The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

She didn’t respond but didn’t punish Pira for speaking out of turn, either.

Pira guessed that was a no.

They walked through a marble-floored entryway into a well-appointed sitting room full of polished tables and padded chairs—atypical for any inn Pira had ever visited. Even the clean establishments didn’t have rugs that could be spilled on or dirtied by muddy boots.

A man sat in a chair in the room’s rear corner. His feet rested on a tufted ottoman, and while he looked relaxed, in a silk jacket and lightweight canvas pants, his eyes took in the entire room. He was in a prime position to monitor entrances and exits, close enough to the window to bolt, but out of a bowman’s range.

His black hair was pressed flat under a band of woven gold, a metal version of a
cadarço
. Pira didn’t remember much from her history lessons of Santarem, but a crown meant royalty, and she knew this man had no claim to the country’s throne.

A second man, dressed in well-cut traveling attire, sat perpendicular to the duke. His face was chapped, his cheeks and forehead sunburned.

“Inimigo.” Vibora stopped in front of his footrest and offered a stiff bow.

She
bowed
to him. What in Mother Lua’s great name does Inimigo have that can command Vibora’s allegiance?

“That,” he said, pointing to Pira, “is the wrong girl.”

“Yes. I know, sir.” Vibora snapped her fingers, and the muscles in Pira’s knees turned to water. She tumbled to the floor with a graceless thump. “Barrata has gone after the princess.”

The duke considered this information for a moment, one finger tapping the side of his face. “That is upsetting,” he said in a monotone that defied the anger in his eyes. “Perhaps, then, I won’t be able to uphold my end of the bargain, since you’ve failed to uphold yours.”

Pira’s head was bowed, but from the corner of her eye she saw Vibora’s lips thin. Why didn’t she burn Inimigo where he sat?

“I don’t think that would be wise, my lord. Sapo would be vastly disappointed.”

Inimigo grunted, but the sound was vexed instead of fearful. Barrata was afraid of Sapo. As was Vibora. Was Inimigo stupid—a pawn in some game he didn’t understand—or was he truly that powerful?

“I, too, am disappointed, and I know that Duke Belem will feel similarly.” He turned to the man whom he hadn’t bothered to introduce, and said, “Well, Underlord, you’ve heard the information firsthand from my miserably incompetent steward. Please relay the message to your master. Our plans must go forward with all due haste.”

What plans?
Pira wondered.

“It will be done,” the underlord said as he rose from his chair. “Be certain that my duke will remain forever your ally.”

“As long as he’s dependent on Maringa’s steel, he will be.”

The underlord’s mouth opened, but he held his tongue.

Inimigo flicked his hand, and the underlord fled from the room with steps that got quicker as he drew nearer the door.

Once the man was gone, Inimigo reached for a small bag that rested at the base of a crystal lantern. “So many people need me, or at least what I can offer.” He tossed the bag to Vibora. It hit her palm with a wet smack. She opened the drawstring and looked inside.

A wicked grin split Inimigo’s face. “You’ll never find it. Waste as many of your servants as you wish, but without my help, you, Sapo, and Barrata will never amount to anything more than sideshow Performers. You can’t conquer a country without me. You can’t muster an army without me. You can’t rule without me. And I won’t let you.”

He stood and smoothed the wrinkles in his jacket. “I’ll see you in Cruzamento in two weeks, Vibora. Do not consider defying my orders.”

When the door to the inn closed and Vibora dropped the leather bag, Pira had a clearer idea of how to regard the duke. The contents spilled onto the woven rug and spread into a macabre circle.

Eyes, at least six pairs, irises glazed, stared up at Pira. Their owners had seen something forbidden and paid the price.

Inimigo might not have
essência
, but there was no question that he had some sort of power.

His mother called them fever dreams—hallucinations based loosely on truth, but mixed with fantastical elements of his imagination.

Rafi knew, as he sweated and shivered, that the things he was seeing weren’t quite right. Johanna wrestling a bear. A giant drinking tea out of a thimble. A familiar laugh ringing in his ears.

Icy water splashed onto his face, and he surfaced from the nightmare with a gasp and a cough.

“Mighty Keepers.” The laugh rolled again. “It is Lord DeSilva. I can’t believe such greatness is quivering on my prison floor.”

