Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (14 page)

“Surely you do not mean to keep that?” Fira asked, nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Aye, girl. ‘Tis proof the wings of the
Crimson Gull
have been clipped.” He leaned closer. “And proof of who did the clipping.”

Shouts of, “Glory to the
Lamprey!
” and “Capt’n Ostre!” went up, as the first leaping waves of flame escaped the hatch.

“To the Demon Gate, you whoreson curs!” Ostre bellowed, sending the celebrating crew back to their own ship.

Around them, a full third of the
Lamprey’s
crew lay among those of the
Crimson Gull
. “A high price for victory,” Nesaea said, a familiar appalled weariness falling over her at the sight of so much death. Before and during battle, none of that mattered. After the fact, killing curdled in her gut, and she knew her victims would rise again to plague her dreams.

“Aye,” Ostre grumbled, rubbing a thick finger under his nose, smearing clots of blood through his mustaches. He looked to the waves tossing round his ship. The crewman who had been washed over the side were still afloat, splashing weakly. “’Tis good those three fools decided to have a bath,” he said, and laughed uproariously.

Nesaea laughed with him, because mourning her enemies was worse than killing them.

Chapter 17

Black and cold, the broad waters of the River Sedge parted round the hull of the
Lamprey
. After so many days sailing upstream, Nesaea could almost forget the harrowing churn of the Demon Gate, a strait dotted with razor-edged reefs, and awhirl with deadly eddies and sucking whirlpools. The icy spray and fogs of the tumultuous White Sea had been worse. With so many lost in the battle against the
Crimson Gull
, Nesaea and Fira had aided the crew in clearing ice off the deck, rails, and rigging. Even now, the memory of that invasive cold stayed with her. Or it might be the Iron Marches were lands that could never warm enough to suit her southern blood.

Other cogs and small galleys shared the river with the
Lamprey
, slender fishing boats, and barges loaded with bales of fur. Under the climbing sun, the Gyntors rose to the south, an imposing wall of black-forested foothills climbing to immense snowcapped crags. North, hills reached to the horizon. A hard land, Nesaea decided, one she would enjoy leaving. But first, she had to find her father.

“Monseriq sounds better by the day,” Fira said, shivering under the fur cloak Captain Ostre had found for her. The green cast to her pale skin had faded over the last days, replaced by the same shade of pink Nesaea wore. Somewhere along the voyage, Fira’s stomach had grown used to the pitch and roll of the sea. As with Nesaea, the unrelenting cold had become the frustrating enemy.

“Soon as we are able,” Nesaea agreed, wondering how the crew of the
Lamprey
did not seem to feel the bite of the air.

“They’ve blood of ice,” Fira said, favoring Liamas with a lingering stare. As always, the Prythian quartermaster went about in snug breeches and bare-chested, his golden skin tight over enough muscle for two men. “He’s too pretty by half,” Fira said abruptly, as though Nesaea had made a suggestive comment.

Before Nesaea could respond, Ostre’s heavy tread alerted them to the captain’s presence. He dropped a thick hand on the rail, eyes focused upriver. “We’re soon to put in at Iceford. If you’re still fixed on venturing to Skalos, my brother usually keeps a few horses to sell. Better than walking, I expect.”

“My thanks,” Nesaea said.

Ostre rubbed his nose, then reached into his vest to withdraw the same leather pouch Nesaea had given him before boarding. “After all you’ve done, I’d not sleep a peaceful wink if I kept your price for passage.”

Nesaea tried to resist, but he pressed the pouch into her hand, closed her fingers over it.

“Never heard of the Maidens of the Lyre before you two, but if you ever need a bunk on the
Lamprey
, consider it yours.”

Nesaea inclined her head in acceptance. When she looked up, Ostre had turned away to bellow orders.

Within half a turn of the glass, the
Lamprey
had docked at the timber quays below Iceford, a bustling town filled with narrow streets that wended between stone-and-timber buildings with high-peaked, thatched roofs. The scent of fish and tanneries assailed Nesaea and Fira long before they followed Ostre off the dock and into town.

