Liar's Island: A Novel (3 page)

Rodrick hadn't yet figured out how to tell Hrym he was demon-tainted. After all, who among us doesn't have some little quirk or another? But the fits were becoming more frequent, and violent, and Rodrick was considering the appalling prospect of finding a priest and asking for help.

“Did you hear something?” Hrym said.

Just your terrible giggle and aura of destruction.
“A shelf fell down, or something. Everything's busted-up and broken in here. No surprise really.”

“Hmm,” Hrym said. “So. Do we get on the ship and travel to a faraway land?”

“There are pluses and minuses.” He put Hrym in the sheath at his belt, ignoring the sword's protest—walking around the Coins with a naked blade, especially that blade, would draw too much of the wrong kind of attention. “Pluses include that whole weight-in-gold thing.”

Hrym's voice was muffled by the sheath, but audible. “Minuses include the fact that no one gives you your weight in gold without expecting you to work for it.”

“I do hate work. But being in close proximity to my weight in gold might provide the opportunity to steal it, thus getting the gold without doing the work.”

“How much gold would that
be
, anyway?” Hrym asked. “In terms of coins, I mean. Gold is awfully heavy, so it might not be so many, and you know I like to rest on a good bed of coins. He'd better not pay you in gold bars—they're not nearly as comfortable to sleep on. Why
aren't
you fatter, anyway?”

“However much it is, it's certainly more gold than we have now, by quite a large margin. Also, I've never been to Jalmeray. Could be interesting. All djinn and monks and tigers and temples in high mountains. And, hmm—women who dance around wearing nothing but scarves, and translucent scarves, at that. Am I remembering that right?”

“As always, you're a keen student of cultural matters,” Hrym said.

“I suppose I should see if I can find a map. Perhaps read a book. No, no time for that—but perhaps I should
talk
to someone who's read a book.” He turned a corner and walked along the back of a warehouse, past stacks of empty crates piled up twice the height of a man—or once the height of a djinni, apparently.

“A
whole
book?” Hrym said. “I don't think we know anyone who's gone quite that far.”

“True.” Rodrick paused in the mouth of an alleyway. Had he heard the scrape of a boot on stone back there? He drew Hrym and whirled, blade outstretched. He was quite good at the drawing-fast-and-whirling bit, as it made quite an impressive display; it was the parts that usually came after—actually trying to kill someone with a sword—that he'd never been much good at. Luckily, Hrym's ice magic made him lethal at a distance.

Except against these two. That buffoon Kelso and the other guard, the old one with the disreputable mustaches, approached with blades drawn. “What now?” the old one said, and grinned. “Gonna summon your djinni again?”

3

Inner and Outer Seas

 

“I can only do that once per day, alas,” Rodrick said. “You'll have to settle for ice in lieu of wind.”

“The wizard's magic still protects us, blackguard,” Kelso said.

“Did you just call me a blackguard?” Rodrick said. “I don't think anyone's ever called me that before. I'm not saying you're wrong, exactly. I don't know the exact definition of the term, but I get the gist, and it might be accurate enough. I'm just saying, it's unusual.” He sighed. “So, fine. You've got protection from the cold. But do you have protection from
gold
?” Rodrick jingled the bag of coins he'd gotten from the djinni. “I'll give you this if you go away and leave me alone.”

“You'd better only be offering them your share,” Hrym said. “I do not approve of this plan.”

“You think we can be bought so easily?” Kelso's virtuous jowls quivered in outrage.

“You? Perhaps not. But your friend here has the look of an old veteran, and in my experience, soldiers are practical. Take the gold, and tell your little lord you couldn't find me. Everyone wins.”

“Better plan,” the grizzled guard said. “We beat you bloody and take the gold
anyway
.”

“Damn,” Rodrick said. “Some old soldiers are entirely too practical. Another way, then.” He waved Hrym toward a stack of crates, unleashing a torrent of icy wind that knocked the whole pile down, tumbling crates smashing into Kelso and the old guard and driving them to the ground. They groaned, not badly hurt, and started to climb out from under the wreckage, but Rodrick played Hrym across the broken mass of crates until they were a fused and frozen lump of ice-locked wood, with the guards trapped underneath. The old guard had gotten his head free from the pile, and he glared at Rodrick as he struggled futilely to escape the crates pinning him down.

