Daughter of Blood (12 page)

He frowned, contemplating another possibility, but kept it to himself. “I'm grateful for the warning,” he told Faro, “but my business is pressing, so I shall have to chance the Sea House ship.” He looked around the stark space one more time, his manner casual. “There's really nothing here as far as I can see. What do you think, time to leave?”

The boy vanished at once, and Kalan grinned as he rose to his feet. By the time he reached the door, Faro was crouched on a nearby roof, close by a drainpipe that had clearly been his means of ascent. Kalan removed the cobbles from the jamb, and as soon as he stepped clear the stone slab grated back into place. He frowned at it briefly, before smiling up at Faro. “Another puzzle,” he said lightly, extracting the money from his coat. “Grayharbor is full of them.”

He thought the boy might smile in answer, but when Faro saw the bag of coins, sullenness closed over his grimy face. “Here.” Kalan tossed the bag up to him and wondered, momentarily, if Faro was going to let it fall back—but at the last moment he snatched it from the air.

“Take me with you,” he said fiercely, not even looking at the coins. “I can watch your back.”

Kalan shook his head. “It's not possible, Faro. I told you that last night.” He paused. “The money will keep you going for a while, but I'll leave something more with Rayn, the clerk at the shipping office. That should bring enough for a decent apprenticeship, which is a better future than you'll find with me.” The set expression above him was not encour
aging, but Kalan persisted. “Once the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's gone you can walk in the front door whenever you're ready and talk to Rayn about it.”

The knuckles around the coin bag clenched white as Faro's face twisted. “I don't want your better future,” he cried. “I want to come with you!” When Kalan said nothing, just continued to gaze steadily up at him, he raised his arm as though intending to fling the coins back into the lane, but checked the gesture. Instead he sprang up and hurled himself along the eave, disappearing between the adjoining roofs without looking back.

At least he kept the money, Kalan told himself, but his frame of mind was bleak as he quit the lane. Like the weather, the mood did not lift, even when his fare on the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
turned out to be more reasonable than he had feared. Rayn listened without interruption to his explanation about Faro and agreed to dispose of the contents of Kalan's package for the boy's benefit. Yet striding back to the Anchor afterward, Kalan still felt as dour as the day. I couldn't possibly take Faro with me, he thought, and I've done all I can: I have to put him out of my mind and concentrate on my own business. But this, he found, was more easily resolved upon than done. Faro's despairing
I want to come with you!
stayed with him as tenaciously as Che'Ryl-g-Raham's murmur about liking puzzles.

Curse the brat! Kalan thought, rather savagely, when an afternoon's walk around the landward perimeter of the town brought him back to the Anchor, and his dinner, in as morose a temper as when he left it. A Grayharbor urchin would not survive long on the Derai Wall, that was all there was to it. And if, as he had begun to suspect, Faro was the result of a liaison between one of the Derai Lost and a local woman, that was even more reason to keep him away from the Wall of Night.

I'm doing you a favor, boy, even if you don't see it, Kalan thought, mopping up his gravy. He could only hope that Faro would understand, one day—assuming that Malian found both sword and shield and they could stop the darkness from
swarming over Haarth. For if they did not, there would be no better future for anyone, from a street urchin in Grayharbor to the Shah on Ishnapur's Lion Throne.

Kalan slept without dreaming and woke to the previous day's grim mood, which only lifted when he found Rayn waiting in the Anchor's yard. “The
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
sails on tomorrow's dawn tide,” the shipping clerk said, and Kalan nodded, relieved that the waiting was over. No dreams disturbed his sleep that night either, and he woke in darkness to collect up his gear and prepare the horses for the voyage. A tousled, sleepy Leti let him out the inn gate, and she was still in the entrance when he looked back from the street corner. A fine, misting rain haloed the night lantern above her head as they both lifted a hand in farewell.

When Kalan reached the dock, the charred remains of the
Sea Mew
were no more than a shadow seen through intermittent drizzle. Lanterns glowed saffron on the wharf adjoining the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
, as well as along the ship's bulwark and in her rigging, illuminating the mariners' work. Orth and his Sword comrades were waiting in the lee of the nearest warehouse, but as much as possible in the confined area, they ignored Kalan's arrival. He shrugged inwardly, conscious of Che'Ryl-g-Raham's presence on the poop deck as the crew came and went. Even with his own powers suppressed, he could almost see the shimmer of magic when the weatherworker joined her. Orth glowered in the same direction, his arms folded, but Kalan imagined that the Sword warriors' desire to reach the Wall—together with the ship's marines—would deter a confrontation. He was also aware that the Sword band's restraint would not extend to a Blood warrior without comrades or kin to back him.