Raising a shaking hand, Rafi wiped the water from his eyes. It was dark in the jail, and he’d been asleep on the molding pile of hay for what felt like an eternity. His muscles throbbed and his head pounded as he looked around the room’s stone walls.

Against the floor-to-ceiling bars that created the cell’s door leaned a man with a bucket. He gave it a second toss, thoroughly drenching Rafi with its chilled contents.

Cold rivulets dripped down his face, but none managed to wash away the rancid flavor in his mouth. A hint of moonlight somewhere down the hall backlit the man’s body, but Rafi recognized the build and arrogant slouch.

“Ceara,” Rafi managed. He’d never liked the underlord and neither had his father, but they couldn’t force an underlord out of his position without cause. Smugness and poor taste weren’t quite enough, and Camilio DeSilva had never found legitimate reason to strip the man of his title.

No matter the history between Ceara and the DeSilva family, Rafi was grateful the underlord had arrived to free him from incarceration. “I think I have blood poisoning. Please call your physician and get your men to let me out.”

Rafi tried to roll over, but the agony that tore up his side made him stop with a low groan. The gashes from the weeds hadn’t been terribly deep—he’d survived worse wounds—and he had cleaned and bound them as best he could without assistance. They weren’t healing very neatly, having seeped green as he and Johanna traveled on the peddler’s cart, but it wasn’t until they arrived in Camaçari that Rafi realized he might need medical attention. The brawl had certainly done the injuries no good, tearing them open afresh.

“My men?” Ceara said, stepping closer and grabbing the bars with both hands. “Do you see anyone else around here?”

The narrow hallway beyond the cell appeared to be empty. Rafi remembered Bartlett’s men handing him off to the garrison soldiers, who deposited him none too gently on the prison floor. After that everything slipped into darkness. He was still struggling to clear the haze from his mind. Something was off, something was wrong, but he couldn’t quite figure what it was.

“All the prisoners in this wing have been moved,” Ceara continued. “Apparently, the guards brought in a common tavern brawler who was sick with marsh fever. They had to isolate him for fear it would spread to the rest of the prisoners and the garrison. You know how contagious it is, especially with the fall rainstorms finally starting.”

Common tavern brawler.
“Ceara, you know who I am. You know I don’t have marsh fever.”

“One of my men, who was raised in Santiago, mistakenly identified a commoner as the young Lord DeSilva.” Ceara clicked his tongue. “That soldier is going to face an unfortunate accident tomorrow morning, and no one else will remember that a man matching your description was thrown into my prison. In a few days a corpse will be carted out of this cell and burned so that the marsh fever won’t continue to spread.”

A tremor shook Rafi’s body that had nothing to do with his illness. “This isn’t funny, Ceara. People know where I am.”

“That’s true.” Ceara’s shadow nodded. “Old Bartlett, who has no love for you or any of the DeSilvas, turned you in. Did you know his family was in Roraima when it fell? He always blamed your father for not going to King Wilhelm’s aid sooner. Not that anyone would believe anything Bartlett said about you. He’s taken one too many blows to the head.” Ceara chuckled and raised his hand to his left ear. “You may have noticed.”

Sweat broke out along Rafi’s brow. He reached for his belt dagger, though he knew instinctively that it wasn’t there, and that even if it had been, he was in no condition to use it.

“What I’m really interested in is the little beauty who accompanied you to Bartlett’s inn. What kind of girl could have drawn an honorable DeSilva away from his estate and his duties?”

“She’s no one.” Rafi wished he could take the words back the instant they were out of his mouth. He sounded too defensive, too desperate.

“Really? That is disappointing.” Ceara stepped back from the bars, almost disappearing from sight. “I’m afraid you’re alone in that estimation. I received a very interesting letter from the Duke of Belem. He asked me to send one of my . . . assistants . . . to Santiago to kidnap this girl, but you so kindly saved me the effort. When I deliver her to Belem’s estate, he’s promised me a little something in return.”

Rafi knew the answer; it was the one thing that Ceara couldn’t simply take for himself. Still, he asked, “What did he promise you?”

“All of Santiago.”

Closing his eyes, Rafi wished he could slip into a nightmare. Bears and giants were preferable to the ringing echo of Ceara’s laugh.

