Volcrian's Hunt (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) (17 page)

Two large sailors were positioned on either side of her. Ferran stood a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, leaning on one leg, as though he did this kind of thing every day. She half-expected him to ask for a drink. Before them, Captain Silas had pulled out a chair and was sitting with his head back, a cloth pressed to his nose.

After a long pause, he said, “Tell me why I shouldn't have you both killed.”

Lori's eyebrow raised at this. She shot a glance at Ferran and saw him open his mouth to reply.
No!
she thought. Whatever the treasure hunter was about to say, she doubted it would help their cause. She rushed to cut him off. “If you had just told me who you were, this would have gone a lot smoother.”

Silas sat up and glared at her. His bright blue eyes gleamed in the torchlight. His hair was slightly mussed; a few silky strands had slipped loose from their tie and brushed against his face. “I don't need to tell you anything,” he said menacingly. It was quite different from the way he had spoken before, at the bar, playful and intimate. “Now state your business or I'll gut you with my knife. Believe me, the thought is very appealing.”

“You wouldn't dare,” Lori said angrily, raising her chin a notch. “I'm a Healer.”

“A Healer?” Silas echoed. She could see the thoughts pass behind his eyes. Healers took an oath to serve all people—all races and creeds, good or bad, even criminals. They were surrounded by a sense of mysticism, and were thought to have the protection of the Goddess.

It was commonly said that to kill a Healer was the worst luck of all; to be cursed with a lifetime of misfortune. A human might ignore that superstition, but not a Dracian. The Races knew better.

“I'm listening,” Captain Silas said icily.

“We are looking for a book,” Ferran's voice cut into the conversation. He spoke lazily, unconcerned with the tension in the room. “I gave it to a whore in Cape Shorn. She said she sold it to a pirate from Sylla Cove. You're the only collector in this town. I figured it was you.”

Captain Silas cocked his head to one side, thoughtful. Lori stared at Ferran, resisting the urge to clock him over the head.
All this time—he didn't tell me!
She didn't know whether to be furious or laugh at the irony.

Any minute now, she expected him to start threatening their captor, provoking Silas into a fight. That's what the young Ferran would have done—anything to prove he was tough. But this new Ferran did no such thing. She looked him over for a second time. He seemed bored.

“Aye, I remember buying that book,” Silas finally said. “Couldn't make head nor tail of it. Half the pages were blank.”

“Do you still have it?” Ferran asked.

Silas paused. “Yes.”

Lori felt a knot of tension loosen in her stomach.

“I take it you want the book back?” Silas asked mockingly.

Ferran shrugged. “We have need of it.”

“What kind of need?” he demanded.

Ferran glanced at Lori. She shifted on her feet. Now what? The only thing left to do was to explain the situation.

Silas spoke before either of them could. “
The Book of the Named
is a rare artifact,” he said. Lori was surprised again. Ferran hadn't known the title of the book—he couldn't remember it. Obviously Silas had done his research. A collector, indeed.

But there was more to it than that. She remembered
The Book of the Named
mentioned in old stories about the War of the Races. It had been lost shortly after the final battle, when the world had been torn by chaos and disarray. It was an evil book dedicated to the teachings of the Dark God, the ways of the assassins.

“I won't just give it away,” Silas continued. “I paid a large sum for it.”

Ferran turned to look at Lori fully. “Tell him about the plague.”

Lori noted the frown on Silas' face. She licked her dry lips. The alcohol was beginning to make her feel sick and sleepy, and she wanted to sit down. “All right,” she said. “As I told you, I am a Healer. Six months ago, I began to see a strange sickness infecting the farm animals around our town.” She dove into the story, describing the symptoms, how she had attempted to treat the illness, to no avail. Then the disease had spread to the farmers.

When she mentioned her daughter's Cat's Eye and the magical quality of the illness, Captain Silas sat forward. She sensed that she had his full attention now. Lori quickly explained the events that had led them to this place—why they had come, and what they hoped to do.

