Steel's Edge (23 page)

Duty to the spear. Only one spear came to mind. “Gaesum,” he thought out loud. The symbol of the Adrianglian royal family.

“That would explain her devotion,” Charlotte said. “If she thought she was serving the crown in some capacity, she couldn't permit herself to acknowledge that they could do something base, or her entire worldview would come crashing down.”

They looked at each other. In Adrianglia, the crown was revered. The power of the royal bloodline had its limitations, but the monarch still held the presiding position over the Council, wielding much of the power within the executive branch. The royal family was looked upon as the epitome of behavior and personal honor. The idea that the crown could be involved in the slave trade was unthinkable.

“There has to be a trail somewhere. She was a bookkeeper; she had to have kept financial records.” Richard strode to the shelves and pulled a stack of books out. He handed them to Charlotte. She leafed through them while he rummaged through the desk. His search of the drawers turned up a wooden box, unlocked. Inside, necklaces lay in a row, each with a simple large gemstone in a variety of colors. Unlike the bookkeeper's pendant, their chains were short. Once fastened around the neck, they couldn't be removed by slipping them over the head.

“Is that what she used to kill herself?” Charlotte asked, her voice dry.

He nodded. “They're called Owner's Gifts.” He picked one up, dangling the false ruby pendant. “They're given to young attractive slaves who are used for sexual gratification. They have a one-time lock: once fastened, they're impossible to take off without cutting through the chain. Each contains a small magic charge designed to kill the wearer. The necklace detonates if the chain is cut or the stone is damaged. A pointed reminder that if you disobey or displease, your life can end in an instant. They work much better than shackles and are a lot less obvious.”

She clenched her teeth, and he read a mix of horror and disgust in her face. “Every time I think I've reached the limit, this place shocks me.”

And that was true, Richard realized. He thought she'd grow callous or numb, but every new evidence of cruelty cut a new wound into her. Again, he wished he hadn't brought her here. There were only so many wounds one could take.

“What do you make of this?” Charlotte showed him a hollowed-out book.

Hope stirred in him. “Was there anything inside?”

“No.”

And the newborn hope plummeted to its death. “We have to keep looking.”

Twenty minutes later, they looked at each other across the table. The office was a wreck. They had left nothing untouched. The ledgers, if they existed, eluded them.

Richard braced himself on the table. He felt another bout of dizziness coming on. He'd gotten through the first one a few minutes ago, but now the vertigo was back. Taking wounds came with a price.

“Richard,” Charlotte said.

He turned.

A bloody figure stood in the doorway, his hair and clothes stained with gore and soot. His eyes were tired, and he was carrying a bloody crowbar. A huge black dog panted by his side.

“Jack?” Richard said.

“Hi.” Jack dropped the crowbar. It clanged on the floor.

“How are you?” Charlotte asked.

“Good,” he said, his voice dull. “I'm all funned out. I think we should go to the ship now. The city is burning, the fire's coming this way, and the smoke is making my throat itch.”

“We can't leave yet.” Charlotte sighed. “We've looked everywhere, but we haven't found the ledgers. We have to find them, or all this was for nothing.”

“Did you look in the safe?” Jack asked.

“What safe?” The room had no safe, only a table and the shelves, and he had knocked on all the clear walls looking for a hollow spot.

“In the fireplace.”

Richard turned to the fireplace. It was a typical Weird limestone fireplace without a mantel. No fire was laid out and the fire pit was perfectly clean. No soot marks. It definitely hadn't been used, but this far south it might have been conceived as decorative. Richard moved to it, probing the stones with his hand. “What makes you think there is a safe in it?”

Jack sat by Charlotte on the floor. “There's no chimney. It smells like the dead woman's perfume—I can scent it from here. Also, there's a doorstop.”

“Where?” Charlotte asked, brushing debris from Jack's hair.

Jack pointed to the ground. A small ornate doorstop designed to be slid under a door sat by the desk. If the front of the fireplace swung open like a door, it was in the perfect position to be grabbed and wedged under it.

There was no reason for the bookkeeper to spend time at the fireplace. She wouldn't have gone anywhere near it. Richard knocked at the stones. If there was some mechanism to unlock it, he couldn't see it. He picked up his sword.

“Maybe there is a hidden switch,” Charlotte said.

