Chapter 38
A Dread Tide Rising by Walt Shuler
It’s Monday, and I’m late!
Previously: Kye and Molly managed to get ashore after their ship sank.
Currently: The plot thickens for Mac, Gorm, and Wynne.
A Dread Tide Rising is a serialized, pulp-flavored, epic fantasy novel that 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.
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Chapter 38
Wind off the harbor ruffled the curtains.
“We don’t have time for a gods-damned state dinner,” Mac groused. He held still while Gorm adjusted his collar and then rearranged his jacket. The sunset-lit harbor was visible through the open double doors that led out onto a small balcony. Eric Arbassis had given the three of them rooms in the guest wing for the duration of their stay. Mac fervently hoped it was a short one.
“Do we have something better to do?” Gorm asked.
“Of course! We need to be doing something. We need to move. The shape changers aren’t sitting on their duffs, you can bet that.” Mac glanced down at the borrowed finery. It fit him well enough, he had to admit. He would have chosen something other than black, but he remembered something about beggars and choosers and kept his mouth shut.
“Let me put it another way,” Gorm said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Is there something else we could be doing right now? Do you see any way out of tonight’s event?”
Mac sighed. “No, I suppose not, but it galls me. There’s killers about, might be right here on this very rock, and all Arbassis can think to do is throw a damn dinner party.”
“It’s more than that, as I think you’re aware.”
Mac caught the slight edge in his friend’s voice. Gorm’s patience was wearing thin. As well it should be, he thought. This mess was enough to make anyone want to punch someone, even a Path Walker.
“Right. Sorry, Gorm. This whole mess doesn’t sit well.”
“We’ll get through it, Mac. And on the other side, maybe we’ll find a clue or two about what these bastards want or where they come from.”
Mac nodded. “Big questions. But we need those answers.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Lord Arbassis requests your presence for the evening meal,” a man’s voice called from the other side.
“Won’t be a moment,” Gorm replied, giving Mac a hard look. “We need to go. Arbassis…”
“We’re going,” Mac cut him off with a smile, sliding a dagger up the sleeve of his borrowed coat. “Wouldn’t want to keep our host waiting. Let’s go enjoy an evening of hobnobbing and ass-kissing.”
They left the room Lord Arbassis had set aside for the two of them and made their way toward the dining hall. Another door opened as they neared, and Wynne emerged, resplendent in a silver gown and hairnet. Gorm stopped in his tracks, mouth agape. When he recovered, he bowed deeply to her, the sleeves of his borrowed robe brushing the stone floor.
“My lady,” he said when he rose, voice full of deep emotion. Wynne blushed a deep crimson, and her smile threatened to take in her entire face. Gorm took her hand and walked her up the hall, letting Mac bring up the rear. He smiled quietly at their joy.
The banquet hall was crammed to overflowing with lords and ladies in their finery. Rather than a traditional hall, the room was arranged in tiers. Arbassis, his immediate family, and closest advisors sat on the highest tier, where those below could see them. Lesser nobles and farther-flung members of the family occupied the second tier, peppered here and there with a handful of the wealthiest merchants. The lowest tier was reserved for common folk from across the island. Mac recalled a visit to Starholt with his father years ago. He had been curious about how they chose the people who sat on the bottom tier.
“Arbassis is a fair man,” his father had told him. “Maybe the fairest to lead a Great House. He believes everyone should have the chance to sit at table with their lord at some point. They have a lottery for every banquet. There’s a five-year rule, too, to make sure that seats at the table don’t go to the same people year after year.”
The tables on the lower tier were as jam-packed as during his previous visit. Smiling faces mingled with nervous glances, but all seemed happy to be there. And who wouldn’t? This was more food than most of them would see in a week. Mac spotted one or two people taking advantage of Arbassis’ largesse and stuffing food into their pockets or up voluminous sleeves. He did not blame them and would have done the same if the situation were reversed.
An attendant guided Mac, Gorm, and Wynne to their appointed seats. Arbassis had placed them on the second tier toward the end by arrangement. It gave them a good view of all three tiers, the better to observe interactions and look for suspicious characters. A “working dinner,” Arbassis had called it. Mac was still unsure what they were supposed to be watching for, but since the three of them were the only ones present with any experience dealing with shape changers, they had drawn the short straws.