Dawn was imminent when word came to embark. Kalan got the horses on board with far less fuss than in Port Farewell, although both regarded their accommodation in the hold with suspicion. He spent time getting them settled, listening to the voices of the mariners working cargo and the footsteps crisscrossing the deck overhead until whistles piped, indicating they were about to sail. When metal clinked
softly behind him he spun around, expecting a Sword warrior, but instead saw the woman with the shaven head, her stare unblinking as she watched him from beside the hold ladder. “Honor on you,” Kalan said automatically, although he was also remembering that the marine, Temorn, had told him she would not reply. Could she be mute? he wondered. In the gloom, her gaze was opaque as a blind woman's, but she raised her hands, pressing the palms together and bowing in an ancient gesture of greeting and salute.

Madder snorted, his ears pricking forward as Che'Ryl-g-Raham swung down the ladder, her frown shifting from Kalan to the shaven-headed woman. Kalan thought she was going to speak sharply to one or both of them, but despite the frown her words were calm. “You should not be here,” she told the woman. “Your place is on deck, with Laer.”

The woman turned away immediately and ascended the ladder, the charms on her ankle bracelet tinkling. Che'Ryl-g-Raham watched until she disappeared through the hatch, before directing her frown at Kalan. “Is she not allowed down here?” he asked.

Che'Ryl-g-Raham hesitated. “She is the Ship's Luck,” she said finally, “whose place is with the weatherworker once a ship puts to sea. Ship's business,” she added brusquely, forestalling questions. “But if she bothers you again, do as I did just now and send her back to Laer.”

Kalan was about to say that the Luck had not been bothering him, but honesty made him admit that he found her disconcerting. Che'Ryl-g-Raham nodded, as if reading the admission in his face.

“When your horses are settled,” she said, “find Temorn. We don't usually carry this many passengers, so we've had to give you a bunk in the marines' quarters. He'll show you where to stow your gear. We'll refund part of your fare, of course,” she added.

It was only afterward, when Kalan was back on deck and the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
was slipping seaward in the gray dawn, that he wondered whether he had been assigned comrades to watch his back, after all.

T
he voice of the sea filled Kalan's dreams, a whisper and bubble along wooden planking, although the timber on which he walked was hidden by fog. His footsteps were muted, but despite the whiteness he felt sure it was a dock he paced, rather than a deck. It was like the Grayharbor dream again, he thought: the vision of mist with a gull's cry beyond it, and the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's eye opening to gaze down at him. This time, though, it was not just one curved black prow rising through the fog, but a fleet of them, all with the same dawn eyes painted on their prows.

When Kalan turned to gaze back the way he had come, he saw that the fog had thinned. Now he could make out masts and rigging, harpoons and ballistas, as well as the ominous nozzles used to spray what the Derai called Sea House fire. When he looked more closely, he saw that many of the ships appeared to have recently been in battle, with gouged and holed hulls and snapped masts. A storm could also inflict such damage, but these were fighting ships and Kalan guessed he was seeing the Sea House navy, the warships that sailed into the heart of the Great Ocean's storm zone to hold the Swarm-born monsters that dwelt there in check. Ship's business, he thought, repeating Che'Ryl-g-Raham's phrase—
except if the Gate of Dreams was showing him this, then something about the fleet must be his business, too.

“Or you are our business.”
If he had been awake, Kalan knew every hair on his body would have stood on end, because the whisper had not only spoken into his dream, but from within the wards he and the heralds had woven with such care. Wary, he placed a dream hand against the nearest black prow.

“What business would that be?”
he asked.

“We know who you are, Kalan of House Blood, Ser Hamar of Aldermere. We know the Token you bear upon your hand. But we are good at keeping secrets.”

So Yorindesarinen was wrong, Kalan reflected, when she said that no one would remember the black-pearl ring anymore. Clearly someone, or something, did—which just went to show that gifts from dead heroes should never be taken at face value.

“Secrets . . .”
The voice was a shiver across his mind, and beyond it Kalan could hear a song that rose and dipped with the waves. It was in his dream and so he could not tell himself it was just a song, but he pulled his mind back to the more pressing matter: how either a single ship, or a dream of the Sea House fleet, could discern who he was beneath the guise of Khar of Blood. Or, he added grimly, recognize the ring that Yorindesarinen gave me.

“All those who come within the ambit of our power we comprehend fully,
”
the dream voice replied,
“just as we comprehend you now, waking or dreaming. The star-bright hero we remember from the days before, as we recall the one who last wore your ring upon his hand.”
Momentarily, the voice paused.
“We remember everything.”

Kalan sensed the parts to a puzzle shifting around him as the fog began to fray apart. The distant song acquired a wilder note, while all along the dream quay the ships rose high and then fell again on an unseen tide—and the eyes on every curved prow opened as one, piercing him with their vision.
“Need presses, Kalan-hamar. You must wake.”

