Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (14 page)

Ferran nodded, biting down on the cinnamon stick. She remembered the days he would smoke thin rolls of tobacco leaves, back in their youth when they had adventured together. She was relieved he had put them aside; they smelled horrible. Or perhaps he just didn't have the money to buy them.

She lingered on that history for a moment, remembering the younger Ferran, far less weathered and much skinnier, without the tightly-roped muscle of the man next to her. He had spent his time gambling and brawling on the streets of Delbar, twenty years old and already a successful treasure hunter, building a strong reputation. Rumors had circulated about him back then. She remembered vaguely that the prince had hired him—though for what, she wasn't sure. She had heard the story fifty different times over the years, all from different mouths, but none were ever the same. He had never mentioned it to her directly during their time together and she hadn't bothered to ask.

She wondered at his current occupation—or lack thereof. She didn't understand how one of the most renowned treasure hunters in the Kingdom could end up like this. Perhaps it was becoming an antiquated business. All of the important relics from the War had already been found.

“You didn't mention a pirate city,” she repeated.

“You don't just
mention
pirate cities,” Ferran muttered distractedly. “Sonora is one of the worst kept secrets on the coast—but secret, it remains. If you go about telling the world, you're likely to get your throat cut.” He secured the ropes in a tight knot and abruptly turned, striding toward the rear of the ship. “The tide is almost in,” he said. “Secure yourself.”

Lori took her seat at the center of the boat. She sighed briefly in irritation. Ferran insisted that she sit with a rope tied about her waist in case she went overboard. She had reassured him that she knew how to swim, but he wouldn't hear of it. She didn't remember him being so cautious in the past.

Ferran hunched next to the rudder, too large for the very back of the boat, his legs stretched out before him. He was a tall man, a few years older than she, in his late thirties, yet time had been kind. With the exception of a few sun lines, he was fit and strong, his hair thick and full, deep brown, tussled by the wind. A few distinguished strands of gray showed at his temples, hardly noticeable. He held a tousled sort of charm—an easy, thoughtless smile and quick gray eyes. A handsome man, Lori admitted, if a bit weathered. He carried himself with a reckless sort of confidence that she had always thought of as foolhardy. Back in their youth, women had flocked around him, drawn to his mischievous aura and deft hands—the promise of mystery and excitement, like drinking from a forbidden cup.

Now, at thirty-five, Lori knew better. Men like him were dangerous to fall for; they drifted into one's life and then out again, as errant as the wind.

Abruptly, the water of the cove swelled beneath the boat, the tide rushing in like a final sigh before sleep. Ferran gripped the handle of the rudder.

“Hang on,” he called.

Lori barely had time to grab the ropes. Suddenly the boat shot forward, sucked toward the inlet by an unexpected current. Her eyes widened. The teeth at the front of the inlet were now fully submerged. The water swelled through the rocky crevice in a small tidal wave.

Ferran manned the boat expertly, maneuvering them toward the rocks. For a terrifying moment, she thought they would run up against the teeth, but their narrow boat skimmed through. The teeth dragged against the hull of the boat; she felt the long scrape in her bones. She held her breath, wondering if the rocks would bite through the wood. Given the long nose of the sailboat, it was a wonder that the boards didn't split and shatter.

“Witch wood,” Ferran called to her above the roar of the water, as though reading her thoughts. He held the rudder firmly under his arm, using his weight for leverage and forcing it to the side, steering them into the deep canyon.

“Witch wood?” she asked, shocked. She glanced back at Ferran, catching his eye.

“Aye,” he winked at her. “I was a treasure hunter once, you know. I held onto a few of my possessions.”

A witch wood ship. Lori looked down at the shabby little boat, her opinion changed. Very impressive. Witch wood was only found in the Bracken, an ancient forest far to the East, where the trees were so old that they grew together as one giant organism. The wood couldn't be dented, even with a sword. Any relic made of witch wood had to be from the time of the Races, back when magic had been used to cut the wood and meld it into weapons. Humans had no tools that could mar its surface.