Captain Silas tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair, his bloody nose forgotten. After a moment he said, “Some of my crew have fallen ill.”

Lori's eyes widened. Had the plague already spread so far?

The captain was thoughtful once more. He glanced at his men, then at Ferran with a look of distaste rather uncharacteristic of a Dracian. Lori wondered if his supposed reputation was true—perhaps he really was feared in all of Sonora.

“Fine,” he finally said. “I will give you the book. In exchange, I want you to save my men's lives.”

Lori balked at that. “Of course,” she said automatically. “But if it's caused by the plague, there's not much that medicine can do.”

“We'll do it,” Ferran said, almost at the same time.

She turned to stare at him, horrified. She wanted to wring his neck. What were they supposed to do when she failed? When the sailors died? And what if she and Ferran contracted the plague? There was nothing to protect them from the Dark God's curse. She hoped against hope that he had a plan—but she suspected that he was flying by the seat of his pants.

“First, the book,” Silas said, oblivious to Lori's thoughts. “And then, my men.” He gave Ferran a menacing glare. “And if you can't heal them, I will kill you.” His eyes turned to Lori. “His life is in your hands.”

Lori gave him a tight smile. “Right,” she said, still secretly furious.
If we fail, I'll kill Ferran myself!
She tried to catch her friend's eye, but Ferran was gazing at Silas placidly, as though hardly concerned by his threat.

The captain jumped to his feet and signaled to the sailors. The men grabbed Lori's arms and hauled her forward, following the Dracian's quick pace. Surprisingly, Captain Silas led them to the side of the room, where he pressed his hands against a panel of ornately carved wood. After a small shove, the wood gave inward and slid sideways—a hidden door.
Of course pirates would have hidden doors,
Lori thought, almost amused.

Silas led them onto a dusty staircase, lit by oil lamps that hung from the walls. The group started downward. One of the sailors kept a firm hold on her arm, though it was impossible to walk side by side. The staircase wrapped around in a narrow spiral; Lori felt dizzy from the alcohol and swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn't throw up. Eventually Silas paused and opened another panel. She had no idea where they were, possibly underground or in a separate building adjacent to the ship.

The room beyond was shrouded in darkness. Silas took one of the oil lamps from the wall and stepped through the doorway, casting the light around until he found and lit a nearby candelabra.

The candlelight spread in a broad circle, but even with the illumination, Lori couldn't make out where the corners of the room were. The chamber was massive, like a fourth deck, though now she could tell that it wasn't part of the Aurora. The walls were made of old stone, the floor was dented wood caked with dust. The room was filled with all kinds of things: boxes, chests, crates and barrels. As they started to walk through, she saw stranger things in the lantern light. Old statues worn by time and, perhaps, saltwater. Suits of armor, pieces of wagons, ox yokes, old furniture and a broad assortment of weapons. Most of the weaponry was rusted beyond use: axes, swords, spears, halberds, countless arrows, some of them mounted on plaques on the walls. A few appeared to be labeled. She was hit with a sudden, burning curiosity. Were these relics from the War? Pieces of ancient kingdoms? Some of the swords didn't look human-made. Their steel had a yellow sheen and their blades were ornately curved.

Silas didn't offer an explanation. She wondered how many of these things he had bought and how many he had salvaged from abandoned shipyards.

Finally they reached the end of the room. The entire back wall was lined with bookcases carefully spaced apart, with each book given ample room. Most were delicately encased in wax paper for preservation. Lori felt her fingers itch. She longed to touch the spines of the books, run her fingers over the ancient pages. How much knowledge was stored in this warehouse? She was in awe. She had a humble library back home, an assortment of old books that may or may not have been from the War—but nothing like this.