“It would be silly of me not to test the veracity of Belem’s claim. So I’m asking you one more time: Who is the girl you brought to Camaçari, and why does Belem want her?” Ceara reached his arm through the bars and held out a small glass vile. “In return for the information I’ll offer you a way to expedite your suffering. It’s a simple poison. Colorless. Tasteless. It takes about thirty minutes to stop a strong man’s heart.” He snapped his fingers, the sound reverberating off the stone walls. “And you drop dead. No one will ever guess how you died.”

“Poison is a coward’s tool. Come slit my throat and be done with it.”

Ceara snorted. “I’m certain your father would have said the same thing had he been given the chance.”

A rush of anger lent strength to Rafi’s limbs. He lurched to his feet and took two steps before crashing against the bars. The material of Ceara’s tunic slipped through his fingers as the underlord skipped away.

“Did you poison my father?” Rafi asked with a growl.

“No. I wasn’t anywhere nearby when Camilio died.”

Rafi’s legs buckled and he crumbled to the floor, his ears buzzing with untruth.

“It’s so much cleaner to pay someone else to commit crimes in your name,” Ceara said, and laughed as Rafi attempted a weak swat through the bars.

“Bastard.” He leaned against the cold iron, too dizzy and weak to move.

Glass shattered above Rafi, shards raining down onto his unprotected head. A small wooden plug fell onto his lap.

“I hope you die slowly, then,” Ceara said as he marched out of the prison, leaving Rafi to suffer alone.

Johanna’s fists were bruised, but the wooden door she’d punched and kicked and screamed at was no worse for wear. Like the rest of the inn and its owner, the door was solid. She’d tried picking the lock, but the splinters she’d stripped off the bed frame snapped when she jammed them between the tumblers.

The windows were sealed tight—she’d checked. She could have broken one and tried to climb down the three-story building, but the room Bartlett had locked her in faced the street. Patrons and soldiers milled in the city square, certain to notice a girl climbing out of the bridal suite in a hideously bright dress. She’d be returned to Bartlett’s care or worse.

Ceara.

Outwardly there was nothing wrong with the underlord. But Johanna had performed for him the year before and had gotten a sense that there was nothing particularly
right
with him either.

Camaçari was a fine place to visit, complete with a large assortment of inns and a plethora of entertainment options, many of them illegal. She’d heard that Ceara ignored that kind of activity because it brought revenue to his township and lined his pockets with gold.

As a Storyspinner, Johanna knew that rumors were embellished for the sake of the tale, but worry had burrowed under her skin and nested in her bones. Rafi had been reticent to face Ceara on uneven footing, and he’d been delivered bloody, broken, and ill. Would Ceara press this advantage? Would he hurt Rafi or . . . do something worse out of his desire to see someone else in charge of Santiago?

Hours passed and the common room below began to quiet, but Johanna’s unease didn’t fade. The dinner crowd had come and gone. Most of the late-night drinkers had stumbled home, and though the inn likely had occupants, no one seemed to hear her pleas for help or the obscenities she directed at Bartlett.

When the moon set, she decided to break things. If nothing else, destroying some of Bartlett’s property kept her thoughts from sinking to her darker fears for Rafi’s safety. She started with an ivory water pitcher, throwing it and its contents against a wall. It shattered and no one came.

The bedside table was solid and awkward. She couldn’t pick it up, so she settled for knocking it over. It thumped against the rug on the floor with a hefty thud, the sound mimicking the heavy beats of her heart.

“Bartlett, let me out!” she yelled for the thousandth time. “Why have you locked me up?” Her voice was jagged with his betrayal.
Why? Why would he do this to me? Why won’t he listen?

All the throwing, kicking, and screaming had made her sweat, but as night drew on, her damp clothing chilled her. She shivered, turning to the empty hearth.

The chimney.

She stuck her head into the fireplace; only a trickle of smoke drifted up from the kitchen two floors below. A navy square of night sky brightened the end of the otherwise black tunnel. She couldn’t quite judge the distance to the roof; it was perhaps twenty feet up, but she was a Performer. An acrobat. She could climb the brick chimney without difficulty.

“Good-bye, Bartlett,” she said as she slithered into the narrow opening.