The Storyspinner (9 page)

Chapter 24

Jacaré

The wall around Belem’s estate was only chest high. It would stop a horse and slow down a man, but it wasn’t much defense against anyone determined to cross onto the duke’s lands.

Two teams of guards and their dogs, however, were more of a deterrent, as was the moon that hung low and fat over the ocean.

The araucaria trees had become even scarcer in the three hundred years since the Keepers had crossed the wall. Only a few hundred trees still existed in small clumps across Santarem’s five states.

“She said there was a grove, no more than twenty trees, close to Belem’s manor.” Leão pointed almost due south. “Duke Belem invites the townsfolk onto the estate for celebrations.”

“How do they celebrate?” Pira asked, as she sank down next to the stacked stones of the wall. The shadows and a few scrubby brushes blocked them from view.

He shrugged. “They have some sort of performances. She didn’t give specifics and I wasn’t about to ask.”

Tex and Jacaré exchanged a nod.

Leão had to spend ten minutes flirting—more like fending off the barmaid and her friends’ advances—before he’d been able to ask the question. He returned to the table a little red faced, but with the information they needed.

“All right,” Jacaré said, squatting beside his sister. “There’s very little cover between the wall and the gardens. We’ll wait for a break between the guards’ rounds, and Leão and I will make a run for it.”

“And Tex and I will, what, sit here and wait?” Pira asked, her voice rising a bit.

Jacaré bit his tongue to stop from reprimanding her on the spot. Not only was it an inopportune time, but she didn’t respond well to public confrontation. “Yes. Hopefully that’s all you have to do. If something happens, you can cause a diversion.”

“Any suggestions?” Pira asked, sounding irritated.

“I’m sure Tex has a few ideas.”

The old soldier snapped his fingers, sending sparks skyward. “Plenty.”

Jacaré faced Leão. “Anything goes amiss, give us three trills of the red sparrow and we’ll meet back at the inn.”

They all nodded. Pira resumed her position at the wall, feet wedged between the moss-covered stone, just high enough to peek over the edge. She held out three fingers, slowly counted down to two, one. Closed fist.

Jacaré and Leão vaulted over the top in one smooth motion and dropped to the ground on the opposite side.

They sprinted across the open space, the grass barely disturbed by the speed of their passing.

A second, knee-high wall separated the gardens from the rest of the property; they hurdled it in stride and rolled into some bushes with tall feathery fronds. The ground had been divided from the stone pathway by a short filigreed fence and decorative shrubs.

The wind picked up, mixing the scent of the ocean with the night-blooming honeysuckle that draped over trellises and wound up the trunks of trees. The rushing waves masked the sounds of any approaching guards or animals.

They crept along a spiky hedge, moving away from the hulking manor house and toward a group of trees that swayed above the hammered-copper roof.

Voices rose from one vine-covered alcove, sounding a bit like a drunken brawl. Jacaré’s senses hummed on the tense string of discovery, but no one came stumbling toward them.

The path turned from stone to gravel as they came closer to the coast. Jacaré cringed with every step. He wasn’t terribly worried about overtaking the guards—they didn’t seem particularly disciplined—but he preferred to go undiscovered.

The pathway widened into an open area filled with white silk tents, the bottom edges rolled up to admit the cool breeze from the sea. Candles burned in some, creating silhouettes of sleeping pallets, desks, and dining tables, while figures moved around in a strange dance of shadows, and voices murmured over the sound of the waves. All of it sat under the naked trunks of the araucaria and their crowns of pine fronds.

Leão tapped Jacaré’s arm and pointed to the edge of the clearing. A large rectangle of wooden beams had been half buried into the rocky ground, with a few circular platforms interspersed over the distance.

Jacaré had sixteen years of images from the glass—some moving like he was peeking through a window and others frozen like a painting—to fill in the blanks in the girl’s life. He had watched her train along with a family of entertainers, learning tricks and flips and stunts that seemed highly unsuitable for a girl of her value.

Of course he couldn’t really pass judgment, as he dragged the future ruler of his people into a potentially hostile country.

They crouched behind the largest platform, putting the structures between themselves and the tents.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Leão whispered.

“An explanation.” He looked toward the tree at the edge of the ring and gauged the space between it and the farthest platform. “This is where the guardian died.”

Leão tapped his ear and pointed over Jacaré’s shoulder.

Jacaré heard the near-silent tread of someone who knew how to move lightly on their feet. He slid a dagger out of his belt and duckwalked across the gravel, keeping his head below the platform’s surface.

The footsteps came closer, but there was something off in the sound. The footfalls were too close together, like the person was taking very small steps.

Drunk, injured, or . . .
Jacaré snuck a quick peek.

A child.

A small thing, perhaps four or five years old, skulked toward the ocean. Its blond hair, a circle around the child’s head, swished as he—
yes, I think it’s a boy
—cast furtive glances back the way he’d come.