“At least you won't be too cold under there,” Rodrick said. “Until that spell you've got protecting you wears off, anyway. Then … brr.”

“I've reconsidered your offer,” the guard said. “I'll take the gold.”

“I like you,” Rodrick said. Feeling cheerful about his prospects, he flipped a coin through the air, making it land an inch from the soldier's nose.

He sauntered away. Nobody could saunter like Rodrick. He didn't even have to practice it anymore. It just came naturally now.

“That coin you threw away is coming out of your half,” Hrym said.

“I'll be sure to make a note in the company accounts.”

*   *   *

They didn't dare go back to the inn where they'd been staying before the job, in case the little lord sent more men looking for them, so they spent the evening loitering in shadowy alleyways with the other thugs and drinking in the sort of anonymous grog-holes down by the docks where no one would even bother to look around if they heard someone being axe-murdered at the next table. An hour before dawn Rodrick stumbled out, Hrym hidden away in a plain sheath at his belt, and went in search of the
Nectar of the Gods
.

The docks of Absalom, the City at the Center of the World (depending on how you defined “the world,” admittedly), were bustling with activity even at such an inhospitable hour, all shouting sailors and grunting dockhands, crates and coils of rope and buckets of pitch, and the ever-present smells of salt and sweat and fish.

“Is it possible to wake up with a hangover when you haven't actually gone to sleep?” Rodrick mused aloud, but Hrym didn't answer. He asked a harried-looking clerk of a woman if she knew where the
Nectar
was berthed, and got a mumbled reply and a slightly more helpful gesture in the right direction.

The ship was medium-large, flying an unfamiliar flag that Rodrick assumed was that of Jalmeray, even though it didn't have a monk or a tiger on it. (He really did wish he'd learned a bit more about the place. Knowledge wasn't as good as wealth, but it was useful.) The crew seemed to be all dark-skinned men and women dressed in practical sailing clothes—billowing trousers and the like—and most were at least a head shorter than Rodrick.

I think I'm going to stand out in Jalmeray, he mused, which made the idea of subtly strolling into the country and stealing a few things less likely. There were advantages to being a noteworthy stranger in town, too, though. There was always an angle to work, if you looked hard enough.

He strolled toward the gangplank, and a middle-aged Vudrani woman wearing a broad red sash above her trousers came down and put a hand on his chest to stop him. She looked him up and down. “Do you need some assistance?” She wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps a helping hand back to the vat of rum you climbed out of? Or is it empty by now?”

He yawned. “You can point me toward my stateroom. At least I assume it's a stateroom, since I'm to be an honored guest of the thakur.”

She stepped back, frowned, and then shouted something in a language Rodrick didn't recognize at all, but suspected would become familiar (if not comprehensible) if he made it to Jalmeray. Rodrick's hand moved to Hrym's hilt, just by way of taking reasonable precautions.

Another woman, this one ten years younger but with the swagger of authority and rather more earrings than the first, arrived and looked Rodrick up and down. He looked her up and down, too. She was lean and athletic, with short hair and dark, merry eyes. Not his usual type, which tended toward softer, more rounded women … except for her eyes. He liked those eyes. “You are Rodrick?” she said.

He bowed as extravagantly as he could, given his continued drunkenness and the wobbliness of the gangplank under his feet. “I am.”

“You're drunk.”

“I hope no one promised you I'd be sober. I didn't get that part of the message.”

“Let me see the sword,” she said. “So I know you are who you claim to be.”

Rodrick considered objecting that such a display would prove only that he had Rodrick's
sword
, not that he was Rodrick himself, but then realized he'd be arguing against his own interests, which was seldom a wise policy. He shrugged and slid out a foot of Hrym's length, the crystalline blade glittering in the light of the lanterns and sending up streamers of vapor.