Mac took his place between two of the House’s minor dignitaries. Elda Taré was an aging swordsman, his lithe form slowly going to fat. Thomas Bergen, on the other hand, dwarfed his chair. Younger than Taré by two decades, he was still in the prime of his life. Bergen’s face registered surprise when Mac was seated next to him, but he quickly masked it. Taré pretended not to notice him. The reactions told him little. Taré’s insistence on ignoring him could mean anything, but Bergen’s surprise said he was wondering what he had done to offend his lord sufficiently to be seated next to someone of Mac’s nonexistent standing.
The attendant seated Gorm and Wynne higher up the table, in between Lady Jessa Winter and a merchant whom Mac could not immediately place. He remembered most of the high-born from his handful of visits with his father and brother, but the merchant class changed so rapidly that there were always new faces. The look of relief on Lady Winter’s face told him Arbassis had likely made that seating choice to spare her the discomfort of the merchant’s presence. He certainly looked annoyed to find Gorm’s hulking form beside him rather than the slender Lady Winter.
Dinner commenced, and it was as expansive as Mac recalled. “Never let it be said that House Arbassis doesn’t know how to set a table,” he muttered to himself, stuffing dark buttered bread into his mouth. He noticed that while the meal was vast and varied, it was not particularly exotic. Most of it came from the farms and waters around Starholt, supplied by many of the commoners now sitting at the table. The point was lost on no one. Arbassis was telling them that he ate what they ate. They might live different lives, but they shared commonalities. Mac watched the tension drain from shoulders and faces. It was familiar. They were comfortable.
“He knows his people, that’s certain,” he said to himself.
“That he does,” Thomas Bergen agreed. Mac started a little. He had not meant to speak aloud. He glanced at Bergen, who gave him a half-smile.
“How have you been, Macland? It’s been a long time since your last visit.”
“Well enough, Thomas,” Mac replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. He had nothing personal against Bergen, no more so than against any other lordling, he supposed. He was not a bad sort, from what Mac could remember. “And you?” He struggled for a moment. “How is Ciara?” he asked, finally remembering Bergen’s wife.
A dark look passed over Bergen’s face. “We lost her a year ago to the fever.”
Damn, Mac cursed himself. There was no way he could have known, but that did not lessen the sting. She had been a kind woman, Mac remembered, one of the few ladies of the court more interested in the welfare of the people than her own standing. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said.
Bergen shook his head, more to clear it than in negation of Mac’s apology. “It’s been a dark time, I can tell you. The older children deal with it as well as they can, but little Sarah still asks when Mother is coming home.” Bergen sighed and seemed to deflate.
“It’s hard for the youngsters,” Mac said lamely, unsure what else to add to the conversation. Bergen nodded but said nothing, lost in memories, Mac supposed.
“How long has it been, Macland?” another voice asked. It was Taré, his narrow, bearded face set in a frown, sea glass green eyes curiously intent.
Mac shrugged. “Five years, give or take?” he lied. He saw Bergen react and prayed to Mali that the big man would let it lie.
“Not so long,” Taré observed. “Not for a northerner like you.”
“Aye, not so long,” Mac agreed. It was curious, he thought. He had never had many dealings with Taré during their visits, nor had his father, but the swordsman had been around. He should know it had been close to fifteen years since a Toth had set foot within Starholt. Mac felt his hackles rise. A shapeshifter? How had the man recognized Mac in that case? It seemed too convenient that Mac had been seated right next to his quarry. A thrill ran down his spine. Or was he the hunted? Perhaps the enemy had changed the game.
Another possibility occurred to him. He had not chosen where he sat but had assumed Lord Arbassis’ master of ceremonies was filling empty seats. What if there was something more to it? Arbassis was both crafty and observant. Mac’s news of the shapeshifter threat had no doubt shed light on existing issues within his court. Mac glanced up to the highest tier where Arbassis sat. Eric saw him looking and cocked an eyebrow, before raising his glass in Mac’s direction.
