Feast of Fates (Four Feasts Till Darkness Book 1) (51 page)

VI

Maggie returned well before the hourglass had dribbled out, just as Caenith was stepping from the steaming lavatory. He had washed, found some scissors to trim his beard, and after reclaiming his shirt from Thackery had scrubbed and lathered the last of the soot from his clothing. By the sink, he had found a collection of hair ties and pulled his mane back. As he appeared, his stateliness shocked Maggie, for she felt as if this was an entirely different barbarian than the one she had met. Still a savage, but perhaps a chieftain among savages, for so composed and powerful was the air he projected.

There’s something very odd about you, big man
, she thought, and handed him a black bundle that he fluffed into a roomy fur-trimmed cape.

“It’s good that you tidy up so well, as this Northman’s riding cloak was all that I could find that might fit you,” said Maggie.

Leaving Caenith to sort himself out—he seemed puzzled over how to put his garment on—she walked over to Thackery in the sitting area, where he patiently waited in his rags on the edge of a couch. Thackery was hardly a man of fashion, yet he was rather excited at the thought of less aerated attire, and he made a girlish squeal as Maggie passed him a second bundle. Mayhap Caenith’s exhibitionism had rubbed off on Thackery, and he didn’t bother with modesty as he threw his ragged clothing on the floor and slipped into what Maggie had brought. When he was finished, Maggie turned around and clapped her approval. From his high black boots, tucked gray trousers, and tightly cuffed shirt, one could assume that Thackery was a man of moderate affluence: a merchant, perhaps. That was the intended disguise, which Maggie explained as she draped Thackery in a hooded dark mantle.

“I’ve taken a few liberties, but I doubt you’ll find any of them disagreeable. A friend of mine is a spice broker from Sorsetta—far past the Sun King’s land to the south—with business all over Geadhain. Ran into him down at the docks when I was barely one foot out the door, and it just so happens that he is having some troubles of his own, and plans on staying at The Silk Purse, staying low, for a while. He’s a man that doesn’t particularly want to be himself right now, which leaves the opportunity for someone else to fill that vacancy.”

Maggie cinched the fabric at Thackery’s neck with a silver clasp and then clutched his shoulders. “When I said he has business all over Geadhain, I meant that, literally: from Eod to the Iron City. With his papers, which he was kind enough to provide me with, you can walk right into Menos.”

Part of Thackery wanted to laugh, but the dread awareness that he would be stepping again into the Iron City choked the excitement. He was somber as he said, “That’s brilliant, my dear. You’ve saved us so much trouble. Ages ago, I took your kin out of the Iron City, and here you are returning me to it. A certain poetry to that, I suppose.”

“Wait,” said Caenith, and strode over to join them. He had figured out the cloak, even if it was a tad lopsided. “How will this work? Do these men even look the same?”

Maggie smiled. “I mean this as kindly as it can be said, but all old gentlemen tend to look alike. Jebidiah is bald and thin, and Thackery has a hood to conceal what differences there might be. As long as you don’t go shaking hands with any acquaintances of his, I suspect no one will know any better. His vessel, which you’ll be sailing on, is privately manned and the captain has been instructed of the ruse.”

Caenith still wasn’t entirely convinced. “If he is a spice merchant, who am I, then?”

“His muscle, obviously,” answered Maggie.

She reached into the folds of her dress, pulled out a leather packet, and handed it to Thackery. “Jebidiah Rotbottom is your name. Unfortunate, I know, and I imagine he never had much fun around the playground. Well, that’s not true, actually. Before turning to the spice trade, the Rotbottoms were herbalists. In the South, there’s a rather famous disease called
rotbottom
where everything comes out the…you can imagine. Anyhow, it’s Jebidiah’s ancestors who put the sickness on the run through their herbs and remedies. That’s how they got their name, and it’s a prestigious one, so it will get you places that many can’t go.”

“Who is this Rotbottom on the run from?” frowned Caenith.

“A supplier in the South, with whom business arrangements have soured. Far south, in the Sun King’s lands. No one you should run into from here and Menos, and I imagine you can defend yourself against a few thugs, if it came to that. He wouldn’t say much more. In any case, speed and silence
will be your allies. Don’t stay in one place for too long, and don’t go making any noise. You never know who is listening, especially in Blackforge or beyond, where the ears of the Iron Queen are plentiful.”

Maggie rustled in her prestidigitator’s pockets and removed a jangling purse. She passed that to Thackery as well. “There’s some folds in your overcoat to hold all that. Along with Jebidiah’s papers, you have one hundred fates and one hundred crowns, which should see to any expense. Don’t worry about losing Rotbottom’s papers; I’m sure that’s not his only set or the only identity he values. The man sheds skins like a snake.”

“I don’t know what to say. It sounds as if you’ve thought of everything,” exclaimed Thackery, and hugged Cordenzia’s blood with gratitude.

Maggie’s embrace was as heartfelt as his was. “I may not have done all the things my mum and Gran wished of me: never took a man, put down the needle so I could run a house of leisure, even moved back into the old neighborhood—good for business, having a hero’s name attached.” She chuckled. “But I never, not for a speck, forgot the story of Whitehawk. So I would thank you for giving a girl dreams and fancies to occupy her. For teaching her the value of maintaining integrity and honor, even if you never taught those lessons directly.”

They held each other awhile longer, and knew that they were delaying an already late farewell. Finally, they pulled apart. Thackery found the pockets that Maggie had mentioned and placed his valuables inside them.

“Let’s get you two on your way,” said Maggie.

