Rojan Dizon 03 - Last to Rise (26 page)

Well if you’ve read the acknowledgements in the first two books, you’ll know what to expect here. My family, for being awesome. The T Party writers group, for same plus curry. Special thanks to Bettie-Lee and Luke, and to Stacia Kane for provoking thoughts (and letting me nick them). Anna for her copious notes that make me slap my forehead and go “Duh!”, and Alex for his ongoing enthusiasm. A hairy coo for Scarlett and Lor, just because. McMoo! Is
ma
coo.

And that’s about it, apart from whoever I forgot. Except I must acknowledge you, gentle reader. Thanks for coming along for this particular ride.

Francis Knight
was born and lives in Sussex, UK. She has held a variety of jobs from being a groom in the Balearics, where she punched a policeman and got away with it, to an IT administrator. When not living in her own head, she enjoys SFF geekery, WWE geekery, teaching her children
Monty Python
quotes and boldly going and seeking out new civilisations.

Find out more about Francis Knight and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at
www.orbitbooks.net
.

LAST TO RISE
 

look out for
 

THE CROWN TOWER
 

by
 

Michael J. Sullivan
 

Chapter One
 

Pickles
 

Hadrian Blackwater hadn’t gone more than five steps off the ship before he was robbed.

The bag – his only bag – was torn from his hand. He never even saw the thief. Hadrian couldn’t see much of anything in the lantern-lit chaos surrounding the pier, just a mass of faces, people shoving to get away from the gangway or get nearer to the ship. Used to the rhythms of a pitching deck, he struggled to keep his feet on the stationary dock amidst the jostling scramble. The newly arrived moved hesitantly, causing congestion. Many onshore searched for friends and relatives, yelling, jumping, waving arms – chasing the attention of someone. Others were more professional, holding torches and shouting offers for lodging and jobs. One bald man with a voice like a war trumpet stood on a crate, promising that The Black Cat Tavern offered the strongest ale at the cheapest prices. Twenty feet away, his competition balanced on a wobbly barrel and proclaimed the bald man a liar. He further insisted The Lucky Hat was the only local tavern that didn’t substitute dog meat for mutton. Hadrian didn’t care. He wanted to get out of the crowd and find the thief who stole his bag. After only a few minutes, he realized that wasn’t going to happen. He settled for protecting his purse and considered himself lucky. At least nothing of value was lost – just clothing, but given how cold Avryn was in autumn, that might be a problem.

Hadrian followed the flow of bodies, not that he had much choice. Adrift in the strong current, he bobbed along with his head just above the surface. The dock creaked and moaned under the weight of escaping passengers who hurried away from what had been their cramped home for more than a month. Weeks breathing clean salt air had been replaced by the pungent smells of fish, smoke, and tar. Rising far above the dimly lit docks, the city’s lights appeared as brighter points in a starlit world.

Hadrian followed four dark-skinned Calian men hauling crates packed with colorful birds, which squawked and rattled their cages. Behind him walked a poorly dressed man and woman. The man carried
two
bags, one over a shoulder and the other tucked under an arm. Apparently no one was interested in
their
belongings. Hadrian realized he should have worn something else. His eastern attire was not only uselessly thin, but also in a land of leather and wool, the bleached white linen thawb and the gold-trimmed cloak screamed
wealth
.

“Here! Over here!” The barely distinguishable voice was one more sound in the maelstrom of shouts, wagon wheels, bells, and whistles. “This way. Yes, you, come. Come!”

Reaching the end of the ramp and clearing most of the congestion, Hadrian spotted an adolescent boy. Dressed in tattered clothes, he waited beneath the fiery glow of a swaying lantern. The wiry youth held Hadrian’s bag and beamed an enormous smile. “Yes, yes, you there. Please come. Right over here,” he called, waving with his free hand.

“That’s my bag!” Hadrian shouted, struggling to reach him and stymied by the remaining crowd blocking the narrow pier.

“Yes! Yes!” The lad grinned wider, his eyes bright with enthusiasm. “You are very lucky I took it from you or someone would have surely stolen it.”

“
You
stole it!”

“No. No. Not at all. I have been faithfully protecting your most valued property.” The youth straightened his willowy back such that Hadrian thought he might salute. “Someone like you should not be carrying your own bag.”

Hadrian squeezed around three women who’d paused to comfort a crying child, only to be halted by an elderly man dragging an incredibly large trunk. The old guy, wraith thin with bright white hair, blocked the narrow isthmus already cluttered by the mountain of bags being recklessly thrown to the pier from the ship.