“It would take too long.” He concentrated, feeding magic into the blade, forcing it toward the tip of the sword. The flash-coated edge glowed brighter and brighter, until it blazed like a tiny star. Richard raised the sword and forced the tip into the limestone, testing it. The blade sank into the fireplace, cutting through the rock with surprising ease. No more than half an inch, he decided. If there was a safe, he didn't want to damage the contents. He dropped to one knee, slashed horizontally across the fireplace, rose, and slashed again at his eye level.

The front of the fireplace slid half an inch. Richard stepped back. The cut section crashed down and fell with a loud thud, its back exposed—wooden boards with a thin layer of limestone affixed to its front. Inside the gutted fireplace, shelves gaped, containing five small black books and one red one.

He turned to Jack. “Well done.”

“You're a genius.” Charlotte hugged the boy.

Richard pulled out the books and brought them over to Charlotte. His hands shook.

She opened the first black book, and her eyes widened as she read.

He flipped through the red volume, scanning the pages filled with neat rows of accounting figures. Investments and payments, to and from five names. Here they were, the people directly profiting from the sale of human beings. Lord Casside, a rich blueblood who'd made his money in the import and export trade. He'd seen him once at Declan's house during a formal dinner. Lady Ermine. He had no idea who she was, but he would find out. Baron Rene, another unfamiliar name. Lord Maedoc, a retired general, a decorated war hero. And . . .

“Viscount Robert Brennan.”

“The king's cousin?” Charlotte asked.

Richard nodded. So it was true. The bookkeeper truly served the spear. Robert Brennan, the seventh person in line for the throne. Never in his calculations had he ever thought that the chain of command went that high.

“You're shocked,” Charlotte said.

“I don't understand.” Richard leaned against the desk. “He was born wearing a silk shirt. He has wealth, status, the privilege afforded to his bloodline, the best education one can buy . . .”

All the things that had been denied to Richard. An education was a double-edged sword: it broadened his horizons, and, at the same time, it made him painfully aware of the opportunities he would never have. There was a time when he felt trapped in the Mire, aware of the world outside the Edge but unable to get to it, chained to the swamp. He had neither the breeding, nor the money, nor the opportunity to make it past the Louisiana troops guarding the border with the Edge, but he had the intellect and the education to understand the full futility of his position. He would've killed to open just one door and escape. Brennan had all the advantages. Every door was open to him.

“Why? Why do this? He's like a millionaire who's robbing beggars.”

“Who knows,” Charlotte said. “Maybe it's the thrill of doing something criminal.”

She sounded exhausted. Worry stabbed at him. He had to get her and the boy out of here.

He cut a section of the gauzy curtain, stacked the books on it, and tied it into a makeshift bag. Stealing was criminal. This was an atrocity. More so, because Brennan, born into privilege, had a duty. He had a responsibility to wield his influence for the benefit of the realm, and instead he spat on it. Whatever sickness drove Brennan to rule over the slave trade, Richard would make sure he paid. He would make certain. He had promised it to Sophie, and he would see it through.

Richard sheathed his sword and handed the bag of books to Jack. “This is vitally important. Guard it.”

The boy nodded.

Richard offered Charlotte his right hand. She rose from the chair, swaying a little. They walked downstairs and out of the front door. Below them, the city stretched down the hill to the harbor. Orange flames billowed from two different sides of the town, far to the left and closer to the right, devouring the structures. Here and there, isolated shots rang out, followed by screams. A single ship waited in the middle of the harbor, like a graceful bird on a sea of black glass, and above it all, in the endless night sky, a pale moon rose, spilling its indifferent light onto the scene.

Richard turned to the left, behind the house. The horse still waited. He untied the reins and brought it over to Charlotte.

“I can walk.”

“Charlotte.” He hadn't meant to put all of his frustration into that one single word, but somehow he did.

She blinked, startled.

“Please, get on the horse.”

She climbed into the saddle. He took the reins and started down the street, Jack at his side. The dog took position ahead of them. Richard's face itched mercilessly. As soon as they got down to the coast, he would wash all the gunk of his disguise off his skin.

“George has been alone with dad for a long time,” Jack said.

It was a lot to ask, but he had confidence in George, and the boy needed to redeem himself. “He will be fine.”