“Paulo?” A woman’s voice called in the distance.

The boy broke into a run, darting past Jacaré’s position and straight to the water. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it onto one of the boulders that littered the coast, and bounded into the spray.

The tide rolled in, washing against his knees, his thighs, and then his chest. He laughed and whooped, holding his arms above his head in victory.

“Paulo, where are you?” the voice called again, sounding a little more frantic. “Come back. This isn’t funny.”

Leão nudged Jacaré hard in the ribs, then held up both hands, palms up.

“The tree has metal bars screwed into the trunk, like steps. I think it served as a launching-off point for a tightrope walker,” Jacaré whispered. “From that vantage, see if you can come up with any reason he would have fallen. I’ll keep watch.”

The young Keeper disappeared into the shadow under the tree, and the child in the water continued to play.

The woman called for the boy again, but sounded a bit more distant. Only a few more minutes would pass before she recruited people to search for her son.

The water continued to rise, the waves slapping the rocky sand with a consistent rhythm, creeping farther and farther up the coast. The boy noticed none of it.

Get out of the water and go to your mother.

Jacaré watched the little blond head, the joyful face that reflected the moon’s light, and his stomach wrenched.

A wave splashed the boy in the eyes. The next crested over his head and he laughed, enjoying the cool water on the humid night.

Jacaré wished he could enjoy the ocean with the same carefree attitude, but the horrible feeling in his stomach clawed its way up his throat, lugging a bit of dread with it.

Come in, Paulo.
He sent his thoughts toward the boy, hoping they’d carry on the water.

The boy took a few steps toward the coast, dragging his hands behind him and waving them from side to side, the water perhaps hip deep.

Another wave crashed and Jacaré saw a hulking shadow, three triangular fins silhouetted against the moon’s pockmarked surface.

Paulo spun in a circle, splashing as he went. Another surge and the shadow was nearly on top of him.

And the red sparrow trilled, once, twice, three times. Men were coming, likely looking for the boy, but they wouldn’t make it in time.

Jacaré wasn’t even sure he would.

Ignoring Leão’s warning, ignoring the vibrating fear that filled his chest, Jacaré ran into the sea. He saw the beast lift its arrow-shaped head from the water, its maw gaping, teeth glistening like bone daggers.

With a snap it grabbed the boy’s arm. His shrill scream rent the night air, then cut off as water filled his mouth. The beast slithered backward on its short fins, dragging the child along. Paulo managed to surface once more, gasping for breath.

The dark water turned darker still, blood pouring from wicked wounds, flesh shredded away.

Jacaré’s knife sliced through the beast’s neck. Its jaw worked convulsively, crunching bone, but if the boy screamed again, no one could hear it while his head remained under water.

The monster was huge, twice the size of a man and three times the weight, and its skin grated against Jacaré’s with a thousand coarse bristles. He pushed the knife in deeper, feeling it strike bone. The mouth opened, releasing the crushed remnant of the boy’s arm.

The animal slammed into Jacaré’s legs, shoving him back several feet, but didn’t follow with another attack.

Jacaré didn’t wait for the beast to lick its wounds. He gathered the lifeless boy into his arms and hustled to a boulder a few feet out of the water.

Lanterns bobbed among the platforms, many voices and the barks of a dog joined the mother’s frantic shouts, but the wounds were awful. If not for the faint flutter of the boys’ pulse under his fingers, Jacaré would’ve given up, leaving the little body where it lay.

With a deep breath, Jacaré closed his eyes and reached for his
essência
. It had been a long, long time since Jacaré had performed such a major healing, and the effort hurt like torn muscles being forced into use.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the boy’s tattered flesh knit together, the veins and arteries reconnect. The blood flow eased, but didn’t stop completely because Jacaré lacked the power to complete it as a strong healer would have.

“Paulo!” The woman screamed as she picked up the boy’s discarded shirt, wading into the ocean. A few men dressed in armor sprinted closer, led by a thin dog.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open, his little forehead wrinkled with confusion but not fear. Jacaré held a finger to his lips and slipped beyond the boulders and into the shadows. His arms shook as he hauled himself up the rungs of the tree’s trunk, but he made it to the top before he heard a tiny voice.

“Mother?”

“Paulo!” She sprinted across the sand, tripping on her wet skirts. She gasped, seeing the blood that drenched the boy’s pale torso. Her fingers traced over his body. “Where are you hurt?”

“My arm
was
hurt.”

“What?”

The guards circled around, relief evident in their posture, lifting their lights high to study the boy.

“I got eaten by a
tubarão
.” He touched the spot where the healing wound glowed livid under the lanterns’ glow. “But a man saved me. He stuck my arm back on.”

The mother pulled her child close, studying his eyes, his pale face, and the remnants of the injury. “But . . .”

One of the guards dropped to his knees; his light swung from his outstretched arm. “Thank the Keepers. It’s a miracle.”