Lori looked at the wood beneath her, noting its smooth, bluish-gray hue. Then she let out a shriek as the boat tossed to one side, pushed by an upsurge of water. It tilted sickeningly, but didn't overturn.

After the initial rush of white water, the waves calmed and the current propelled them forward at a steady pace. She was surprised by how fast they moved. Hesitantly, she leaned over the side of the railing, watching the deep blue water rush past them, skimming the bow. She could see shards of wood against the sides of the cliff where larger boats had smashed into the rocks. Not a comforting sight. If they were to sink, there would be no land to swim to. The cliffs were steep and perfectly parallel to the water. She wondered how many sailors had drowned in the strait.

She looked back at Ferran. “Why did you give it up?” she called above the rush of the water. “You know...treasure hunting?”

Ferran managed to shrug, even as he manned the rudder. At this angle, his shoulders looked wide and taut with muscle, his back rippling with strength. “Too many death threats,” he replied. “Thieves and cutthroats trailing me through every city....” Then his voice softened. “After Dane died, I continued for many years, but it lost its novelty.”

Lori frowned. Ferran and Dane had been close friends when she had met them. She had fallen in love with Dane almost from first sight—his roguish smile, his carefree spirit.

Dane's face had grown dim over the years, clouded by memory, more than a decade since his death. But she saw his features in their daughter. Sora had his proud chin, his wide palms, his lower lip. His laugh. Every time she thought of her daughter, a mixture of fierce love and deep, roiling pain wrought her heart, stealing her breath. And guilt. Far too much guilt.

“Dane was a good man,” she said. Far too young to die. When she thought very hard, she could almost picture his face, piece it all back together, the exact curve of his jaw and the fall of his dark hair.

“He gave his life for a useless trinket,” Ferran said stiffly. “A couple of urns and an old statue. No artifact is worth a man's life.”

“Aye,” Lori agreed softly.

The water grew rough and fast, splashing over the edges of the boat. Before she knew it, Lori was soaked from head to toe. The wind was brisk and cold in the canyon, the sky darkening, making it difficult to see.

Finally, they burst from the opposite side of the inlet, skipping across the water as though spit through the air. The boat shot forward into a large bay, and immediately the current changed, slowing, broadening. In the last rays of the sun, she could see the color of the water, deep navy tinted with aqua green.

“Rascal Bay,” Ferran's voice drifted to her above the rush. “The secret entrance to Sonora, the Pirate City. Look there.” He pointed into the distance where Lori could see the glint of lights bobbing in the darkness. The city, or perhaps just the docks. “This is a freshwater bay. The salt water sinks to the bottom. There are tributaries that feed it from the Crown's Rush, about fifty miles to the East.”

She nodded. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the drifting outline of ships against the dusk. Graceful. Mysterious. Finally they were close enough to see this alleged pirate city, bright with window lights and street lamps. She was surprised.

Sonora was built on the foundation of beached ships. Massive holds were hammered together, crossed by rope bridges and wooden decks, three or four stories high. Buildings had been resurrected between them, filling in the gaps, backed by a series of cliffs that enclosed the bay. She could see the figureheads of mermaids, horses and other statues that adorned the old bows. Many of the windows were portholes recovered from old wrecks. The roads were paved with sandstone, the docks made of mismatched wood, pieced together over the years.

Several boats were in the bay now—large, seagoing vessels with unmarked flags. Pirates, of course. And a few merchants, she suspected. She noticed them only because of the crates they held on board, a familiar sight from the port city of Delbar. A merchant wouldn't be fool enough to fly his colors in these waters. There was no evidence of the King's guard. In this alcove of a city, she doubted the King's law held much sway.