The woman's demeanor changed entirely. She opened her arms wide and smiled, showing off a gold tooth, which Rodrick gathered was traditional for sea captains of all nations. You probably got hit in the mouth with swinging mizzenmasts and such all the time at sea, so a certain amount of decorative dentistry was to be expected. “I am Saraswati, and this is my ship. This is my first mate, Pia.” The older woman still glared at him, but now she gave a grudging nod. “Where are your bags? I'll have someone help carry them.”

He had a pack full of extra clothes and a bedroll and other useful things, but it was all back at the inn, which the little lord's men were doubtless watching. He'd stolen most of it, anyway, so the loss didn't sting that much—he could steal most of it again easily enough. Except for a very special cloak he'd acquired during his adventures up north last year, which had both practical and sentimental value. He would be bitter about losing that when he sobered up. “No need. I thought I'd travel light. Just a man and his sword and, ah, his wits. And so on.”

“Hmm,” Saraswati said. “A man and his sword and one set of clothes, anyway. I'll reserve judgment on the wit until I see some evidence of it. Pia, when you have a moment, see if we can find another shirt and some trousers for him. The pants might be a bit short for you, but the voyage is warm this time of year. Welcome, Rodrick. I've got to make ready to sail, but Pia will show you to your berth.”

She started to turn away, and Rodrick touched her shoulder. “Just out of curiosity, do you happen to know why the thakur wants to see me?”

Saraswati gave him a long look, then whistled. “You're going to see the thakur
personally
? I knew the summons came from his staff, but I didn't realize … No, I don't know why, and I wouldn't expect to. I was told that if a man named Rodrick showed up this morning with a sword that looked like it was made of ice, I should make him comfortable, get him safely to Niswan, and then send word to the palace. We don't have any clothes here suitable for a meeting with the thakur, but I'm sure they can take care of that at the palace, if they want you to look remotely reputable. Though perhaps you're meant to be an object lesson on the savage disreputability of the denizens of Absalom?”

“I'm Andoren by birth.”

She shrugged. “You all seem much the same to me.”

His national pride was the least of his many prides, so Rodrick just shrugged, and the captain departed. Besides, he'd barely known where Jalmeray was, so it would be hypocritical to disparage the captain's lack of geographical distinction. Rodrick tried to only be hypocritical when there was money in it.

The first mate beckoned and led him onto the ship, which seemed much like the other seagoing vessels he'd had the pleasure to board in the past, which wasn't that many; more often he traveled on river craft, if he went aboard ships at all. The crew members ignored him with the same disinterest possessed by underpaid and overworked people everywhere. Maybe these strange and exotic Vudrani wouldn't be so strange after all.

The mate led him belowdecks, into space sufficiently cramped that Rodrick had to duck his head. “You'll be staying in my quarters,” Pia said, and Rodrick winced. It was never a good idea to inconvenience someone you'd be stuck with on the small world of a ship for … how long? He had no idea how far it was to Jalmeray. He really should have tried to find that hypothetical person who'd read a book about the island, but there had been a notable shortage of reputable scholars in the grog shop, so the failure wasn't really Rodrick's fault.

“I'm terribly sorry to displace you, perhaps we could share…” He trailed off when she opened a wooden door, revealing a space the size of a fat man's coffin, with a sea chest (locked, of course, not that locks usually gave Rodrick much trouble, if it came to that), a narrow bunk that folded down from the wall, and a tiny table. The table was crowded by a two-foot high bronze idol of a many-armed woman, holding aloft various small objects of doubtless great religious significance, surrounded by seashells and small piles of salt. That's right—the Vudrani were supposed to have hundreds or thousands of gods, weren't they? He hoped there wouldn't be a quiz. “Then again, I suppose sharing it would be a bit tight.”

She shrugged. “I'll take the second mate's room, and his is nearly as big as mine, so I don't care. The third mate's the one who'll be angry with you. He's been bumped down to sleeping with the regular crew on deck or in a rope hammock.” She pointed at the idol, then at the chest. “Don't meddle with my things. If you do, I'll know. We probably can't kill you, which is what we usually do with thieves, but if you only keelhaul someone a
little
bit, they usually live.”