Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (52 page)

“An unusual ship, it carves through these rough waters like a sword,” the Wolf said abruptly. “It was a good idea coming to Taroch’s Arm. I thank you for that. You have brought wisdom into a head clouded with rage.”

“Rage…yes,” mumbled Thackery. “You should be angry. Perhaps at me, as well, for I remain burdened by thoughts that I am somehow responsible for Morigan’s capture.”

Caenith glared at him; not with cruelty, but harshly nonetheless. “You have said this before. Explain yourself.”

Glancing elsewhere, Thule leaned over the railing and wished for the river to blow him the courage to speak. Someone had to know the truth. All of it. When he was ready, he turned to Caenith, though he was surprised by the manic, toothy grimace of the man and shocked more by the howl that he suddenly released to the skies. He forgot his confession and asked instead, “What is it?”

“Morigan,” panted the Wolf, and tapped his temple. “She’s speaking! She’s free!”

VIII

Back in The Silk Purse, Maggie helped herself to a drink. Jebidiah was still swilling his sorrows, though drunkenly bobbing along to a bard that had appeared near the hearth. Jebidiah could have been an old bard himself: once handsome and lean, now bald, wrinkled, and skinny, though the essence of an adventurous spirit clung in cold remembrance in his gaze, and his clothing was light and as gaily red as a performer’s—typical, considering a Sorsettan’s lust for color. The old merchant seemed amiable, more so than he had been in the morning, so she went to keep him company. He welcomed her without a word, and she ordered a meal and limitless wine for them each, which elicited a smile from Jebidiah, if still no conversation. The bard crooned an epic about a maiden pining for her love that went on for nearly an hourglass, by which time she was pleasantly drunk. Loose enough with her tongue to ask what troubles plagued the merchant.

“So, how much do you owe the man, Jebidiah?”

This provoked an immediate response. “Ssh! I am Myrtul. Myrtul Hawkins.”

“Myrtul, then,” she snickered, placing her elbows on the table to get closer to her companion. “You’re as slippery as they come, and I’ve never seen you do anything but laugh in the face of threats. You must have royally pissed off this supplier of yours to come scurrying here. What was his name again?”

Her companion clutched his goblet, and his eyes darted as if he were a hunted animal. He wasn’t scared; he was terrified. After a moment, he stopped trembling enough to stutter out a few words.

“I didn’t…I never said a name.” Jebidiah shook his head. “I…I…I may have overstepped myself.”

Maggie waited for him to continue. It was a long wait.

“The spice trade, you see, it was never really enough.”

“Enough?” she asked.

“Enough coin,” said her companion. He tossed back his wine, hunched nearer, and the story began to spill. “Not to sustain my habits, which have grown ever more complex and expensive over the years. My jewels and silks are bitter comforts to a lonely soul. While I have no children, I have many
mouths to feed. Many men who rely upon my caregiving and generosity. Expensive, so expensive.”

Maggie knew of the merchant’s predilection for hearty, able-bodied fellows who enjoyed the
brotherhood
of others like themselves. She had also been aboard the
Red Mary
, met its handsome crew, and watched how they fawned over Jebidiah like a gaggle of hens. Indeed, paying for a family of courtesans surely wasn’t the cheapest vice, she considered.

“What did you do?” she hissed. “Who are you running from? You said that you were in a
pinch
of trouble. A pinch. This certainly sounds like more than that.”

Jebidiah fluttered his hand. “As I was saying, I found that a ship as fast as the
Red Mary
was in demand to transport other, more lucrative cargos than perfumes and spices. Witchroot—still a spice, in a sense. Or Kurakik poisons for the black markets of Menos. That was definitely ignoble, I’ll give you that. But never anything more than those small sins, I promise you. At least not until this last request.” Jebidiah looked as if he might weep. “You have to understand that I didn’t know what was being asked of me. What I would have to transport. I never would have agreed.” Jebidiah stopped himself from talking and his stare went cagey. “Swear to me that you will not cast me out if I share this with you, for I have no one else to turn to. I know that what I have done—what I almost did—is a matter near and dear to your heart. A matter that you have certain sensitivities toward.”

“Certain sensitivities,” she muttered.

Jebidiah nodded.

Cordenzia and her daughter had raised a woman who could stand head and shoulders to their greatness and fortitude, and Maggie couldn’t think of much that would unsettle her. Except…

“Spit it out. What was the cargo?” she demanded.

“Livestock, the master said. But I should have known.”

A pause.

“People,” he whispered.

Maggie recoiled, yet Jebidiah was quick to snatch her hands. Luckily, the bard and chatter drowned out his hectic pitch. “I didn’t do it! I couldn’t! All those trembling savages, penned and shiting themselves on my dear
Red Mary
! My lads gave me the most heinous stares, though I did not need
their accusation to burden my remorse, which was crushing! I let them go… dropped the wretches off in the forested hills north of Blackforge. I have no idea what will become of the poor creatures, but I did justice’s work in setting them free. I even gave them what arms my men could spare and a few days’ worth of food, and then I headed straight here. For I knew I was marked. You do not defy a”—he spat the next bit with venom—“Menosian master, an
Iron sage
, and live in peace thereafter.”

“Menosian master?” exclaimed Maggie, cupping her mouth lest she draw scathing glances. As much restraint as she showed, her mind was frantic. Inadvertently, she had betrayed Thackery as well as sticking the knife in herself.