His mind framed a demand for explanations, but the fog
streamed away until the only contact with the dream was his hand, still resting on the warship's black prow. A shudder ran through both and an instant later he was fully awake, staring into the darkness of the marines' quarters with his palm resting against the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's hull. Kalan told himself the shudder was only in the dream, but held still for several seconds anyway, expanding his awareness to encompass the ship. He could feel the rhythm as it ran before the wind and identify distinct sounds: the swish of the sea along the hull, the creak of sail and rigging, and the murmur of the crew keeping the quiet watch. It was their second night out from Grayharbor, and those marines not on duty were sleeping all around him, some distinguished only by the in-and-out of their breath, while others punctuated the darkness with snores. All seemed as it should be, yet uneasiness persisted, keeping Kalan's focus on the ship despite the dream still niggling for his attention.

“Vermin: I can always smell 'em.” Kalan almost jumped when the voice muttered, as close as if the speaker were right beside him. He placed the Swords' accent at once, although he was unsure whether it was Orth or his equally surly comrade, Malar, who had spoken—but recognized Kelyr, speaking in reply.

“All Sea House ships carry weatherworkers. We knew that before we embarked.”

“Don't forget their so-called Luck, Kel.” That was Tawrin. “You don't need a wyr hound baying to know there's something off about her.”

“Makes me want to puke when either one comes near.” That's Malar, Kalan decided, which means the first speaker must have been Orth.

“Stay away from them, then.” Kelyr sounded exasperated. “We want to survive this voyage, not end being hung from the ship's yardarm.”

Malar muttered something indecipherable, which Kalan suspected was profane. Even taking into account his acute hearing and the way sound traveled, he was certain they must be close by and not in the guest cabin beneath the poop deck.
The most likely explanation was that they were on the deck immediately above the marines' quarters, and a trick of the ship's structure was funneling their voices—which might be why none of the marines stirred, being used to the phenomenon. Kalan frowned, concentrating, as Malar spoke again.

“. . . can't even have a go at that cursed Blood snot. Every time I look around there's a marine watching.”

“They gave him a berth in their quarters, too.” Kelyr sounded amused. “Someone on this tub has our measure.”

Che'Ryl-g-Raham, at least, Kalan thought, although Temorn had observed that the Sword warriors reeked of ill will. Malar's further expletives did not surprise him, but Orth telling his comrade to “stow it” did.

“Khar will keep.” Will I now? Kalan thought, as Malar fell silent. “The weatherworker and his pet are vermin we know, but whatever I spotted in the dusk was lurking near the hold and moved too quickly for me to get a good look.” Orth paused. “I saw the mariners looking, too, when they thought I wasn't paying attention. By the time I got close enough, there was nothing to find.” He paused again. “But you know that feeling you get, the twitch when there's any kind of 'spawn about.”

Reluctantly, Kalan had to concede that he did, although he had not detected anything amiss on the ship.

“You should tell young Khar,” Tawrin drawled. “Oh, that's right, I keep forgetting. Blood don't believe in darkspawn anymore.”

“They call them Wallspawn these days.” Kelyr ignored a snort from one of his comrades. “And they rely too much on wyr hounds, rather than their warrior instincts.”

“That's because they think hunting 'spawn's like tracking their renegade priest-kind.” Malar cleared his throat, then spat.

Interesting, Kalan thought—but Tawrin was speaking again. “Perhaps we should show these Sea Keepers what hunting 'spawn is really all about.”

Kalan recalled the battered warships in his dream and doubted the mariners needed help with that. “I thought
we were going to lay low. But if a dark minion has got on board . . .” Kalan could hear the shrug in Kelyr's voice. “Besides, I'm always up for a good hunt.”

“Show these ship scum why they still need warrior kind,” Malar muttered. As if, Kalan thought, the marines are anything else—but he was already swinging out of his bunk as their footsteps moved away. Even if Che'Ryl-g-Raham had someone monitoring the Sword warriors, the dream had mentioned need, and they were heading toward the hold and his horses. Cursing inwardly, he reached for his boots, leather hauberk, and sword belt, but in the interests of speed and stealth left the rest of his armor behind. He would have to rely on his hearing and night vision to avoid being ambushed; besides, it would only take a shout to bring those on watch running.

As he came on deck, Kalan saw a shifting glimmer near the hold, but both the light and the Sword warriors had disappeared before he reached the hatch. They had left the cover open, so he flattened himself to one side and peered into the swaying shadows below, that were suggestive of a lantern being shone from one side of the hold to the other. A moment later Malar cursed as someone stepped on a chain, although the expletive was immediately bitten off. The swing of the lantern stilled.

The Sword warriors were listening, Kalan guessed, as he was. Mostly, he could hear Madder and Tercel's restlessness, disturbed by both the jumping lanternlight, with its associated threat of fire, and the warriors' stealth. He only hoped the Sword warriors had seen enough of warhorses in the south to stay clear of the stalls.