“Are you going to kill our dad?” the boy asked quietly.

“It's not for me to decide what to do with your father.” John Drayton deserved to die, and if Drayton weren't connected to the boys, he would dispose of the man like the piece of garbage he was. But family took precedence, and the children's claim superseded his.

“If you're going to let us handle it, don't let George do it,” Jack said. “I'll kill him for grandma. I don't care. I don't even remember him, but George waited for him all this time. It would be bad for him.”

It was said that changelings didn't understand human emotion. They understood it just fine, Richard reflected. They simply couldn't figure out why others chose to mask what they truly felt. Jack wanted to spare his brother. Even in the Mire, where things like betrayal and punishment were kept in the family, no child was expected to kill his parent.

The boy, no, the young man was looking at him.

“Don't worry,” he told Jack. “That's one burden neither of you will have to carry.”

NINE

“YOU
look good,” John Drayton said from the opposite end of his cabin. “Solid. All grown-up. I remember when you were sickly. You kept raising animals because you couldn't stand to watch something die. I take it you've gotten over that.”

George examined the man in front of him. The key was to cordon off his own anger and evaluate him as he would any other opponent. The years had banged John around, but he was in good health. He ate well and carried a few extra pounds. The air in the cabin hinted at the spicy notes of his cologne. His clothes were well cut from good fabric. His hair was professionally shorn to flatter his face. John Drayton was a vain man, and he liked spending money on himself.

George remembered him as being big, a tall shadow. He remembered him being funny. He would make jokes.

The thought spurred the vicious part of him into a gallop. Jokes. Right.

For the first hour and a half, John had kept his mouth shut, probably waiting for him to talk. Waiting for “How could you abandon us, Father?” and “I've waited for you to come back, Father!” Waiting for some tell, some clue or lever to push.
Keep waiting, scumbag.

Most people didn't handle silence well, and John had banked on it and lost. George had no problem with silence. It was an effective tool, and he'd seen his Mirror handlers use it to great effect. Having finally realized that no clues would be coming, John decided to start talking and probe for weaknesses. George had sat in on enough of the Mirror's interrogations to guess the most likely course this conversation would take: John would try to bridge the gap between the six-year-old sickly child he left behind and the sixteen-year-old he saw now.

“You remember what I told you when I left?”

Like an open book.

“I said—”

You mind the family, Georgie. Keep an eye on your sister and brother for me.

“—for you to keep an eye on your sister and brother for me. You've done good. Jack's still alive, that's something. Couldn't have been easy to make that miracle happen.”

What do you know about it? What do you know about Jack, about his rages, about his not understanding how people think, about Rose spending hours to coax him back to humanity? What do you know, you slimy weasel? You know nothing of our family. You chose to know nothing.

“How's Rose?”

Where were you when she worked herself into the ground? Oh, that's right, getting rich from misery, rape, and pain.

“You afraid to speak to me, George?” John slapped his palm on the desk. “Damn it, boy. Tell me how my daughter is!”

George moved Lynda a step closer. “Do that again, and I'll let her gnaw on your neck, slowly, one bite a time. Rose will be delighted when I bring her your head.”

John leaned back. Fear shot through his eyes. He hid it fast, but George had seen it. Yes, he knew the type. John would do anything, say anything to avoid physical pain and punishment. He feared being held accountable more than anything.

“You wouldn't do that,” John said. “Not the Georgie I remember. The Georgie I remember was kind.”

“The Georgie you remember had a father.” Argh. He knew he shouldn't have responded to the bait. Too late now.

John's face brightened. “You still have one. Look, I know I haven't done right by you kids. And it's not like I set out to haul slaves for a living. I just kind of fell into it.”

“Do tell. How does one fall into slavery?”

“The same way one falls into anything.” John spread his arms. He was becoming more animated, happy he'd found some common ground. “You're hard-up for cash, and one day in port, a man asks you if you want to make some easy money.”

Easy-breezy. No need to worry about paltry things like honor, integrity, and sleeping well at night.

“That's the only kind of money you were ever interested in, isn't it? The easy money.”