“Busy,” Fira observed.

“Aye,” Ostre said, following her gaze to the townsfolk, who all seemed to be rushing and shouting. “Winter comes swift and early, hereabouts.”

“Winter,” Nesaea said incredulously. “It’s still the middle of summer, or near enough not to matter.”

“Not here,” Ostre said. “Less than a month until the river starts to freeze over. If I be lucky, the
Lamprey
will go and come from the south once more. After, I’ll set her prow to the shores of the Muika. A pity, that. Cargoes are richer, going north to south.”

“At least you’ll be warm,” Fira said.

“And poorer,” Ostre lamented, turning into a stable yard.

A boy pushing a barrow saw the burly captain, and his face lit up. “Uncle!” In his haste to reach the captain, the boy upended his barrow of straw and dung.

“Willen!” Ostre called, throwing his arms wide. The laughing boy slammed into him, and Ostre lifted him high and spun.

A sturdy bald man limped out of wide stable doors. A deep, twisting scar ran up his cheek, giving him a permanent sneer. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“For once, Robere, the winds favored us,” Ostre said, putting young Willen down.

“’Tis good one of us has a touch of luck,” Robere said with a sour grimace. His gaze flicked between Nesaea and Fira. Whatever he thought about them accompanying his brother, he kept to himself.

“Robere has more gold than he can spend,” Ostre revealed in a conspiratorial whisper. “But to hear him, you’d think he was pauper afflicted with a killing flux.”

“All the gold in the world will no help those hereabouts, nor those of Wyvern, now, will it?”

“Speak plain, man.”

“’Tis those damnable monks down from Skalos, always poking their noses where they no belong.”

“Naught new in that,” Ostre said.

“True enough. But they’ve taken to
pilfering
.”

Ostre sighed. “So everyone says, until someone pokes an arrow or blade into the true thief.”

“Aye, well, mayhap that’s the way it’s been before now, but I tell you, they’re up to no good.”

“Always are,” Ostre allowed.

“Mayhap you’ve the way of it, concerning the monks,” Robere grumbled reluctantly. “Same can no be said for the Wardens of Tanglewood. Word has it they’re on the hunt again, up to Wyvernmoor, and parts thereabouts. Them and their mistress, seeking out the careless.”

“Monks and ghosts,” Ostre said with the weary resignation of one who has heard it all before. “That all you have to fret over? Go count your gold, brother. You’ll feel better for it.”

Robere dismissed his brother with a curt wave, and faced Nesaea and Fira. “If you’re whores,” he said, “Iceford has too many already.”

Ostre gasped. “They’re not whores, you addled-witted fool. They be Maidens of the Lyre.”

Robere blinked. “Musicians, is it? Well, now, there might be a place for you. The Minstrel’s Cup lost a … well, they lost their minstrel. A fortnight back, the fancy fool got a flagon of wine in his fat belly, an’ fell in the river. Never did come up. Could be the—”

“They’re off to Skalos,” Ostre interrupted.

Robere blinked again. “Whatever for?”

“I’m looking for my father,” Nesaea said. “I was told he came this way. Sytheus Vonterel, a magician.”

“Strange name, that. Sure I’d remember it, if I’d ever heard it. Still, we get more of that sort hereabouts than we get wastrel minstrels,” Robere said. “But I can no recall a magician coming through Iceford in over a year.”

“Be that as it may,” Ostre said, “these ladies need a pair of good mountain horses to get them where they’re going.”

“We will pay for the finest you have,” Nesaea put in.

“They’re good for it,” Ostre assured his hesitant brother.

At the prospect of earning a fair bit of coin, Robere’s eyes lit up, and he showed a gap-toothed grin. “I’ve just what you need. Yes, indeed, ol’ Robere has the finest horseflesh in all the Iron Marches!”