Ferran rowed them to a smaller area of the docks, occupied by houseboats like his, all tethered together. He left the rudder and perched on the keel as they neared, then leapt to the floating planks, a length of rope in hand. He guided the boat into the dock, his hands firm on the railing. Then he tied the keel in place, parallel with the houseboat next to him.

Finally, he held out a hand to assist her onto the dock. Lori picked up her satchel—she didn't like the idea of leaving her belongings on board, especially in a pirate city. She glanced at his hand, gave him a wry smile, and jumped off the boat by herself.

“Aren't you worried that your boat will be stolen?” she asked. There was a watch tower in the distance, but no guards on patrol. Paper lanterns bobbed along the waterfront, strung across the docks, casting pink, blue, and yellow light across the dark water. She could already hear the roar of voices, the distant strain of music, the general hubbub of the city.

“Pirate's honor,” Ferran said, returning her ironic smile. “A pirate city wouldn't last long if they were all stealing from each other. No one steals from Sonora's port.”

Lori frowned. “But what if...?”

“Otherwise, they'll be captured and killed. Trust me.” He gave her a knowing look. “You don't want to be chased down by a fleet of pirates.”

Ah.
Lori nodded, imagining the long and narrow strait they had just passed through. The man had a point. A sailor would be hard-pressed to make it out of the bay.

“What now?” she asked.

Ferran looped an easy arm around her shoulder. He was more than a foot taller than she. She felt as though a lanky coyote stood at her side, loping easily down the boardwalk. “Now, we have a drink.”

“I thought you were broke.”

“I know the crew of the
Aurora
,” he said, “a tavern in town. Trust me, a few drinks and some idle chit-chat, and we'll find the man who has our book.”

“And what then?” she asked. She didn't like the thought of drinking with Ferran. The last time she had seen him drunk, he had been splayed out on the floor in the aftermath of a bar fight.

“You plan too much,” Ferran said. “You should live more in the moment. What happened to you, Lori? You used to be so much fun.”

She frowned. She hated the way he said that, as though she had become her worst fear—an overbearing worrywart of a woman. Maybe it was true. She had seen a lot of sickness and injury during her years as a Healer—a lot of death. For a while she had become reclusive, clinging to her cabin in the woods, hiding from the dangers of the world. Irrational fear, she had finally realized. One couldn't control death, just as one couldn't control a harsh winter, a fever, or a runaway horse. To live was to live dangerously. Precaution couldn't stop fate.

He was waiting for an explanation. “I'm an angry drunk,” she said brusquely, hiding her thoughts.

Ferran laughed at that. “Then you'll be in good company.”

* * *

They first spotted the town about two hours before sundown. Sora was shocked by how long they had walked. Five miles, perhaps seven, she couldn't be sure—only that her feet were bruised and scratched from the long trek.

They paused atop a small ridge, a precipice of rocks jutting above the forest. Crash pointed into the distance. She could see a bright, gleaming line of quicksilver across the sky—the ocean dancing with sunlight. There was an indentation along the coast where the trees tapered off, unable to take root in the silty soil. Then she saw the shapes of buildings, blunt stone mounds that leaned inward, rounded toward the top. At one point, their roofs might have been made of wooden boards or grass, but they had long since rotted away, leaving only the stone blocks.

Then she saw a large pillar of smoke wafting into the air. Their companions had already arrived.

A thrill of excitement moved through her. Sora felt her heart begin to race. Another hour of walking, and she would see her friends again.
Safe and alive.
It was more than she could have asked for.

Crash helped her walk back down the rocks and maneuvered them to the deer trail that led toward the coast. They cut through a few acres of wilderness, wherever the underbrush grew thin, taking the most direct path possible. Finally,
finally
they reached the rim of the trees. The ground became grainy and dry beneath her feet. The soil gave way to sand. Large rocks speckled the coast, swept in by the tide, the same brownish-gray stones that the buildings were made of.

She could hear voices bickering back and forth.

“The fire is too large,” Joan's voice reached her, husky for a woman, immediately recognizable. “It's too visible from the water!”