Right there, around a boulder, three adults offered prayers of thanksgiving.

And for the first time in three hundred years, Keepers listened.

A steadying hand touched Jacaré’s shoulder, and he peered farther into the darkness, where Leão had lodged himself between two branches. The young soldier passed something small and cylindrical to his commander.

Jacaré clutched his fist around the object and knew, without question, what had happened to the girl’s guardian.

Chapter 25

Rafi

Death over dishonor.
The family motto had been pounded into Rafi’s brain since he was a child. His name and that phrase had been the first things he learned to write. Now it was working its way into his skull.

The family crest—a two-headed hawk with a sword in one claw and a candle in the other—had been cast in bronze and attached to the high back of his father’s audience chair. The elder duke had been several inches shorter than his son, so the emblem showed over his head. Rafi had to bend his neck forward to keep the hawk’s sword from drawing blood. It was a miserable way to sit, giving the impression of a childish duke too inexperienced to fill the seat of power.

“The pilin’s for the dock are near rotted through. The whole thin’ will come crashin’ down one day soon. The catches have been poorer this season than any I’ve ever seen. We canna’ford to lose more product and men with it,” Guildmaster Tolapia explained around the unlit pipe trapped between his teeth. He was a grizzled old fisherman, with bushy eyebrows and scarred hands. Three gold fishhooks pierced his left ear, identifying him as the chief of his guild. He sat with one foot rested over the other knee, looking incredibly relaxed.

“I understand that, Master Tolapia.” Rafi nodded, trying to discreetly free a lock of hair that had wound its way into the hawk’s feathers. “We can send someone to Impreza to purchase the wood we’ll need.”

“But the wood from Maringa—”

“We don’t purchase from Maringa.”

“Impreza’s wood isn’t as stron’ and we’ll have to replace it twice as often.” The man freed his pipe and tapped it against his palm for emphasis. “It’ll cost more in the lon’ run.”

“We don’t trade for Lord Inimigo’s products, no matter how high the quality.”

The Guildmaster tugged at one of his earhooks. “Lord Rafael, I mean no disrespect. But your father’s grudge against Inimigo . . . Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?”

“Would you have asked my father the same question?”

The color flooding the man’s face was enough of an answer.

“Inimigo’s troops slaughtered our king. They killed every man, woman, and child who lived in Wilhelm’s Citadel and Roraima Township. Wilhelm was my father’s best friend. His infant daughter was to be my betrothed. Inimigo hung their bodies over the stone walls and left them for the birds, then waged a war on this land that lasted
ten
years.” Rafi was far from finished. “Tell me you didn’t lose a friend, a brother, or a cousin in the battles?”

“Two younger brothers.” The Guildmaster didn’t meet Rafi’s eyes.

“And you’re ready to give Inimigo forgiveness?”

The man’s pipe beat out a steady rhythm on the tabletop, bits of leaf floated on the air, filling the room with its sickly sweet aroma. “Forgiveness? Not so much,” said the Guildmaster after a long consideration. “Peace and forgiveness are far distant things. You
can
have one without the other.”

“We’ve had nearly seven years of peace, Master Tolapia. I don’t imagine where we buy wood will change that.”

“You’re young yet, and I respect that you want to honor your father’s memory and wishes, but I’d buy from my enemy if it meant my sons never had to see war.” Done dispensing his wisdom, the fisherman rose from the table and offered the lord a respectful nod. The steward, Mortimer, showed him out.

Rafi rubbed his eyes, trying to remove the exhaustion that had settled under his lids like grains of sand. He’d been staring at piles of documents all day between meetings with Guildmasters, merchants, and the five underlords who’d ridden in from each of Santiago’s country manors.

And he hadn’t slept well, his thoughts plagued by the Performer girl with her knife tight against his throat and her breath soft on his cheek.

“May I get you something, sir?” Mortimer asked, chafing his thin hands together. “Perhaps a late lunch, or I can have your page prepare a bath so you’ll be fresh for dinner with our guests?”

“I have a few more things left to address before I can finish for the evening.” Rafi shuffled a handful of papers, attempting to ignore the envelope at the bottom.

“If you insist, my lord.”

Rafi tried to read a report on the state of the city’s sewage system, but the lines and curls of Mortimer’s spidery handwriting began to crawl together.

He stepped away from the table and watched the men in the practice yard. Dom was locked hilt-to-hilt with the weaponsmaster, Raul. The younger DeSilva had good speed and agility, but he lacked patience and finesse, often dropping his guard as soon as he saw an opening. Raul feinted, Dom took the bait, and the match was over.

On the field, Rafi was rarely defeated. His moves were meticulous, his foot placement precise, but he couldn’t say the same for his statecraft. He always seemed to be stepping into political muck and struggling to get himself out.

He ran a hand through his hair, loosening the knots that had formed, then returned to his chair and dug out the letter.