Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 16

  “Looking for you.” Whitt washed down his cake with a dribble of tea and kept the truth to himself.

  “Not saying is my guess.” Tiler stretched out his legs and crossed his arms. “A wise man keeps his secrets between his balls.”

  “I think the saying is ‘between his ears.’ ”

  “Works both ways.”

  Whitt eyed him. “I’ll let you know a secret. Gannon’s heading south to renegotiate a treaty with the Farlanders. He could use some company.”

  “Little queenie sent him on a mission, huh?”

  “You might get to… crunch a few nuts.”

  The enforcer grunted. “He send you down here?”

  “No.” Whitt shook his head. “Better if you forgot you saw me, if you don’t mind.”

  “Between the balls, dip wit, between the balls.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The barge wrestled the Blackwater’s frothy tumult, moored briefly in Se-Vien, and a week later spilled into the calmer waters of the Slipsilver. In five days, Whitt debarked on the docks of Ava-Grea, the tier city towering out of the green morning fog. The swamp water glittered in a swirl of rich color, and the lush, fetid scent of decay wrinkled his nose. It was a stink that nurtured fond memories of another place he’d belonged—a place to regain his balance.

  The queen’s ferry was nowhere in sight, either beyond the swamp on route to Elan-Sia or delayed by the ruckus in Guardian. For a heartbeat, he wondered how Catling and Gannon fared and then set his worries aside, too late to change his mind even if he possessed the power. He doubted word of his escape had traveled north but chose to forgo a walk into the tiers. Ava-Grea had never welcomed him and even now offered nothing of value.

  Instead, he wandered the docks, pack on his back, waiting for the fog to lift and fenfolk rafts to tie up at the piers. From the dock’s market, he purchased rope, a second knife, fresh socks, and as a gift for Leena—a bag of fresh lissoms and a sack of grain. He would beg a ride from the first rafter willing to take him.

  Before the eighth bell, three young women drifted into the piers, bumping the hull of a weathered ferry to the annoyance of her crew. All three wore a film in mud, their green slanted eyes pale as the clouds.

  “Dina,” he called to the one he knew. “Will you take me to the village?”

  “Heyo, Ellegean.” Dina threw him a rope. “We sell this first; then you will paddle us home.”

  He secured the craft to a piling, and they handed up a crate of headless eels, several large hampers woven of pliant vines, and a basket of godswell and falwart. She grinned a white smile, and the three of them tramped up the pier with their goods.

  Whitt stepped down to the raft for the wait, and by the ninth bell, he was tallying up blisters as he paddled across the open water toward the giant caliph trees. They entered the luminescent channels and wended between hummocks of red-leaved elbrin and pearly witchwood.

  He switched to a pole and pushed the raft deeper into the filtered light, the remnants of dawn’s fog clinging to the wet world. Two of the women knelt at the raft’s edge and scooped up river rats with camgras nets. Dina squatted at the center, bashing in heads and skinning the scaled rodents. She threw the guts in the channel for the crajeks and razorgills. Whitt watched, and despite the bloody slaughter, felt completely at home.

  The floating village nestled in intersecting channels, hugging the banks. Rafters spread out onto the moist soil to hang hammocks, light cookfires, and hunt for snakes and boar. Dina’s raft drifted in, and Whitt lashed it to its neighbors. She swung up her sack of skinned rats, and the women jumped from one raft to the next, showing off their catch.

  Whitt slid his pack of supplies on his back and followed the women, searching for Raker’s dark head among the pale fenfolk. Whitt’s face was a familiar one, and though years had passed since he lived among them, they greeted him as if he’d never left. “I’m looking for Raker,” he said as he leapt to another raft.

  “Other side of the hummock,” a man replied.

  Whitt studied the ferns for stealthy crajeks and patient snakes before he jumped to the bank. He climbed over wet logs and caliph knees and, from the hummock’s peak spotted more rafts clogging the foggy waterway on the other side. Raker sat on a low crate, whittling and fishing, while Jafe dunked two squealing children in the water like bait.

  A twig snapped behind him. A stick whumped the back of his knees, flipped up his legs, and landed him on his pack. “Too slow.” Leena grinned down at him, offering a hand.