Down into the tavern they went. As they were leaving the loud room, the Wolf noticed a scrawny old man drinking by himself at a table.
That must be Jebidiah
, he knew, for he detected a comparable scent between the leather wallet in Thackery’s possession and that man.
I guess all old slow-walkers do look the same
. Outside, the air was thick with afternoon heat and sweaty, packed bodies, yet being close to the waterfront brought relief in on-and-off gusts of wind. They did not talk as they walked, and Caenith allowed his heightened senses to rove a little off their leash: to teasing tangs of seaweed and fresh fish, the crisp calls of gulls, and the rocking lure of the waves. It was incredible how much his perceptions had grown since the Fuilimean, and while he had never said so to Thackery, his ability to cross Kor’Khul in days was a feat that he could not have accomplished a week ago. His great
strength had been made greater through Morigan’s blood.
Soon, my Fawn. Soon I shall have you, and I can thank you for how you have changed me. A man who thought he was too old for any change
.

When they had crossed the large promenade and come to the wooden planks of the harbor, Caenith’s moment of tranquility was ruined by a twinge of familiar scent: metal and musk, the oily fragrance of a woman who wielded steel so often as to smell like it. His puffing nostrils took control of his head, and he stopped, turned, and scanned the crowd hundreds of strides deep. There, everything paused, and he saw an image as clearly as through a pane of glass. A woman. She wasn’t in armor, but her broad carriage and stern brown jaw betrayed her, despite her heavy cloak.

“The sword of the queen,” he muttered.

“Pardon me?” said Thackery, who hadn’t quite heard.

Caenith pulled him aside and pointed down the boardwalk. At first, Thackery could not make out who or what he was looking for. However, Caenith’s whisper of
Rowena
acted like a magik charm in assisting him, and he spotted the woman—along with a blond companion who appeared familiar—strolling toward them through the masses.

“By the kings!” he exclaimed. “What is she doing here?”

“Looking for us, I suspect,” grumbled Caenith.

Maggie added herself to the huddle. “Who? Who is looking for you?”

At that moment, Rowena’s gaze drifted in their direction and widened; although only Caenith could see this. She noticed the three of them crouched as conspirators and whispering, with the smith’s size declaring his identity. Rowena elbowed her companion and the two broke into a run.

“They’ve seen us! The ship! Where is the ship?” demanded Caenith.

Maggie answered. “Three piers down! The
Red Mary
. Red as a whore’s bottom. You can’t miss it! Go! I shall delay them!”

With a pinched look of remorse, Thackery was hauled away by his large companion. Their pursuers were closing quickly, knocking over pedestrians in their haste, and she had few specks for a plan.
Think, Maggie! Think!
She saw some crates and contemplated knocking them over, as pitiful a delay as that would cause, when suddenly a dripping shadow fell over her. She looked up and grinned at the netted haul of the Feordhan, and then followed the arm of the rickety crane and raced toward its source. In a toll-booth-shaped
cubicle, walled in glass and wood, she found the operator of the machine: a mariner so tanned and creased that his age was indeterminable. She rapped on the glass for his attention. He brushed under his bristly chin in the universal sign for
fuk off
until she produced from her bottomless skirt another purse and promised to give him all of it if he only did as she asked. Taroch’s Arm was a realm of free commerce, where no good deal was denied, and even as she explained the ridiculousness of what he was to do, he did not back down from the bargain. Maggie whipped around to the crowd and found Thackery’s speeding pursuers. She held up her hand, fingers spread—waiting, waiting, just a few more steps—and then snapped it into a fist. Somewhere in his booth, the mariner flipped a switch, and without warning or fanfare, the bulbous net, swaying like a fat cloud over the boardwalk, released its binding cords and dumped its slimy cargo. There were screams and noises of hysteria, which calmed to laughter for the most part, as people slid and flopped about in the fish pile as if they were fish themselves. The cloaked woman and the blond man were among the downed, though she was quickly hitching herself to stand using a shining blade. She reached for her sopping, cursing companion, and he ended up pulling her back into the mess, where they rolled about like jesters and Maggie lost track of them.

Maggie stayed a speck longer to make certain that the rain of fish hadn’t injured anyone too seriously, and then left her coin for the cranesman and thought it best to disappear. While fleeing, she cast a look to the east and was happy to see a red shape cutting through the waters.

Safe travels, Whitehawk
, she prayed.
May you bring another lost soul home from the Black City
.

VII

The waters of the Feordhan smelled of briny, ancient freedom to the Wolf: of years and secrets greater and older than his. He found the salty bluster an inspiration to their journey. It was like a wind pushing against his sails, encouraging him to move on, promising him that Morigan and he would be united soon. From the prow of the
Red Mary
, Thackery watched the river with his companion. They had not spoken after arriving on the boat, which
was as easy to locate as Maggie had stated. Only the blind could miss a long steel ship, lacquered red as a concubine’s fingernails and inscribed with the name
Red Mary
along its hull. Jebidiah had a proclivity for whimsy. They saw more of this as they were welcomed aboard by groomed seamen onto a deck that was clear of sailing apparatuses, rigging, or masts, and was decorated like a pleasure vessel with bolted benches and awnings for shade, and stairs leading to a second deck where lounging sun-chairs were set. Once the anchor was raised, the hirsute and handsome captain introduced himself to the
Red Mary
’s passengers and set sail without a single question as to the urgency that they presented to him. Since then, the deckhands had been mysteriously absent, but for a hale, often shirtless gentleman or two who would pop up and attend to any nourishment that they asked for, until even Caenith had his fill. After pacing, peeing off the deck, or lying about on the deck, the two eventually found themselves lured to the water. Enough time had passed that the sky was darkening and the stars were readying to prick their way through the firmament: mere hints of light now, but what a glorious night it would be on the Feordhan.