Welcome to another chapter of A Dread Tide Rising!
Previously: The Talon reached Rom. Mac went to speak to Holua, while Gorm and Kye visited the Widow Helmsworth.
Currently: Mac reaches Holua’s ancestral home and is faced with the challenge of how to get in without announcing himself.
A Dread Tide Rising is a serialized, pulp-flavored, epic fantasy novel set in the world of Thalrassa. It follows the Talon, a group of mercenaries, thieves, and smugglers, as they come face-to-face with an ancient enemy intent on the destruction of the Rakkian Empire.
New to ADTR? Catch up on all the chapters here. You can learn more about the members of the Talon here and explore Thalrassa-related lore here. The map of Thalrassa can be found here.
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Chapter 13
Stones clattered, skittering down a sheer rock face.
Mac tripped on a rock and barely caught himself. “That would be a messy way to die,” he muttered, gaze locked to the bottom of the gorge he had almost tumbled into. A glance forward showed him more of the same. The road ahead wound steadily upward, growing steeper and more precarious. There was nothing for it but to press onward.
Celize was famous for two things: the quality of its limestone and the number of goatherds. No shame to the goatherds, stone was what had built the island’s fame. And the best stone of all came from the quarries of House Coët on the far side. Unfortunately for Mac, reaching House Coët and his meeting with Holua meant traversing mountain roads across the island’s interior.
Mac cursed again. I should have just had Padraig sail around the island, he thought. In addition to its quarries, House Coët also maintained a decent harbor. He had chosen to leave the Talon in Rom on the chance that things went sideways with Holua and Sparrowhawk was blockaded. She and her crew were safer in Rom, he knew. That did nothing to ease the discomfort in his feet and legs, though.
Few used these mountain roads other than fast messengers and the occasional merchant, either too poor or cheap to pay for a sea voyage around the island. It was precisely that unused quality that made Mac want to take this route in the first place. Fewer people meant less chance of running into something unpleasant. That was always a good thing. Except when you might find yourself crushed to death at the bottom of a cliff, he supposed. Sighing, Mac put one boot in front of the other and pressed on.
It took most of the remaining day to make the trek on foot, but several hours of daylight remained. Mac looked down at his destination. Holua’s ancestors had chosen the site well. A deep, narrow bay ensured easy access to the open water and a means of controlling travel into the bay. All along the top of the valley walls stood trebuchets that could rain down jagged rocks or even burning barrels of pitch during an attack. The narrow entrance meant it was easy to blockade, too, should the need arise.
The castle was set back from the water and surrounded by a curtain wall, should raiders make it that far. Over the years, a small city had grown up around the fortification, surrounded by its own wall. All the maps named it Leandering, but the locals simply called it Coët. The mine was the only reason for the fortification, and the fortification was the only reason for the town’s existence, so there was a certain logic to it.
A broad, well-paved road led to the docks, workers carrying stone by the cartload, in baskets, and barrows. Mac watched as workers moved one particularly large stone block using wooden rollers that looked for all the world like entire tree trunks. All that stone flowed down from the mountains to the city, where it was worked, before heading to the docks, where it was moved onto waiting ships and barges for its next destination.
Mac breathed a brief prayer of thanks to Mali that he had not been born a stonecutter or carter, then turned his steps toward the Coët ancestral home. The road he followed forked, with the left hand winding away toward the docks, widening as it went. The other fork took a circuitous route but ultimately ended in an intersection with another road almost in front of Holua’s front gate.
As he walked, Mac studied the situation before him. The hustle and bustle down at the water told him that Holua’s fortunes had not waned. If anything, they had increased, judging by the number of workers around the harbor and the fleet of privately owned ships waiting their turn to be loaded with stone and shipped to the far corners of the Empire. The fortress that hunched on the headland was more castle than family manor, and it looked well-manned to boot. Mac was briefly glad he was here on honest matters. It did not look like a place he’d care to break into unawares, which left him with a question he had yet to answer. How was he going to get inside?
Once upon a time, he would have simply announced himself at the gate. Well, he would have had retainers to do that for him, but that was neither here nor there. Mac’s station had changed, for the worse in the eyes of those like Holua Coët, who put stock in station and wealth. So, the front door was out of the question, which meant looking elsewhere.
A trickle of people traveling the road that led to the outer wall caught his eye. To Mac, it looked like a motley assortment of servants, men-at-arms, and merchants. The usual flotsam that washed up against the door of any noble house on any given day. Mac smiled to himself. He had found his way inside. Then it would only be a matter of finding Holua.