  He accepted the help up. “I’m out of practice.”

  “Your warriors are soft.” She thumped him on the chest with a fist and retrieved her bundle of woody tubers.

  “I hope to remedy that shortcoming. I’m planning to stay.”

  She pointed with her staff. “That raft is too small for so many Ellegeans.”

  “Jafe will help me build another.”

  They walked down to the bank, interrupting Raker’s whittling. Jafe climbed to his feet, a kicking baby in each arm. “Is Whitt here for rats or crajeks or babies?” He met them where the raft scraped the bank, set both children down, and slathered them with mud.

  “All three.” Whitt squatted by the toddling children and wiped a speck of mud from Rose’s forehead before it slid into her eye. Catling’s child was tiny compared to Leena’s and less steady on her feet. The affection felt instantaneous; the child as sweet as sunlight.

  “You’ll have to fight Leena for the baby,” Jafe said.

  Leena grunted. “Babies are less work than men.” She applied mud to Jafe’s shoulder blades and slapped the back of his head.

  “I brought grain and lissoms.” Whitt handed her the sack and picked up Rose. The girl wrinkled her nose like a worried old woman. Memories of the stead, of his sisters as babies, drew his smile. Suddenly his decision to return to the swamp felt thoroughly satisfying. He kissed Rose’s muddy forehead and tickled her neck. She hunched her shoulders to her ears and squeaked.

  “I will help you build a raft,” Jafe said. “Then we will hunt crajeks and hold a feast.” He carried his son, and Whitt followed with Rose. They placed the children in a central pen built of sticks, the planks softened with fern fronds.

  Raker held out a pair of carved birds, one for each child, and he eyed Whitt. “She says this one is yours.”

  “Who?” Whitt didn’t know which “she” Raker referred to. Regardless of his answer, she was wrong. “She’s not mine.”

  Raker cocked his head toward the dissipating mist. “You don’t get to decide.”

  ***

  Whitt swung an axe, chopping into the dying elbrin. The mud on his face and body kept the stingers at bay, but combined with a coat of sweat, he imagined he looked as ghastly as he smelled and felt. The soft dry wood was light and easy to harvest, and his raft would float high in the water. Heart-shaped teal leaves shook loose, and peeling white bark broke off in chunks like pages of a discarded book. His shoulders and back ached with the hours of labor, but he and Jafe had cut eleven dead trees and this one counted twelve, enough for the start of a modest-sized craft. Once they’d lashed the logs together, he’d split witchwood for planking and apply the resin the river rats found so appetizing.

  The tree fell, snapping a few dead branches on the way. He broke off most of the remaining ones, put his blade to the thicker limbs, and cut the length to size. With the axe over his shoulder, he grabbed a branch and dragged the results of his latest effort to the water’s edge. He rested the axe in the mud, waded in, and dropped the log beside the others. Jafe squatted in the shallow water, using pliant vines to tether the logs to a spanner.

  The knobby eyes of two crajeks observed the construction from a curve in the channel. Whitt jerked his chin toward the reptiles. “You have an audience.”

  “They are afraid of that one.” Jafe yanked on a hitch, snugging it around the log, and pointed beyond Whitt’s elbow.

  Whitt turned, yelped, and scrambled to shore, the crajek close en
ough to kiss. The creature lunged, taloned feet clawing for purchase in the mud. In full retreat, Whitt grabbed his axe and rapped it on the jaw with the side of the blade. Jafe wrenched his spear from the water, bolted up, and rammed the tip through the scaled neck. The crajek writhed, attempting an escape into the channel. Whitt swung and cleaved its skull.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he shouted.

  Jafe’s brow furrowed. “I did tell you.”

  “I mean why didn’t you tell me before I offered my ass as a meal?”

  “I wanted to see what would happen.” Jafe grinned.

  “Most amusing.”

  “I supposed you would use your axe.” Jafe pulled his spear from the scaled neck. “Then you would feed the village. Tonight, I will be the hero.”

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, but next time, feel free to take the glory without using me as bait.”

  Jafe shrugged. “I will never understand your kind, Ellegean.”

