A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1) (2 page)

CHAPTER THREE

Murder at the Sea Serpent

Consider what we were before the Phrenii came: savage tribes fighting with Groygans to the east, and living nomadic lives in tents. The Phrenii helped us establish Tyrra out of chaos, but what price have we paid? Undoubtedly, we are the most advanced society in the Mapped World, but we can no longer wield the magic of our ancestors. Today, the only remaining evidence of life-light magic is the existence of the elemental Phrenii themselves.

—Andreas, editor of The Horn & Herald, First Hireday, Erin Two, T.Y. 1471

Mid-morning on Farmday, wind began moving in the valley. With no view of the sister cities, Bordas needed someone to climb a tall pine and provide a report. He picked Henri and Draius looked away to hide her smile as the crafty young man balked.

“Obviously, ser, the storm moved out to sea.” Henri glanced upward. “The clouds are moving south now.”

“
Obviously?
I’m not making assumptions. Up the tree, soldier!” Bordas made a crude, upward motion with his hand.

Henri jumped for the lowest branch of the pine. As he climbed, needles, twigs, and colorful oaths filtered down to the ground. Once he reported clear skies breaking over the cities to the south, everyone relaxed.

With Henri back down on the ground, sulkily wiping pitch from his hands, Bordas decided to continue with a normal patrol schedule. That meant they came back to the sister cities at the end of their eight-day rotation—just in time to watch the Phrenii lower the dikes that held back the wrathful Whitewater.

They were caught in a press of crowds at Bridge Square, where four major roads joined at the one bridge that connected the two cities. Draius had to stand in her stirrups to get a clear view of the Whitewater Bridge. It shone as only Tyrran marble could in the afternoon sunlight. Two single-horned creatures, Phrenii, loomed high on either end of the bridge; multi-colored walls of mist swirled and hid the river.

The ringing that accompanied phrenic elemental magic began resonating through the cities. The tones vibrated inside her skull and she squinted as the Phrenii became transparent and elemental, shining with a brilliance that forced her watering eyes closed. When she opened them, all that remained was a bridge crossing a swollen grey river. The Phrenii had shrunk to the size of deer.

This exhibition of power wasn’t common to the crowd that gathered on the Betarr Serasa side of the bridge. Carriages stopped, while both drivers and occupants stared at the spectacle. When the dikes disappeared, a murmur swelled from the crowd. Draius frowned when she heard the vulgar term “unicornis” muttered with foreign inflections; ten years ago there wouldn’t have been so many foreigners in the crowd.

After the Phrenii returned to their normal size, tradeschildren poured out from the crowd. They surrounded the creatures, stroking them, grabbing their manes, even tugging on their tails. Adults stood back as awe battled with other feelings on their faces: longing, shame, and regret. They’d probably forgotten the power of the Phrenii—it was too easy to focus on the discomfort they bring to adults.

Dahni was the phrenic element for water, and the aspect for healing. It stood on the near side of the river and now turned toward its audience. Immediately, adults at the front of the crowd shrank back, drivers started whipping their horses, and onlookers began dissolving away. Draius and other members of the patrol hunched, hoping to avoid drawing attention as faceted green eyes glanced over them. Dahni began to move south along Canal Street with an entourage of children, and they all breathed easier.

Bordas turned around as Draius pulled her horse aside. “Til next time, Serasa-Kolme Draius,” he said, formally dismissing her.

“Meran-Kolme Bordas.” She returned his salute and kept her tone neutral. She hoped it’d be more than three erins before she did another patrol. She swung her leg over Chisel’s hindquarters and slowly slid off the tall chestnut horse. She almost groaned when she hit the muddy ground, the thud of
home
going from her heels up to her teeth. Her leg muscles felt strange, like they were unfamiliar with walking or standing.

Pride, however, kept her posture stiff and tall until the patrol turned to go. No one else in the patrol bid goodbye to her, the only City Guard member. Instead, the six stained and grimy members of the King’s Guard clattered away over the Whitewater Bridge, climbing toward the high shining spires of Betarr Serin.
After an entire patrol together, I’m still common watch to them.
Even to Henri, who had to know by now that she’d seen through his jokes and schemes. Sadly, marriage had improved her sense for detecting deception.

She turned to the streets of Betarr Serasa, the lower city where commerce occurred. It was a mess. The results of the “worst false-spring storms ever recorded,” to quote the passing crier, were broken windows, the smell of mold, and mud puddles galore. Every now and then, she saw burned thatch where lightning had hit, and the fire had been suppressed.

The populace was recovering. Shops bustled with afternoon customers, while glaziers fit new glass into storefront windows. Carriages clambered in and out of potholes, widening them and spreading mud about the cobblestones.

She fastened her sword on her saddle, took off her garrison cap and neck guard, stuffed them in a saddlebag, and scratched her head and neck. She loosened the saddle cinch and her horse sighed.