“What do you
mean someone like me
?” Hadrian shouted over the trunk as the old man struggled in front of him.

“You are a great knight, yes?”

“No I’m not.”

The boy pointed at him. “You must be. Look how big you are and you carry swords – three swords. And that one on your back is huge. Only a knight carries such things.”

Hadrian sighed when the old man’s trunk became wedged in the gap between the decking and the ramp. He reached down and lifted it free, receiving several vows of gratitude in an unfamiliar language.

“See,” the boy said, “only a knight would help a stranger in need like that.”

More bags crashed down on the pile beside him. One tumbled off, rolling into the harbor’s dark water with a
plunk!
Hadrian pressed forward, both to avoid being hit from above and to retrieve his stolen property. “I’m not a knight. Now give me back my bag.”

“I will carry it for you. My name is Pickles, but we must be going. Quickly now.” The boy hugged Hadrian’s bag and trotted off on dirty bare feet.

“Hey!”

“Quickly, quickly! We should not linger here.”

“What’s the rush? What are you talking about? And come back here with my bag!”

“You are very lucky to have me. I am an excellent guide. Anything you want, I know where to look. With me you can get the best of everything and all for the least amounts.”

Hadrian finally caught up and grabbed his bag. He pulled and got the boy with it, his arms still tightly wrapped around the canvas.

“Ha! See?” The boy grinned. “No one is pulling your bag out of
my
hands!”

“Listen” – Hadrian took a moment to catch his breath – “I don’t need a guide. I’m not staying here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Up north. Way up north. A place called Sheridan.”

“Ah! The university.”

This surprised Hadrian. Pickles didn’t look like the worldly type. The kid resembled an abandoned dog. The kind that might have once worn a collar but now possessed only fleas, visible ribs, and an overdeveloped sense for survival.

“You are studying to be a scholar? I should have known. My apologies for any insult. You are most smart – so, of course, you will make a great scholar. You should not tip me for making such a mistake. But that is even better. I know just where we must go. There is a barge that travels up the Bernum River. Yes, the barge will be perfect and one leaves tonight. There will not be another for days, and you do not want to stay in an awful city like this. We will be in Sheridan in no time.”

“We?” Hadrian smirked.

“You will want me with you, yes? I am not just familiar with Vernes. I am an expert on all of Avryn – I have travelled far. I can help you, a steward who can see to your needs and watch your belongings to keep them safe from thieves while you study. A job I am most good at, yes?”

“I’m not a student, not going to be one either. Just visiting someone, and I don’t need a steward.”

“Of course you do not need a steward – if you are not going to be a scholar – but as the son of a noble lord just back from the east, you definitely need a houseboy, and I will make a fine houseboy. I will make sure your chamber pot is always emptied, your fire well stoked in winter, and fan you in the summer to keep the flies away.”

“Pickles,” Hadrian said firmly. “I’m not a lord’s son, and I don’t need a servant. I —” He stopped after noticing the boy’s attention had been drawn away, and his gleeful expression turned fearful. “What’s wrong?”

“I told you we needed to hurry. We need to get away from the dock right now!”

Hadrian turned to see men with clubs marching up the pier, their heavy feet causing the dock to bounce.

“Press-gang,” Pickles said. “They are always near when ships come in. Newcomers like you can get caught and wake up in the belly of a ship already at sea. Oh no!” Pickles gasped as one spotted them.

After a quick whistle and shoulder tap, four men headed their way. Pickles flinched. The boy’s legs flexed, his weight shifting as if to bolt, but he looked at Hadrian, bit his lip, and didn’t move.

The clubmen charged but slowed and came to a stop after spotting Hadrian’s swords. The four could have been brothers. Each had almost-beards, oily hair, sunbaked skin, and angry faces. The expression must have been popular, as it left permanent creases in their brows.

They studied him for a second, puzzled. Then the foremost thug, wearing a stained tunic with one torn sleeve, asked, “You a knight?”

“No, I’m not a knight.” Hadrian rolled his eyes.

Another laughed and gave the one with the torn sleeve a rough shove. “Daft fool – he’s not much older than the boy next to him.”

“Don’t bleedin’ shove me on this slimy dock, ya stupid sod.” The man looked back at Hadrian. “He’s not that young.”

“It’s possible,” one of the others said. “Kings do stupid things. Heard one knighted his dog once. Sir Spot they called him.”

The four laughed. Hadrian was tempted to join them, but he was sobered by the terrified look on Pickles’s face.

