as if there were no option, but an older boy pushed forward to challenge the young leader. The surrounding children froze to watch as the older boy jumped onto the table and tried to shove the younger one off. The challenger stood a head taller and looked intent on knocking the small boy down. As the older one rushed, the younger boy ducked and dodged with the instincts of a fighter. He used the larger boy’s momentum to sling him to the floor. He then grabbed a large bowl of the porridge and dumped it on the larger boy’s head, which made the other children erupt in laughter.
 

Justus would never forget the child’s next words.
I would rather not waste any more porridge tonight
, the boy had said.
It would be better for us all if you obeyed me.
 

The contrast of his weighty words and his squeaky voice had brought a rare smile to Justus’ face. No other challenger arose as the little boy stood firm on the table until the last of the children had gotten their dinner and eaten in peace.

That night Justus asked Father Yates about how the boy had come to the orphanage. The priest explained that every year a vessel arrived from the Sunan people with a note of peace. The tradition was part of the legend of the huge white tree at the center of Valemidas. Because the tradition’s significance had long ago been forgotten, the ritual of receiving the note of peace and responding had fallen to the priest who led the Cathedral.
 

Some days before Justus’s visit to the orphanage, the annual note of peace had arrived, carried by a young boy and including a cryptic warning in the Sunan language. Father Yates had it translated by a young priest from that foreign land. The note’s message was:
There is a new ruler in Sunan, a ruler without the taint of Valemidan blood. Our people grow restless, weary of your debt and of peace. Protect the blood that I return to you, for I fear little else will be able to save you when the war comes.