Abruptly, a small movement caught the corner of her eye. Lori turned her head, staring into the shadows. She listened carefully. She had seen something shift in the dark corners of the room. Or was it the flicker of lantern light? The back of her neck tingled. She glanced at the tall, burly sailors on either side of her, trying to reassure herself. They didn't seem concerned.
It's just your imagination,
she thought firmly. Nothing more.

But the sense of unease remained. She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced around the giant room one last time. The walls and ceiling were curtained by darkness. They could have been surrounded by people; there would be no way to tell. It was an unnerving thought.
And illogical. We're the only people here.
She hadn't noticed any footprints in the thick dust. Even the air currents seemed undisturbed.

She tried to focus her attention on Captain Silas as he browsed a bookshelf, occasionally pulling out a title, then putting it back. Now that he was in front of his collection, his entire expression had changed, turning from a solemn frown to a wondrous smile, his eyes bright with passion. She knew how he must feel. She felt the same way when brewing a tonic or salve—she would lose herself in the scent of herbs, the feel of the mortar in her hands.

“Here it is,” Silas finally said, and pulled the book from the shelf. It was surprisingly small, not a grand tome as she had imagined. In fact, it resembled a diary, easily held in one hand, bound by thick leather. The Dracian winced as he held it. “It's a bit cold to the touch.”

Just like the Dark God's weapons,
Lori remembered. She took it as a sign that this was the right book.

Suddenly, something launched itself from the side of the room. Lori gasped, turning. A shadow detached from the wall. It darted over the carpet so fast that she could barely make out its shape. It tackled Silas, who cried out, stumbling backward. The book was snatched from his hands, then the shadow dashed into the depths of the room, following the opposite wall.

Ferran responded first. He charged after the shadow, reaching for it. He grabbed its ankle, stumbling to the floor. The shape twisted skillfully, turning in the air like an acrobat, breaking his hold. For a moment, the darkness seemed to slip and fade and she caught sight of a face—long black hair, a feminine figure, the glint of green eyes. Lori's mouth fell open. She recognized those features. An assassin. One of the Sixth Race.

Lori shook herself into action. She turned and charged down the length of the room, running parallel to the wall, hoping to cut the figure off. It was difficult to follow with her eyes. The woman used the shadows as a cloak, flickering through the air like a ghost, moving faster than humanly possible. How had she gotten into the building?

Silas roared to his men, pointing after the apparition. The sailors had been standing slack-jawed, but they leapt to action and chased after her, drawing their cutlasses.

Lori's eyes followed the woman's path. She was heading to the far corner of the room, trying to escape. They said that the Sixth Race could transport through shadows, using them as doorways to separate lands.

She dodged between chests and boxes, sprinting as fast as she could. Suddenly, a second shape leapt in front of her. She saw the gleam of a sword, the flash of green eyes in the lantern light. It was too late to stop her momentum, so Lori threw herself forward, down to the ground, rolling beneath the blade. She came up on the other side of the man, whirling, holding up her arms in defense.

The man turned on her and raised his hand purposefully. His shadow lifted from the ground and shot toward her, creating a billow of darkness. Some sort of magic. Lori flinched backward.

Wham!
Someone slammed her to the ground. Ferran wrapped himself around her, shielding her small body with his own. He raised his left hand, his fingers clenched into a fist. There was a flash of brilliant crimson light, a sense of energy flooding the air, electrifying, powerful.
Shhiing!

The darkness struck the light and split apart, like a wave against rocks. Then it was sucked into the red shield, quickly nullified and absorbed.

Lori stared up at Ferran. She couldn't believe her eyes. A Cat's Eye?

Then Ferran was off her. He launched himself onto the darkened figure, wrestling the man to the ground. Lori was surprised that he could hold his own. Assassins were highly trained—fierce warriors, even those without a Name.

She scrambled to her feet, leaving Ferran to deal with the man, and sprinted toward the far corner of the room. The shadow-woman had been briefly waylaid by the pirates, but Silas' men were now groaning on the floor, and the woman continuing to run. If Lori hurried, she could still cut her off.