The one with the torn sleeve took a step closer. “He’s got to be at least a squire. Look at all that steel, for Maribor’s sake. Where’s yer master, boy? He around?”

“I’m not a squire either,” Hadrian replied.

“No? What’s with all the steel, then?”

“None of your business.”

The men laughed. “Oh, you’re a tough one, are ya?”

They spread out, taking firmer holds on their sticks. One had a strap of leather run through a hole in the handle and wrapped around his wrist.
Probably figured that was a good idea
, Hadrian thought.

“You better leave us alone,” Pickles said, voice wavering. “Do you not know who this is?” He pointed at Hadrian. “He is a famous swordsman – a born killer.”

Laughter. “Is that so?” the nearest said, and paused to spit between yellow teeth.

“Oh yes!” Pickles insisted. “He’s vicious – an animal – and very touchy, very dangerous.”

“A young colt like him, eh?” The man gazed at Hadrian and pushed out his lips in judgment. “Big enough – I’ll grant ya that – but it looks to me like he still has his mother’s milk dripping down his chin.” He focused on Pickles. “And
you’re
no vicious killer, are ya, little lad? You’re the dirty alley rat I saw yesterday under the alehouse boardwalks trying to catch crumbs. You, my boy, are about to embark on a new career at sea. Best thing for ya really. You’ll get food and learn to work – work real hard. It’ll make a man out of ya.”

Pickles tried to dodge, but the thug grabbed him by the hair.

“Let him go,” Hadrian said.

“How did ya put it?” The guy holding Pickles chuckled. “
None of your business
?”

“He’s my squire,” Hadrian declared.

The men laughed again. “You said you ain’t a knight, remember?”

“He works for me – that’s good enough.”

“No it ain’t, ’cause this one works for the maritime industry now.” He threw a muscled arm around Pickles’s neck and bent the boy over as another moved behind with a length of rope pulled from his belt.

“I said, let him go.” Hadrian raised his voice.

“Hey!” the man with the torn sleeve barked. “Don’t give us no orders, boy. We ain’t taking you, ’cause you’re somebody’s property, someone who has you hauling three swords, someone who might miss you. That’s problems we don’t need, see? But don’t push it. Push it and we’ll break bones. Push us more and we’ll drop you in a boat anyway. Push us too far, and you won’t even get a boat.”

“I really hate people like you,” Hadrian said, shaking his head. “I just got here. I was at sea for a month –
a month
! That’s how long I’ve traveled to get away from this kind of thing.” He shook his head in disgust. “And here you are – you too.” Hadrian pointed at Pickles as they worked at tying the boy’s wrists behind his back. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t ask for a guide, or a steward, or a houseboy. I was just fine on my own. But no, you had to take my bag and be so good-humored about everything. Worst of all, you didn’t run. Maybe you’re stupid – I don’t know. But I can’t help thinking you stuck around to help me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job.” Pickles looked up at him with sad eyes.

Hadrian sighed. “Damn it. There you go again.” He looked back at the clubmen, already knowing how it would turn out – how it always turned out – but he’d to try anyway. “Look, I’m not a knight. I’m not a squire either, but these swords are mine, and while Pickles thought he was bluffing, I —”

“Oh, just shut up.” The one with the torn sleeve took a step and thrust his club to shove Hadrian. On the slippery pier it was easy for Hadrian to put him off balance. He caught the man’s arm, twisted the wrist and elbow around, and snapped the bone. The crack sounded like a walnut opening. He gave the screaming clubman a shove, which was followed by a splash as he went into the harbor.

Hadrian could have drawn his swords then – almost did out of reflex – but he’d promised himself things would be different. Besides, he stole the man’s club before sending him over the side, a solid bit of hickory about an inch in diameter and a little longer than a foot. The grip had been polished smooth from years of use, the other end stained brown from blood that seeped into the wood grain.

The remaining men gave up trying to tie Pickles, but one continued to hold him in a headlock while the other two rushed Hadrian. He read their feet, noting their weight and momentum. Dodging his first attacker’s swing, Hadrian tripped the second and struck him in the back of the head as he went down. The sound of club on skull made a hollow thud like slapping a pumpkin, and when the guy hit the deck, he stayed there. The other swung at him again. Hadrian parried with the hickory stick, striking the man’s fingers. The man cried out and lost his grip, the club left dangling from the leather strap around his wrist. Hadrian grabbed the weapon, twisted it tight, bent the man’s arm back, and pulled hard. The bone didn’t break, but the shoulder popped. The man’s quivering legs signaled the fight had left him, and Hadrian sent him over the side to join his friend.