Chapter 18

“Sytheus did, indeed, call on us,” Brother Jathen said amiably. He guided Nesaea and Fira down an arched corridor lined with bronze lamps. The citadel of Skalos had been built into a mountaintop, and over long centuries it had grown into a veritable beehive of great halls, storage vaults, chambers, and innumerable libraries, all connected by labyrinthine passageways. As it had taken a handful of grueling days riding up a winding switchback trail to get to the fortress, Nesaea barely noted the floors of green marble, the vast collection of artwork, or the sheer enormity of Skalos. All she wanted was to sit on something motionless, and without a fickle mind of its own.

“I fear we have not seen your father since he departed, some months gone,” Jathen went on. “I can scarcely believe good Sytheus never mentioned he had such a lovely daughter.”

“
Two
daughters,” Nesaea reminded him. She had been hesitant to tell the man anything about her purpose, or that of her father. In the end, she saw little choice, if she was to find Sytheus.

“Yes, of course. And you received word he came here because of this other girl, your half-sister, the one held for ransom against his return?” He did not scoff, but a skeptical edge flavored his words. Since meeting him, he always sounded skeptical. Still, she was curious.

“You suspect he came here for another reason?”

“Indeed,” Jathen laughed. “He came, so he said, to expand his knowledge of the illusory arts. Sad, really, for such a talented man to seek knowledge for such base purpose.”

Fira snorted. “Coin, be it gold, silver, or copper, has its uses, and not all corrupt or belittling.”

“Just so,” Jathen agreed. “But the desire for it has led many to follow paths better avoided. We of the Way of Knowing believe knowledge, in all its many forms, is the only truly enduring currency.”

“Before my father departed Skalos,” Nesaea interjected, uninterested in philosophical debates, “did he find what he was seeking?”

“I could not say,” Jathen said absently.

Nesaea studied him. Most of the other monks she had seen since entering the mountain citadel wore coarse habits, as one would expect from a thoroughly
enlightened
order. Brother Jathen wore the finest mail and boiled leather, and the cut of his ermine-lined green wool cloak would please any highborn. There was nothing austere about him, nor monkish. Not in the least.

“Can you tell me where my father went?”

“But of course,” Jathen answered, turning just enough to reveal the strong line of his jaw and a winning, if somewhat brittle, smile. “I’ve a detailed map in my chambers. Not only can I show you where he went, I can direct you to the safest path to follow. I hope you find him, for I would very much like to see Sytheus again.”

Nothing in his tone suggested his desire to see Sytheus had anything to do with friendship. Nor did he sound antagonistic. He sounded impatient.

“If you know where he is,” she said, “then why have you not sought him yourself?”

“Alas, all men are given but a few short years to walk the world. Were I to run every errand myself, I would have little time for the further advancement of my studies.”

“And what do you study?” Fira asked. “By all accounts, it’s not finances.”

Jathen absorbed the barb with another flash of teeth. “The Way of Knowing has many paths. For myself, I chose warfare. Philosophy, mysticism, healing and the like, all have their place in Skalos, but I’m a simpler man. For me, the highest truth comes in devising fine tactics, and employing good sharp steel.”

“A blade in the guts does not lie,” Fira agreed.

Jathen spun. “Gods be blessed, a woman after my own heart!” He brushed golden curls behind his ear, fixing eager blue eyes on her. “You must return to Skalos after you are finished hunting Sytheus.” He gaze took on a light Nesaea had seen many times. It had nothing to do with the study of battlefield strategy, but rather that of the bedchamber. “Perchance, we could share notions of close fighting, or maybe even spar? Word comes even to Skalos of the Maidens of the Lyre, and their ability on the field of battle.”

“Perchance,” Fira said sweetly, smiling in a way that told Nesaea she would rather poke a white-hot needle into her eye, than
share
anything with good Brother Jathen.

Seeing desire where there was none, Jathen flashed another glorious smile, and spun on his heel. He whistled a marching tune as he led them into a majestic chamber that drew a gasp from Fira. Nesaea shared her awe. She had seen palaces that could have fit beneath the domed ceiling. While scores of monks bustled across the circular floor, every inch of its mosaicked surface polished to a low gleam, many more of the studious brothers strode the galleries spiraling a hundred paces above, the highest fading into hazed obscurity.