“Well, that answers that,” Mac muttered. Arbassis had placed him here intentionally, no doubt because of some inconsistencies in Taré’s behavior of late. Mac put on his most unctuous smile and turned back to the erstwhile swordsman.
“How have you been, Elda? We should catch up; it’s been far too long. I always enjoyed our chats.” His chair scraped loudly across the floor as he scooted it closer to the other man. Taré’s eyes widened momentarily, but then his mask of impassivity dropped back into place.
“Well enough, well enough.” He glanced toward Bergen, who was watching the proceedings curiously. “No traumatic deaths to weather when you’re a lifelong bachelor.”
“One of the perks, I suppose?” Mac asked.
Taré sipped his wine. “Yes, you could say that.”
“The last time I was here, you were telling me about a shipping concern you had going out of Rakka. How did that pan out?” Mac asked, ad-libbing. He could not remember ever having said a word to the man, although the intervening decade and a half could have blunted his memory. Bergen’s continued confusion told him he was not too far off the mark, even so.
“Shipping concern?” Taré asked, more to himself than anyone else. “My apologies, Macland. It’s been a few years, and I have several such business arrangements. Do you remember any of the specifics?”
Mac shrugged. “Not really. As you say, it’s been a while since we spoke of it. At the time, you seemed to think it would deliver a pretty hefty return on a minimum investment.”
Taré smiled as the conversation moved to more comfortable ground. “Well, I’m not one to brag, but I like to think that most of my concerns offer substantial rewards. The trick is sifting the winners from the also-rans.” His gaze strayed to Bergen, mouth twisting in a half-sneer. Bergen had lost interest in listening to their conversation and sat with his head slightly bowed, absently swirling the ale in his mug. Mac hated Taré in that moment. Shapeshifter or no, the man was an ass.
“You’ll have to tell me more about your opportunities,” Mac said. His dislike for the man coiled in his gut like fire. Mac was unsure which would be worse, spending more time with Taré or taking a winter dip in the harbor.
Taré’s look was speculative, a wolf sizing up the sheep before closing in for the kill. “When do you depart? I have some time tomorrow afternoon. I could explain what’s available, maybe help you start rebuilding House Toth’s fortunes?”
Mac forced a smile. “We’re not due to leave for at least a couple of days. I think tomorrow afternoon will work well. Where do you want to meet?”
Taré thought for a moment. “There’s a tavern just south of Starholt, the Plow and Star. Do you know it?”
Mac shook his head. “No, but I’m sure I can find it.”
“Good,” Taré said. “Meet me there an hour before sundown. We’ll discuss your fortunes and how I might be able to change them.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Mac replied. He glanced over at Bergen, but the man was no longer there. Mac quickly scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of him.
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully. Taré regaled Mac with improbable tales of wealth won through luck and shrewd business dealings while Mac kept his eyes open for anyone else acting suspiciously. His new neighbor certainly seemed to fit the bill, but Mac was not satisfied. Taré was an opportunist at heart. He may have known Mac and his father had visited Starholt in the past, but not known when. It was strange that he did not correlate Mac’s absence with the destruction of House Toth, but his comment about rebuilding the house’s fortunes meant that he was certainly aware of Toth’s fall from grace. Maybe I’m wrong about him, Mac thought. Still, he would keep a close eye on the man and take the appropriate precautions tomorrow.
The evening wore on, and Mac stifled a yawn. Taré had long since left, pleading an early morning with business partners at the dock, but he had reminded Mac again about their rendezvous at the Plow and Star. Despite that, Mac did not have a good feel for the man.
Diners began drifting away from the tables in larger and larger numbers, heading for drinking halls or the comforts of their beds. Impromptu games of dice were being played here and there. In one corner, a juggler kept mugs and plates aloft, much to the amusement of those around him. Mac took the opportunity to make himself scarce.
He glanced toward Gorm and Wynne. Gorm was head down in conversation with the merchant who had been eyeing Lady Winter, but Wynne caught his eye. Mac gestured in the general direction of their rooms with a nod of his head, and Wynne nodded her understanding. With most people leaving, there would be little opportunity to ferret out any shape changers, and he was ready for bed.