“Hey, I work hard just like anybody else. I just had a stretch of hard luck there for a while.” John leaned forward. “Georgie, listen to me. Whatever else happens, I'm still your father. I've done pretty well for myself here, and I wanted to come and find you guys. I kept thinking, just do one more run, get a little bit more money, then I'll split. But I'm in a good place now, and I'm sick of these slaver assholes. We can take off, you know. You and me. I can show you the ropes, bring you into the family business. I'm a good sailor, Georgie. Let me tell you, when you go out on the ocean and leave the shore behind, it's something. Just water everywhere, sapphire blue for miles and miles. Water, wind, and sky. You can taste the freedom. There is adventure there. Mystery.”

He was good.

“What about Jack?”

John shrugged. “What about him? Jack's a good kid. Didn't go nuts like his people do.”

“His people?”

John leaned closer. “Oh, come on, Georgie. We all know it. Rose is mine, you're mine, but Jack was never mine. For him to be what he is, one of his parents had to be a changeling, and there ain't no changelings in my family or your mother's. I checked. My father wasn't one, my mother isn't one . . .”

George fought against grinding his teeth.

“Their parents weren't changelings, and on your mother's side, nobody was one for three generations back either. Your mother, she wasn't a bad woman, but she was troubled. You think it was easy knowing she opened her legs to every bastard that came through town? It hurt me. Really hurt me, but I've come to terms with it. And so should you. You always looked out for Jack. Rose and your grandma, they put that burden on you, and I never thought it was fair. Everyone deserves a break, Georgie. Everyone. Come with me. Jack can look after himself. And later, when you're older and I'm ready to retire, you can take over. This ship isn't just named after me. It's named after you, too.”

No, it isn't.
He looked into John's eyes and saw a cold calculation there. In that moment George realized he would be dead the moment they left land behind. They'd find what was left of him later, bobbing on the waves with his throat slit and his body torn by fish.
My own father.

“Thank you, but I already have a career.”

“What sort of a career is that?” John pointedly looked over his rags. “If you got one, it doesn't pay too well by the looks of it. No offense to you, boy, but you can do better. Or are you talking about those bandits over there? That's no good. We picked you up near Kelena, that means it's either the Rook, the families, or Jason Parris, and it has to be Parris, because the families know better, and Rook likes running his show personally, and I haven't seen him. Am I right? I am right. Parris is a ravenous shark, that's what he is. Cutthroat. Can you take a man's life, Georgie? You think about that because you've got to be a cold, calculating killer to be in his company.”

“I'm not with Jason Parris.” George leaned back.

“Who are you with, then?”

George reached inside his sleeve, peeled off the coin he kept taped on his forearm, and tossed it to him. “I'm with the people who fish for ravenous sharks.”

John caught the coin. The magic charge bit his fingers with tiny sparks. He flinched. The surface of the coin flowed, turning into a miniature mirror. Every agent of the Mirror carried one. Some wore rings, some had earrings, and some embedded it into a knife's hilt. He'd chosen a coin. It seemed appropriate.

John stared at his own reflection. Blood drained from his face. John dropped the coin like it was hot.

“I'm an underagent of the third degree, Father. I started when I was fourteen. My mission count is at twelve, ten successes and two aborts. My kill count is at seven, and I'm very good with a rapier. In two years, when I complete my training, I'll be the youngest full-fledged agent in the Mirror's recent history. Coincidentally, in two more years I'll also graduate from Brasil's Academy, since I've taken their entrance exams and passed them with a perfect score. There is a place for me waiting in the Diplomatic Corps.”

John Drayton stared at him, his face slack with shock.

“So you see, Father, if I ever feel the need to play at being a sailor, a vessel will either be provided for me, or I'll purchase one. Given that my name is now George Camarine and the Duke of the Southern Provinces thinks of me as his grandson, I can afford an entire fleet. A small one, but it will be sufficient.” George smiled, a controlled baring of teeth. “I've already accomplished more in my life than you could ever hope to achieve. Your promises of a grandiose smuggler life hold no attraction to me, so do be quiet, Father. I'm fighting a strong urge to kill you, and I'd hate to slip up and do you in before Jack comes back.”

Knuckles rapped on the door.

“Enter,” George said.

The door swung open. Richard shouldered his way in, favoring his left side. His left arm rested in a sling. He had washed off his disguise and looked like himself. Jack followed, supporting Charlotte. She, on other hand, looked like a shadow of her former self: pale, exhausted, and sickly.

