Yemelyan grunted. “You’re just tired.”
Well, that was true enough, but a cloud of guilt hung in the air. “I think it was me,” Guyen said. “I think I destroyed the ship.”
Yemelyan laughed. “All right, nut job. You destroyed the ship. Let’s go.”
“I’m serious. The mast was going to hit me, then it didn’t. Time slowed down. I did something.”
“What the fuck are you on about? Ships break in storms. That’s all there is to it.”
That might have been a reasonable argument if not for all the other things that had broken these past few weeks. There’d been that mug. He’d picked it up and it had shattered in his hand. And a net he’d been attempting to mend—part of it had turned to dust in front of his eyes. He’d only touched it.
Yemelyan slapped him on the arm. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We need to get going.” Mother and Father were already fading into the night.
“I think I may have been cursed.”
“Cursed with shit for brains, you mean. Come on, I’m cold.”
“I’d give you my coat.”
“I know.”
Unfortunately, the leather coat was gone now, fish food like the books. It had been too hot to wear in the hold so Guyen had tucked it under a bench. Now it lay at the bottom of the Haffa Straits along with all their other possessions.
They set off again. A herd of sand crabs the size of wolves scuttled across their path, eyes fiery red, bigger than any in Krell. Supposedly, they were blind out of water, but they were still dangerous. They waited for them to pass as Mother and Father disappeared, the beach cornering a jagged outcrop.
Out to sea, there was no sign of the naval frigate, the only thing of interest bobbing jetsam. The remains of their ship? Guyen wandered down to the water’s edge to get a better look—splintered crates and pieces of rope, discarded clothes, even a barrel. A ray of moonlight caught something more interesting, something worth getting wetter for. He waded into the shallows, bracing himself against the powerful waves.
Yemelyan stared. “What are you doing? I’m not coming in after you if you get swept away.”
He took another step, almost losing his footing, and lunged for his target—a trunk. It was familiar, the embossed initials RR glinting in the moonlight. It had belonged to Ruthris, the dead magician. He’d have no use for it now. Grabbing the rope handle, he pulled it from the water.
Yemelyan took the other side and they dragged it up the beach. “Wonder what’s in it?” he said.
Who knew? It was locked. Toulesh hovered near the water’s edge, appearing to skim stones with Rikesh. Guyen summoned him. He swept over, studied the trunk for a moment, then poked his head inside.
Well?
Of course, the simulacrum wasn’t about to impart anything useful, although it felt like something of value lay within.
“Let’s carry it,” Guyen said. “I’m sure there’s something worth salvaging.” This wasn’t theft, the magician had no family, that had been clear from his stories. But he’d not been short of money, the silver coin Guyen had won from him proved that. Perhaps he’d hoarded the rest of his fortune in here.
They caught up with their parents and walked through the night, keeping well clear of the sand wraiths. Dawn broke, and as the sun beamed light but hardly heat into the world, the wraiths were replaced by itchy black mites. After a while, the beach narrowed to rocks, so they cut inland and found a road. They’d been walking for a couple of hours when a wagon and riders drew up behind them. A local patrol. There was nowhere to run.
The captain rode up alongside. “Where have you people come from?” he barked.
“Good morning to you, sir,” Father said. “We travel from Attica, visiting family in Tal Maran.”
“In that case, you’ll have papers.” The Sendali glared, his men’s hands bristling on their weapons.
Globes! Would they be arrested now? It had all been for nothing.
“Of course,” Father said. He pulled his shirt up, revealing a watertight bladder pouch strapped around his girth. That had been some foresight. He withdrew a document and handed it to the captain—one of the papers he’d obtained before they’d left, a right to remain in Sendal. How he’d come by it was a mystery, although Mother was a Sendali citizen so it was probably something to do with that. You didn’t ask Father too many questions.
The captain read it then looked up, expression suspicious. “We’ll take you into town,” he said. “Make sure you get there safely, eh?” He nodded at the wagon. This didn’t seem a refutable offer, so they climbed aboard. As Guyen pulled himself up, a sneering cadet with a flick of blond hair offered a steadying hand. He ignored him, pushing the trunk on, sitting on top of it.
The cadet glared, blue eyes frosty. “That’s a nice piece of furniture,” he said. “Where did you steal it from?” The wagon rolled and Yemelyan clattered into him, knocking him into another patroller.
“Watch it, Rossi,” the other patroller said.
The cadet scowled at Yemelyan. Rikesh took a swipe, but his vaporous hand passed clean through the scrag. Yemelyan didn’t look up, he was less aware of his simulacrum these days.
The journey flew by in a daze, Guyen staring from the back of the wagon, ignoring the preening, blond cadet. They trundled along lanes bordered by fields of purple heather, passing strange animals, birds and trees, until around mid-morning they crossed a vast suspension bridge, a remarkable feat of engineering. It spanned two cliffs, a wide river merging with an estuary hundreds of feet below. They rolled down a winding lane on the other side and Tal Maran revealed itself, a two-drucket kind of town, its centre rundown, everything focussed on the port and shipyard at the foot of the east cliff.
The patrol dropped them off at the prefecture and a rotund guard showed them to a cell.
“You’ll be free to go once we’ve checked your papers,” he said. “Until then, make yourselves comfortable.” He lumbered off, chuckling to himself.
Guyen curled up in the corner. Sleep and dreams of strange lights in the sky came easily.
4
The Office of Assignment
It was late afternoon when the tired Yorkov family knocked on Zial’s door. He shared a tiny cottage with his wife and three daughters in the immigrants’ quarter, up on the West Cliff—a long walk from the prefecture. Your typical Krellen, heavyset with a bushy black beard, the stink of fish, tabac smoke and poteen clung to him like a coat. He embraced Father and ushered them inside.
Introductions made, his wife, Nazhedra, set to work preparing tea and muffins, as the girls stared wide-eyed at the new arrivals. The atmosphere was tense, and Guyen had only the energy to sit, smiling politely, craving sleep. After the food, Father set about retelling their horrifying journey and bare survival. The mood turned sombre as the account of the disaster unfolded, and the faces of the dead on the beach flitted through Guyen’s mind like ghouls.
“Something happened with the weather,” Yemelyan said. “You should have seen it, red lightning, hot rain, it was crazy.”
“We know,” Zial said. “We saw it too.”