The press thinned quickly the farther from the dining hall Mac got. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was easier to disappear with lots of folks about, but it was hard to watch for threats. A few more moments saw him to his chamber door. Mac glanced around, saw no one, and frowned. He had hoped Gorm and Wynne would have been able to get away. It would be nice to compare notes. He shrugged; there was always tomorrow. Mac pushed through the door into his chamber. Something brought him up short as the door shut behind him.
Unsure what was out of place, Mac scanned the room. Candles flickered here and there, and a servant had been in to lay and set the fire to ward off winter’s chill. Then it came again, the tang of sea salt in the air. As if in echo, someone stepped from the shadows near one of the windows. Mac stared in momentary confusion.
“Bergen? What are you…” he began, then stopped. He laughed as realization dawned. “You’re the damned shape changer, not Taré.”
Not-Bergen’s grin was wolfish. “I have to give it to you, Macland. You get there eventually. Might need to be led by the hand from time to time, but you do get there.”
“What do you want?” Mac asked as he angled toward an oak table. Not-Bergen was dressed as he had been at the feast, in fashionable but serviceable clothing. The only notable difference was that he now wore a short sword belted to his waist. He drew it with ease and gestured for Mac to move away from the door.
“Information is all,” Not-Bergen said, the lupine smile never faltering.
Mac kept moving, carefully keeping his hands visible. He could feel the reassuring weight of the dagger blade in his sleeve, but the other man’s weapon gave him the advantage of reach. Mac would have to get inside his guard to use the dagger effectively. He took another couple of steps toward the table.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Not-Bergen asked. He gestured with the tip of his sword toward a chair by the fireplace. “Come, Macland, have a seat. I think we have a lot to talk about.”
Mac grinned affably. “Sure, why don’t we talk?” Mac had no desire to sit in the chair, but the sword blade convinced him to at least humor his opponent. Perhaps he could find a way to work this to his advantage.
“You’ve got a funny way of asking to parley,” he said, walking slowly toward the chair. “Maybe tell me what it is you hope to learn.”
“Sit down first,” Not-Bergen ordered.
Mac reached the chair and slowly lowered himself into it. “Fine. There, I’m sitting.”
Not-Bergen stepped in front of Mac, sword gripped casually, but years of familiarity told Mac the man could bring it to bear lightning-fast should the need arise. He was determined not to let it until it was on his terms.
“Good, I think we’ll get along well,” the man said. “As long as you play nice, I’ll play nice.”
Mac raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Tell me where the girl is,” Not-Bergen said. “Tell me where she is, and I’ll let you walk out of here.”
Mac’s mind went blank for a moment. Was he talking about Wynne? And then he remembered the false Faceless in Rakka. He meant Kye.
“What girl?” he asked, playing dumb.
Not-Bergen sighed. “It doesn’t have to go this way, you know. You could simply give me the information we need. You’ll find that we’re not ungrateful.”
“Not ungrateful? Like that merchant on the way to Scylline’s Cross, Declan? He died without even knowing he’d been betrayed.”
The other man shook his head. “That was unfortunate but necessary.”
Mac grunted. “I’m sure that something necessary will happen to me shortly after I spill my guts to you. Maybe a tumble down the stairs, or an accidental slip off a balcony?”
“Fine, let me take another tack then, one you might be more amenable to,” Not-Bergen said, the smile slipping from his face like fat melting in the fire. “Tell me where the girl is, and I won’t kill you. Don’t tell me where she is, and I’ll still find out what I need to know, but you won’t be around to worry about it. Your friends, on the other hand, might be a little surprised once we’re all safely back aboard Sparrowhawk.”
Mac glared, and Not-Bergen laughed. “I see you take my meaning. Now, where’s the girl?”
“What girl?” Mac asked again, refusing to give an inch.
Not-Bergen reached forward and slapped Mac blandly across the face. “Her name is Kye,” he said. “She’s part of the Faceless and a hanger-on with your little group of mercenaries. A parasite, nothing more. Give her up.”
Mac spat, and it hit Not-Bergen square in the face. The man slowly wiped the spittle away without batting an eye.