“Did you run into trouble?” George asked.

“Some,” Richard said. “Any problems?”

“None. Just talking to the dead man.”

John licked his lips. “What have I ever done to you that you hate me so much?”

“The crew you were supposed to be meeting by Kelena was chasing me,” Richard said. “I'm the Hunter.”

John drew back.

“I ended up at your mother's house,” Richard said. “We're distantly related by marriage, and she recognized me and tried to help me.”

“Grandmother is dead,” Jack said. “The slavers burned our house. You killed grandma, Dad.”

John's hands shook. He swallowed. “I wasn't there.”

Oh no, you don't get to weasel your way out of this one.
“Not directly, but you made it possible,” George said. “You contributed.”

John dragged his hand over his face and through his hair.

Richard took a piece of paper off the desk, wrote something on it, and pushed it across the desk to John. “Five names. What do you know?”

John looked at the list. His voice lost all emotion. “They're called the Council. That's where the real money goes. Maedoc is the muscle; he supplies the slavers. Casside is the main investor. I don't know what the other two do. Brennan runs the whole show. That's all I've got. I'm low on the ladder. If you expect me to testify, I won't. I'll never make it. Brennan will have my throat slit before I ever get a word out, and even if I did, it's all rumors. I never met any of them. We never talked. I follow the schedule, pick up slaves, bring them here, and get paid. That's the end of it.”

“I'm done with him.” Richard turned to him. “He's yours.”

Finally. He rose.

“George,” Charlotte said softly.

He turned to her.

“Think about what you're about to do. He is your father. Think about the cost.” She glanced past him. “Think about the guilt.”

It dawned on him: Jack. Jack always wanted their father to return. When they were small, he used to sit in a tree, watching the road, waiting for him to come back. In elementary school, in the Broken, Jack would fight anyone who dared to say anything bad about their dad, and he would beat them bloody. George had no problem with his hands being bloody, and neither did Jack in the heat of the moment, but he might regret it later. Jack tended to brood, and sometimes his brooding took him to dark places. He was only fourteen.

John Drayton had to die. He had to pay the price for the inhumanities he helped commit, but George couldn't let John's death ruin his brother. The scumbag wasn't worth a single minute of Jack's self-loathing.

“You're right,” George said. “It's not worth it. We'll get a boat, take him to the mainland, and have him put away. You'll be in prison for so long, you'll forget what the sun looks like.”

“Do what the boy says,” Richard said.

John rose. “Right.” He reached out to ruffle Jack's hair. Jack pulled back, avoiding the touch.

John dropped his hand. “Right.”

They went out, Richard first, then John, and George, with Lynda in tow. Jack was the last.

Outside, the stench of smoke assaulted George's nostrils. The island town burned, the orange glow of its fire reflecting in the waters of the harbor. A cleansing fire, George decided. And a warning. Richard had unleashed Jason Parris on the island like a tornado. The news of the Market's burning would carry, and soon every slaver along the Eastern seaboard would know he wasn't invincible and his paycheck wasn't safe. It was a brilliant move. Richard was a born tactician. George would have to remember that.

The cabin door swung open behind him. Jack emerged.

Richard stepped closer to him. “I need you to watch Charlotte for me. She overspent herself.”

“Why me?” Jack asked.

“Because Jason's crew is full of bad men, and she's alone and vulnerable.”

Jack glanced first at Richard, then at George. He wasn't quite buying it.

“Can you just do one thing without arguing?” George tossed his hair back. “Just do it.”

“You do it.”

“You owe me for the canal.”

Jack growled something under his breath.

“Don't worry,” Richard said. “I haven't forgotten.”

Forgotten what?

Jack shrugged and went into the cabin.

“Into the boat.” Richard pointed to a small barge waiting by the side of the vessel. They must've used it to come aboard.

They got into the barge, Richard at the nose, then John Drayton. George sent Lynda in next, added insurance. Everyone sat. George took a seat at the stern, passed his hand over the motor, starting the magic chain reaction, and the boat sped across the harbor to the shore. Midway through it, George let go of Lynda. She pitched into the waves, softly, and sank into the cool, soothing depths to finally rest. He didn't need her anymore. Half a minute later the boat plowed into the soft sand of the beach. The two men stepped out. He followed.