***
A group of four merchants and their attendants made its way through the outer gate, wares piled on the back of several donkeys. Unhappy with the hard pavement, the donkeys brayed loudly, expressing their displeasure. The merchants paid their beasts of burden no mind but continued speaking together loudly, the rolling cadences of their speech hinting at origins in the empire’s southeastern reaches.
The donkey driver did pay attention to the animals and cracked his whip, the sound telling the beasts that their displeasure meant little, and any hesitancy would not be suffered. The donkeys, being donkeys, cared not a whit for the driver’s whip and brayed, balked, and generally behaved as they do. One donkey, perhaps more obstinate than the others, turned completely around and began trying to retrace its steps. In doing so, it somehow managed to collide with another. Their loads, not particularly well secured in the first place, tumbled to the ground with a crash.
The noise startled all the donkeys, which redoubled their braying and added a few kicks for good measure. The merchants set up a howl and immediately tried to rescue their merchandise. The guards from all around rushed in to restore order. In short, chaos ensued. And no one noticed the donkey driver toss down his whip and vanish into the growing crowd.
Once out of view, Mac doffed the clothing, which he’d nicked from one of the merchants in the first place. He looked around, taking stock of his surroundings. The wall was now behind him. The castle itself stood ahead, gray and hulking; a storm cloud made solid. A single great gate pierced the front, through which most visitors entered.
Of course, the main entrance was also heavily guarded. Thankfully, a place like this required hundreds of servants and slaves. Holua would never let his kitchen help and other staff sully his front entry, so there would be at least one other door for those too low-class to enter through the front. Mac set off in search of the servants’ entrance.
It took him very little time to find it. The servants’ entrance was a single doorway located around the north side of the structure. A steady flow of people poured through that portal, and only a single guard stood watch.
As at the main gate, Mac joined the flow of people. When he reached the doorway, he kept his eyes down and tried to look as much like a downtrodden servant as possible. The guard never batted an eye, just motioned him through with the rest.
He stepped through and found himself in a long hallway. Doors opened off it in regular intervals. He had never visited Holua before, so he was unsure which way to go. His gut told him that lordlings being lordlings, Holua would want his quarters well above the puling masses on which he built his fortunes. He’d need to find stairs, then.
“Hey, you!” The words bounced off the stone walls of the corridor. Mac glanced back and saw the guard, disinterest suddenly gone. He was on his feet, hand on sword hilt. One hand was raised in Mac’s direction.
Mac thought fast. He had few options. He could run, but then the guard would raise the alarm, and there would be a chase. Mac’s unfamiliarity with the layout would ensure that it was a short one, too. He could also attack and bring the fight to the guard. Chances were good that he was the better swordsman. If he could put him down quickly, there would be a precious few minutes before someone raised the alarm. Mac could use to find a hiding place, or better yet, somehow get to Holua and make his offer.
“You! Stop right there!” the guard shouted. Mac did not like it, but there was only one way out. Taking a deep breath, he checked that his sword was accessible under the cloak and loosened the blade in the scabbard. Then he waited as the guard asked.
The soldier fast-footed it down the corridor, boot heels clicking on the stone. “Just where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, grabbing a fistful of tunic and putting his face an inch from Mac’s. Then he suddenly let go and pulled back. Confusion was plain on his coarse features.
“Old man, do you have business here?” he asked, voice hesitant.
“Aye, I do at that,” Mac answered, voice high and reedy. He stumbled, leaning on the guard for support. “I’m to clean the lord’s garderobe. Annan said the stench was powerful foul.”
The guard hesitated, and Mac took advantage of that momentary lapse, patting the man’s arm. “I don’t think he’d look kindly on me being late for that.”
“No, I don’t suppose he would,” the guard replied, straightening and plucking Mac’s hand from his uniform like some strange insect. He stepped back, the look of confusion fading, replaced by irritation.
Mac took a stumbling step toward the guard, one hand outstretched as though for aid. “Please, my lord. He’ll whip me if I’m late. I can’t bear another punishment!”
“Get you gone!” the guard growled, shoving Mac away. He turned on his heel and marched back to his post at the door.
Mac turned and hobbled down the corridor once more, one hand touching the stone wall for support. When he judged there was enough distance between him and the guard, he relaxed. His back straightened, and the muscles of his face moved back to their normal position. He grinned. “And Gorm said mummery would never get me anywhere!”
He stalked down the hallway toward his meeting with Holua, one that the island lord did not even know was coming.
Thanks for reading! I’m grateful that you’re here.
All caught up on ADTR? Why not explore something else?
The Longing Blade hints that all might not be what it seems when it comes to Rakka’s emperors.
A Fate Unexpected details how Kye came to be imprisoned in the way station in the first place.
You can also check out my historical fiction work, or read the short story I wrote for Leanne Shawler’s prompt: Fitting for the Thunder God.
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