“What were you thinking?” she whispered. “This is no petty debtor you’ve scorned! You’ve just endangered a hero! You should have told me that you were hiding from a master of Menos! I never—”

“Would have helped me,” said Jebidiah, pouting. “I know. And you weren’t listening clearly. Not a master, but an Iron sage, Moreth of El. Ruler of the blood pits. Those men and women were bound for death in the ring. What have I done? What have I done?” Jebidiah held his head and let out a quiet sob.

“You did a good thing,” said Maggie, absently consoling him with a hand. “You are a stupid, lying fool, but you at least acted with honor when the choice was thrust upon you. We can keep you here for a time. But you are right, if Moreth calls for your head, nowhere between Eod and Menos is safe for you. Farther to the west, you might have hope. Your concern is the lesser of my problems, however, for I must think of how I am to get a message to the man that you have damned with your carelessness and lies. I hope it is not too late.”

A fishy breeze came over her, like sardines left in the sun. Something behind her startled Jebidiah into clutching himself. She knew she was in trouble before the heavy hand clamped on her shoulder.

“That’s the problem with Taroch’s Arm,” muttered a voice into her ear. “You can pay a man for any service, but silence on the deed is another fee altogether. You must not have made that part of your arrangement down at the harbor. Galivad and Rowena of Eod, here on the authority of Her Majesty, and we would have a word with you, tavernkeep.”

XIII

THE ESCAPE

I

T
he glimpses of Menos that Morigan had seen in the minds of others did not capture the depths of its despair. Behind her gag, Morigan gasped at the Iron Wall with its barbed battlements that rose in a black tidal wave around the city. Unscalable and unassailable, it drove home the iron stake that Morigan was far from the white wonder of Eod and farther still from safety. Over the black belfries and steeples of buildings crafted like temples to unholy worship, the skycarriage flew, and through her fear, Morigan marveled at it all. Seizing her attention more than anything else, however, was a tower of gleaming dark stone or glass, for there was a diaphanousness to it similar to quartz. Morigan could tell that this was the heart of Menos, for it commanded the cityscape; it announced its rule simply by spanning from earth to murky sky, by being a glaring abomination amid an ocean of unnaturalness.

What is that?
whispered Morigan to her fellow captive.

The Crucible, where the Iron sages hold their council, and the grandest schemes in Geadhain are born
, answered Mouse.
Don’t worry about that; we’ll never see it. Just remember the plan
.

The plan. From what they had heard among the numbermen whom the Broker commanded, they were to be moved when they landed and then kept in holding at the Blackbriar estate until
certain parties
arrived for Morigan. Past that, their fates were dismal to consider, and they weren’t certain how long they were to be kept manacled together, which left them a narrow sliver of time to pull off an impossible escape. Morigan was prepared for what they had discussed, though a measure of their success lay in chance. They needed a moment, however slight, with the dead man to themselves and without the interference others.

I’m ready
, said Morigan.

Good
, replied Mouse.
Time to grease up this hog before the roast
.

With a decade as a pleasure maiden under her belt, Mouse still possessed many of her charms, though she chose never to wield them. She was schooled in the silent seductions of a woman: the batting of eyes, how to puff out even a meager chest like hers, or more impressive still, a trick to knot the breath in one’s chest and force a blush into her cheeks. In the gloomy cabin, she softly groaned and stretched. She could see the numbermen watching her with a particular interest, and doubtlessly the dead man was, too. After a moment she stopped, careful not to confuse the line between sufferer and temptress. Then the carriage was quickly descending, rattling against the currents, and she used the jostling to tip sideways in her seat and hope that the dead man caught her. He did, and set her right again with his cold but gentle hands. She mumbled something to him, and surely the softness of her expression entreated him, for he pulled down her gag.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

The dead man dipped his head, woeful as a punished lover, and then went to place the cloth back into her mouth.
Not so fast. I need my tongue
, she thought, and bit the inside of her cheek. The pain filled her eyes with tears.

“No, please,” she pleaded in a whisper. “It’s hurting my face. I promise to be quiet. I shan’t object, no matter the treatment.”

Either the tears or her uncommon gentleness halted him, and he ultimately consented to her request. In the uneasy tension that followed, he continued to stare at her, advances that she did not refuse, but accepted with the
subtlest smiles of her eyes. Shortly, the skycarriage creaked and then jolted to a stop. The dead man brought Mouse to her feet, with Morigan—attached—rising, too. The women were herded into the hull and then down the metal stairs into the miasma of Menos, into a foulness that swallowed them like a quicksand. Unaccustomed to the Iron City, Morigan found herself fighting for breaths against the dense air, and her skin was coated in greasy perspiration almost immediately. The stinging haze of a recent Menosian rain also wasn’t helping Morigan acclimate to the conditions.

“Blink, a lot,” advised Mouse.

The dead man escorted the ladies with his gentlemanly grace, as if they were not chained captives, but guests to a ball. Although Morigan only gaped at the black manor, Mouse recognized the gargoyle guardians, sneering their welcome, toward which they were being marched. The four numbermen were ahead, while beyond them were the Broker and the Raven, already climbing the estate’s extravagant steps. The latter appeared to be having some difficulty and had to pause and grasp the shorter man’s shoulder now and then.

Poor tyke
, scoffed Mouse.
All tired out from his corpse-bombing and flesh-puppeting. Little fuk. I made a promise to gut you with my knives. And I’ll keep that one day
.