“I can't see anything here at all.” Tawrin's voice was pitched just above a whisper.

“There's a pack of cards back in our cabin,” Kelyr murmured. “And a few good bottles . . .”

Malar cursed him, but beneath his breath. “When is Orth ever wrong?”

“I can think of a few times,” Kelyr muttered back, as the lantern swung again.

“All this tells us is that the 'spawn's good at hiding.”
When Orth stepped into Kalan's view, his sword was drawn. “There's vermin here all right. I don't need to see it to be sure.”

“If we skewer every shadow, we'll flush it out. If we don't, then we go through every coop and crate until we find it.” Malar's tone made it clear what would happen then, but Kalan was imagining Che'Ryl-g-Raham's reaction to all the hold's goods being opened or run through with swords. Orth was already stabbing methodically as he moved along the bulkhead, and the play of shadows suggested another warrior was doing the same on the hold's opposite side.

“What's that?” Tawrin exclaimed. “There, by the horses!” Shadows leapt and Madder screamed, not in terror, but a warhorse's cry of defiance and rage. That war cry would rouse the dead, let alone the ship, Kalan thought, catapulting down the ladder as Tawrin backed away from Madder's stall. The destrier half reared, his hooves striking at the wooden barrier between them before he lunged forward, his ears well back and his teeth snapping at the Sword warrior. Beside him, Tercel tossed up his head and stamped, snorting his own readiness to defend their territory.

“Who needs a warhorse on the Wall anyway?” Orth's sword arm drew back as Madder trumpeted out both warning and challenge.

“Keep away, all of you!” Kalan shouted. “Madder, stand down!” he commanded in Emerian, as whistles shrilled and feet pounded overhead. He countered Malar's attempted intercept with a stiff-armed shove, thrusting him into Kelyr. Tawrin jumped clear of Kalan's elbow to his throat, opening a path to Orth. Kalan closed the intervening gap in a single stride, drawing his sword and beating Orth's blade aside as the Sword warrior turned on him.

Marines thundered down both the fore and aft ladders into the hold. Peripherally, Kalan was aware of steel caps and crossbows, but kept his focus on Orth. Footsteps scuffed, followed almost instantly by a thud and a groan as Che'Ryl-g-Raham strode forward. “What in the Nine's name is going on?” she demanded.

“I need to calm my horses.” Kalan spoke to her, but did not look away from Orth—or Madder as the roan's head snaked forward again, more in warning than threat this time. Orth's expression was ugly, a red gleam very like the warhorse's in his eyes, but he stayed where he was.

“Orth says there's 'spawn in there.” Kelyr was terse. “Khar's horse is protecting it.”

“The horse is still contained by the stall.” Che'Ryl-g-Raham sounded remarkably calm given the situation. “And we have crossbows here, so you two can put your swords away.”

She had not drawn her own weapon, Kalan realized. Then again, she must realize they didn't need any more blades in the mix. Slowly, he sheathed his sword.

“Orth,” Kelyr said, and the giant warrior finally did the same, moving a reluctant half step away as Madder rolled an ill-intentioned eye in his direction.

“Whatever's in there,” Kalan said, matching the navigator's composure, “can't be darkspawn. Madder would have killed it if it was.”

“We already know it's not darkspawn.” Now Kalan detected the anger beneath Che'Ryl-g-Raham's surface calm. “We've been aware for some time that we have a stowaway, but that's ship's business to deal with, not an excuse for a bunch of warrior kind to run amok.”

Kalan flushed, but Orth glowered at her. “It's 'spawn,” he insisted. “I know the vermin taint.”

“Orth,” Kelyr warned again, while Tawrin shifted uneasily.

“Let me settle Madder down,” Kalan said, striving for reasonableness. “Then we can see what, if anything, he's protecting.”

Che'Ryl-g-Raham regarded him a moment longer before she nodded. The marines with her lowered their crossbows as the Sword warriors shifted back—all except Malar, who Kalan now saw was sprawled facedown with Temorn's boot on his back. That must have been the scuff and thud, he realized. He wondered who Malar had swung at, but spoke
soothingly in Emerian, employing the language both horses were most familiar with. “Well done, my bold hearts. Bravely done, my beauties, but the danger's past now. All's well, my valiants.”

Finally, he placed his hand on Madder's halter and studied the rumpled hay at the rear of the stall. Nothing moved, but he could see no escape route, except for a creature small enough to squeeze through the narrow gap between stall divide and bulkhead, and into Tercel's space. Carefully, he scrutinized the bay's stall.

“Can he see it?” a marine behind him muttered.

Orth scowled. “Why all this waiting? Let me run my sword through the straw.”