  “Likewise.” Whitt chuckled. Jafe lived his life at the edge, wild even for a rafter and steeped in imagined immortality. No wonder Leena considered men more work than babies.

  Whitt skinned and cleaned the crajek while Jafe finished binding the raft. They hauled the carcass onto the logs and shoved off, wending through the luminescent waterways toward the village.

  At the same moment Whitt spotted the dory, Jafe crouched. They poled the raft to the bank. Whitt grabbed his staff, and the two of them crept up through the ferns and moss-draped trees.

  A lone man sat in the boat, observing the swamp. He wore the plain camgras shirt and trousers of a riverman, but his bearing was controlled, his vigilance calculated. He reminded Whitt of a guardian, and though his vantage point gave him a mere sliver’s view, Whitt suspected he would recognize the face.

  Jagur or the queen or both hunted him down, the depth of their fury and conviction deeper than he imagined. He couldn’t fathom how anyone had managed to follow him for weeks without his knowledge. His skills weren’t exemplary, but they measured a notch above average. Something had gone terribly wrong, and no doubt, Catling rested at the vortex of the maelstrom. In granting him his freedom, had she killed? Or had they killed her?

  A dory meant three, maybe four men. They’d left one behind to guard the boat while the others traveled the hummock by foot. Jafe hefted his spear and bobbed his eyebrows. Whitt shook his head; they’d avoid killing anyone until he understood the risks. He motioned for Jafe to slink around and head toward the village while he worked his way closer to the man’s back.

  Jafe crept back toward the raft and swam the channel. Whitt waited until the rafter vanished into the trees, and then he stole forward, one silent step at a time. He cocked his arm, the staff’s sharpened end aimed at the broad back. Ten paces distant, he chewed on a lip and steadied his breath, preparing for a confrontation.

  “I mean no harm, Whitt,” the man said.

  Whitt crouched, listening for other sounds and wary of a trap.

  “I’m no threat.” The man raised his hands and pivoted on the thwart.

  Colton, the Queen’s Guardsman. Whitt’s heart sank. “I didn’t kill those men. The influencer did.”

  “I believe you.”

  “The queen doesn’t. She has me hunted.”

  “Don’t assume. She’s furious, but she’s no fool.”

  Whitt lowered his arm a fraction, the spear resting on his shoulder. The assurance that Lelaine believed him both relieved and infuriated him. Why the spectacle? Why not acquit him? Why grind him and Catling through the ordeal? And none of it explained Colton’s presence; he was the queen’s shadow. “Why are you here?”

  “Doing a friend a favor?”

  The answer dawned on him. “Catling is here. In the swamp.” He planted his spear in the ground and scrubbed his hands over his grubby face, irritation quivering through his bones. Her declaration that Rose was “gone” reeked like a corrupted corpse, her tears pure manipulation. All that way he’d traveled to watch over Rose should Catling one day return, and five days later, there she was. She’d sucked him into her melodrama, and he resented the lies.

  Colton stood in the dory, facing him. His hands rested on his hips near the hilts of his knives. “She has one more hour with her daughter before we return to the tiers. If you intend to see her, now’s your chance.”

  “She’s leaving Rose behind?”

  The Queen’s Guardsman nodded his reply. Whitt’s head reeled, his thoughts once again reordering. He slapped a hand to a tree, questioning if he’d enjoy one measly, correct assumption all day. Turning on his heel, he hiked over the hummock and down the other side, his staff pounding the ground like a walking stick.

  One tendril of the village clogged the channel below him, Raker’s raft near the tail end, his preference as it afforded him the freedom to depart at will. Catling sat with Leena near the center of the craft, Rose in her lap, playing with her wooden bird. Jafe applied a fresh layer of mud to his body. Raker spied Whitt’s approach and gestured to Leena. She lifted Mati to her hip, and the two of them wandered into the floating village, Jafe on their heels.

  Catling stood with Rose in her arms, waiting for him, her expression hard to read, perhaps as conflicted as his own. When he reached the bank, he stared at her, unable to speak. The contrary emotions fighting for control in his heart made him wary and crazy. “Are you influencing me?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I promise.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m confused.”