“Where is the girl?” he asked again.
“What do you want with her?” Mac countered.
That stopped Not-Bergen. His brows drew down for an instant in confusion. “You truly don’t know?”
“To be honest, I thought you all were after me this whole time,” Mac admitted.
Not-Bergen laughed. “That’s ego for you. We care not a whit for you or your Talon. In the end, you’re all flotsam.”
“So, what is it about Kye?”
The other man shook his head. “It would mean nothing to you.”
“What, I’m a dead man, but I can’t know?”
“No, but you’re out of time. If you won’t tell me, I’ll get the information I need the other way.” Not-Bergen thrust his sword forward, which was exactly what Mac wanted.
Before his attacker’s blade could pierce his chest, Mac flung himself sideways and down, ending the movement in a crouch, with his left leg extended and his right arm positioned perfectly. He pulled the dagger hidden in his sleeve and attacked. Not-Bergen realized what was happening in time to partially deflect Mac’s blow, and the thrust that should have taken him in the belly took him in the side, instead. Blood blossomed against his shirt, and he inhaled sharply but did not cry out.
Mac snatched back his dagger and prepared for another strike. Time was of the essence. His opponent had the longer weapon, and reach counted for a lot in close-quarters combat. Seeing an opportunity, Mac used his crouch to his advantage and launched himself off his back foot in a low attack that drove Not-Bergen backward. He collided with the fireplace, elbow catching on the stone mantlepiece. The attacker’s sword clanged to the floor from suddenly nerveless fingers. A knock at the door made both men pause. The handle rattled, but the door was locked tight.
“Gorm, help!” Mac shouted.
“I’m coming!” Gorm called, pounding on the door again. A split second later, there came a tremendous thud. Gorm was going to break the door down by brute force.
Mac glanced toward the door and then back toward his attacker. It was his turn to grin. “Time’s definitely up, but I think it’s yours, not mine.”
Not-Bergen shot him a venomous glare, one hand staunching the flow of blood from his side. Mac took advantage of the man’s distraction to launch another attack. The shapeshifter was fast, blocking Mac’s attacks with his forearms while angling to recover his dropped sword. Mac could not afford to let that happen. He managed to kick the sword, sending it clattering toward the center of the room, away from his attacker’s groping hand.
“Bastard,” the shapeshifter grunted.
Another massive thud shook the door in its frame. Not-Bergen cast around desperately, looking for a weapon closer to hand or an escape route.
“This doesn’t have to end with either of us dead, you know,” Mac said, although the bloodied dagger in his hand said otherwise.
The shapeshifter must have gotten the joke because he laughed. “This could only ever end one way, you know that.”
The door splintered, but the latch held, for the moment. The shape changer’s eyes shone fever-bright, and hectic spots of color showed on his cheeks. Red stained the floor all around him. Starting to run a little low on blood, Mac thought. He wondered how long the man could stay on his feet.
Another crash echoed through the room, and the door sagged. Mac could make out Gorm’s form through the widening gap between the frame and the door itself. He turned back to the shapeshifter just in time for the man to slam open the double doors and dash onto the balcony. In a breath, he had disappeared over the white stone balustrade. He rushed to the railing and saw his quarry picking himself up off the lawn below.
“Mac, are you hurt?” Gorm called, smashing the door the rest of the way open. Wynne’s face showed behind Gorm, pale and worried.
“I’m fine, but we need to hurry. Bastard shapeshifter was lying in wait. I wounded him, but he’s getting away! Wynne, let Arbassis know what’s going on.” Without waiting for a reply or confirmation, Mac leaped from the balustrade and plummeted ten feet to the ground below. He landed with an audible grunt but was up and moving within a breath. Gorm landed not five feet away, his staff and Mac’s sword in hand. He tossed Mac his blade.
Mac took a moment to buckle the sword on and to orient himself, then bent and touched the grass, pulling back bloodied fingertips. “That way,” he said, nodding toward the harbor.
“Right, let’s go,” Gorm said and led the way into the night.
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There was so much tension in this. I really enjoyed the dinner scene and trying to figure out who was who. Also Wynne and Thistlegorm 💔