She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tear her gaze away from the ghastly sight that isme.
I pinch the hilt of my blade and stand, taking five silent steps toward the man, placing myself at his back.
He pushes up, spins, and only has a moment to take me in through his widening eyes before I slash my blade across his throat with a snarl. He wavers, mouth gaping as his life force bubbles from the deep gash preventing him from drawing breath. Then he crumbles in a convulsing heap at my feet, the three jars packed with tiny, crystal thorns scattering amongst the grass.
Looking down my nose, I watch the life drain from his eyes until he finally stills.
I feel Zali’s hand settle on my shoulder. “Baze—”
Sniffing, I pluck up the jars and charge toward the brook. “Found you a replacement horse,” I mutter, rinsing the blood off. “So long as it makes it through the night.”
“Yes,” Zali whispers, and I jolt when I realize she’s crouched right beside me.
She grabs one of the jars and helps me clear away the blood before I relieve her of it and move to the fire.
Popping the cork on the first, I reveal the stash of crystal thorns that harbor their own light, radiating every color of the rainbow. I have to bite back my urge to vomit or scream or …somethingas I scatter them through the flames, watching the fire flare with an array of pastel hues, whispering the ancient words of release.
I have no doubt in my mind that the souls packed into these tiny jars didn’t die with full hearts—meaning I doubt any of them passed through Kvath and into Mala.
That thought ...
It’s too heavy to bear.
Abell tolls, the sound skipping across the river like a stone.
The thatched awning of a riverside tackle shop shields me from the drizzle cutting through the morning murk as I watch the portcullis rise in slow, clunking increments, stirring the layer of fog that’s settled on the water’s surface. Through the yawning gap, I see the dark outline of a river barge with bulging sails, lanterns strung between them and around the edge of the ship.
The River Norse snakes all the way from beyond the Alps in the Deep North—a two-way trading route that services the entire continent. South-sailing barges drift with its gentle flow, and those traveling upstream require the hulls to be packed with oar-wielding men who power the boats against the water’s sludgy current whenever the wind is down.
Touching every territory on its journey to the sea, the Norse finally pours into the ocean right here in Bahari’s capital. It carves an open path through Cainon’s thick, fortified, and well-lit wall that surrounds the city, cuts through the corner of the busy precinct, then spills into the bay. But rather than have an open freeway that allows ships to come and go as they please, that single cleft in the wall is barricaded with a metal portcullis regulated by heavily armed guards. It’s lifted whenever a barge requires passage—iron teeth of control that can clamp down at the simple pull of a lever.
I sigh, using my dagger to clear the dirt from under my nails as I set my sights back on the huge whaleboat docked straight ahead of me across the wide, cobbled road. Its patched, blue sails hang loose, baring all their bruises, suggesting the latest voyage was far from smooth.
That and the withered state of the crew, their steps wobbled on frail legs, finally dismissed after three hours of rolling barrels of oil down the pier and into the warehouse across the street. I frown at the memory of their open sores and rotting teeth, a sure sign they’ve been scraping the bottom of the barrel for months, perhaps surviving on rum, blubber, and whale meat.
A man steps off the whaleboat and stalks the pier, his loose pants held up by a length of rope, scroll in one hand and a stuffed sack slung over his shoulder. The ornamental cap indicates he’s the captain.
Well, what’s left of him.
He passes a huddle of sour-faced soldiers stationed at the pier’s entrance, steps up to a leather tent that drips lanterns from all four corners—housing a wooden trestle table he sets his scroll atop—and waits.
The general sitting behind the desk continues to flip through a ledger, his features long and sharp, burnished hair pulled back in a tidy bun, gold epaulets polished to a gleaming shine.
Rubbing at the wiry beard covering half his face, the captain says, “Somethin’ wrong, General Grimsley?”
Grimsley stabs his finger at the ledger. “Captain Rowell. I see you last docked at this port over eight months ago.”
Rowell frowns. “Yes. That’s how long it took me to fill the hull …”
Peering up through shrewd eyes, Grimsley says, “Forgive me, Captain, but I find thatveryhard to believe.”
“It’s the truth!” Rowell blurts, eyes wide as he waves his hand at his ship. “Yuh think I’d want to stay on that there shit heap any longer than necessary?”
Grimsley glances down the pier. “I will admit, your ship certainly looks like it’s weathered more than usual this round.”
“That’s because it has. We were lucky to make it back alive.” Rowell nods at the scroll. “Now if yuh don’t mind, please look at that there record, tally the numbers against the stock we just stored in yuh warehouse over there, and bag me some coin so I can get home to me fam—”
“You know,” Grimsley cuts in, “you’re only allotted the lease of that ship on the provision of performance. Our city’s survival relies on the oil you procure. We lose the flames that keep our wall lit up at night, wealldie.”