  “My regrets about Guardian.” She sank onto Raker’s low crate, Rose on her knees. The girl chewed and slobbered on the carved bird. “I make choices out of desperation, Whitt, always one step ahead of catastrophe. I second-guess myself, agonize over dwindling options, and then move on to the next hurdle with no time to linger. I’m so sorry for forcing you into an escape, for influencing you, for breaking my promise.” Her fingers brushed the exquisite rose around her eye. “My regrets for everything.”

  His anger dissipated, replaced by sentiments more complicated: love, sympathy, sorrow, kindness, and his own regrets. Joy flittered around the edges and made no sense. He stepped onto the raft and sat on the planking, his legs crossed. “What happened after I left?”

  “Lelaine was livid.” Catling smiled. “She confined me to my room, and Gannon spent four days in your cell. When she let us both out, she lectured us on loyalty and threatened us with beheadings. We were sufficiently contrite.”

  “The commander?” Whitt cared less about the queen’s pique than the reaction of Guardian and his guild.

  Catling kissed the back of her daughter’s head. “He seemed relieved, but he’s complicated, Whitt, torn between duty and justice, I think. He held Lelaine’s word to the light, and Gannon left for the Far Wolds with a company of guardians when we departed for Ellegeance.”

  “I hope he’s successful. This will have been worth the loss.”

  “A truce.” She extended a hand to him.

  He accepted the offer and squeezed. “I wish it was this easy in the Wolds.

  “I thought you went south as well. I didn’t expect to find you here, and when Raker said you’d arrived, I almost left. I imagined you were furious with me.”

  “For an hour here and there.” He dug a lissom from their supplies and peeled the green skin, revealing its pink core. He broke it into sections and handed one to Rose, who abandoned the slimy bird for the fruit. Half of what remained, he offered to Catling.

  The sorrow in her eyes belied the smile gracing her lips. “I shouldn’t have come; it was foolish to disappear, for even a few hours.”

  “Why Colton?”

  “I needed an excuse for my absence and a boat and someone I trusted to row, which meant telling him about Rose. Despite his attachment to Lelaine, he’s kind-hearted and reasonable, the only one I dared confide in. I worry that every contact draws attention to Rose, but I couldn’t help coming here. I may not travel this way again for years. I had to
see her, Whitt, to know she’s safe. Our parting was harrowing and so anguished.”

  “The Cull Tarr? Are you sure?”

  “They were immune to my influence.” She chewed on a nail. “They used her to manipulate me. I have no inkling of what they planned.”

  “The Farlanders believe they want Ellegeance.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Their preachers are everywhere.” She rested her chin lightly on Rose’s head and met his eyes. “Are you staying here? Will you keep her safe for me?”

  “That’s why I came north.” He scooped up another lissom and began to peel. Rose watched him, arms and legs pumping with delight. A sense of warmth and love swept over him. He frowned at Catling. “You’re influencing me. Why, Catling?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It’s Rose. She doesn’t know how to manage it.”

  “Rose?” He gaped at the child and handed her another wedge of fruit, a trickle of levity making him blink. “I wondered why I’ve felt so… happy with her.”

  “It’s usually love and pleasure, but not always.” Catling pressed her hand to her heart and spoke slowly, “My feelings are mine. Your feelings are yours.” She moved her fingers to Rose’s baby rolls and repeated the words.

  “Does it work?” Whitt stared at her, his chin couched in his neck.

  “Not yet. But she’ll learn.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re teasing me.”

  She cocked her head. “Unfortunately, not.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “The poor dear.” The goddess drifted behind Raker, her chin on his shoulder. Raker prodded the decaying corpse, what remained of it, into the channel. The man had lost most of his left leg and his entire right arm. The rest of the body had provided a feast for any number of swamp scavengers, parts of it nibbled clean to the bones. Razorgills swarmed, making quick work of the rotted meal.

  The crajek that had supped on the larger portions of human flesh was a sagging husk, the hard scaly skin intact except for a knife in its neck, the insides eaten out through the mouth and eyes.

  “The one that killed the crajek is over here.” Whitt beckoned Raker and Jafe to a second body.