“Come on, Chisel.” She jiggled the reins. Side by side, she and the horse trudged along the street, their heads down. Neither of them made an attempt to dodge splashes from the wheels of passing carriages.

The City Guard stables were only five blocks east of the Whitewater Bridge. The stable manager, Horsehead, stood waiting at the gates.

“I thought patrols only lasted an eight-day. You’re wearing at least an erin’s worth of mud.” Horsehead directed his assessment, as usual, toward the horse. “Who knew we’d get such storms in false-spring?”

“I’m fine, thank you. Have you seen Peri today?” Now that she was back, she ached to wrap her arms around her son.

“That rain was something, wasn’t it? The Phrenii have been mum about the cause, which has the streets rife with rumors about—” Horsehead cut his ramblings short as her eyes narrowed. “And—ah—Peri’s well. Safe and sound. He stopped by today before lessons with his cousins. He looks like he’s fitting in just fine. You shouldn’t worry about
him
.”

She nodded, catching his implication. Her son was adjusting to the sister cities, as opposed to her and Jan. Peri was experiencing a normal Fairday, sitting through the same old routine of afternoon lessons with his cousins, while his father, mother, and matriarch struggled to patch the growing cracks in a marriage contract. She tried not to think about Jan pleading his case with Lady Anja while she was gone on patrol.

Pressing her lips together, she took the tack, saddlebags, and weapons off Chisel and let two young stable hands take him toward the wash rack. Chisel, however, had other plans and dragged the children toward his stall and food. Horsehead motioned to an older apprentice to help with the large gelding.

“Now then, let’s have it,” she said.

Horsehead bent his head to scratch behind his ear, avoiding her gaze. “Have what?”

“Some news you’d rather not tell me?” She kept her attention on the task of brushing dried mud from her clothing. When he didn’t answer, she added, “Wouldn’t bad news be better coming from you, than from someone who’s less than a friend?”

“Don’t know about that.” He grunted, perhaps not willing to admit friendship after all those early years as her riding master. Then he dropped the words like an axe, quick and merciful. “Meran-Kolme Erik announced his choice for Deputy Officer of Investigation. It’s going to be Jan.”

Her hands stopped moving.

“Most of us know you’re the one with the right experience. But Erik opened up the appointment and you know how Jan is…”

Yes, she knew how ambitious, competitive, and ruthless Jan could be. “Did he say why he picked Jan?”

“He doesn’t have to justify himself to anyone but the captain.” Horsehead looked uneasy. “Even though you’re one of the best riders I’ve ever taught, man or woman, you know that Erik prefers to work with men.”

“Women number one in twelve within the City Guard.”

“But that’s not the ratio of
officers
.” He grinned. “That’s more like, um, ah—”

“One in thirty.” She felt deflated. She knew the numbers, as well the low odds of Erik promoting her. “But selecting
Jan
? That’s a slap in my face.”

“I told you to go into the King’s Guard when you could, didn’t I? I warned you about the politics in the City Guard. You weren’t wining and dining Erik, nor slapping him on the back and buying him drinks, were you?”

She reluctantly had to admit he was right and shook her head. Horsehead seemed relieved, no doubt figuring his unpleasant duty was finished. He leaned over the riding ring fence, ready to gossip. “Who went on this patrol rotation?”

“Bordas commanded, and I was the only City Guard. The others were King’s Guard entrants on their first patrol. Rather full of themselves, too.” Her voice took on a perfectly clipped upper-city intonation. “Oh, Father was
so
proud of my score—top ten percent—but my cousin didn’t make the cut and had to find a position in the City Guard.” Her nasal pronouncement made “City Guard” sound worse than street beggar.

He chuckled. “You didn’t tell them you had the chance to wear the green and silver.”

“They were young twits. All uncontracted males. They’ll learn respect soon enough.” Draius shrugged.

“They certainly will, once their matriarch starts checking their balls like a bull for stud.”

Horsehead’s irreverence made her laugh. She could picture every matriarch she’d ever met, even the young Lady Anja, holding a cattle prod. The image seemed so natural.

“By the Horn, they made
me
feel old,” she added.

“You’re not yet twenty-eight by my feeble reckoning. Wait ‘til you get to my age. You’ll be ancient in their eyes.”

“If my ancestral stars allow.” She could only hope to be as active at his age. Horsehead was hale enough to handle and ride horses, but rumors put him at more than a hundred and fifty years. Only matriarchal records could prove otherwise. He had run the City Guard stables and armory for as long as anyone could remember.

This reminded her that she had a powder weapon to return. The King’s Law forbade the carrying of powder weapons inside the sister cities, except by the watch. “Here’s the musket I was issued. Put it back into the armory, where it’ll be more useful.”

The long weapon rested against the fence and she handed it over. Its weight required her to use both arms.

He examined the weapon critically, moving the serpentine matchlock back and forth. “Oiled and clean. How many times was it fired?”

“Thirty times, total. I can hit a tree at twenty paces as long as I’m aiming at a forest. Just don’t specify a particular tree.”

“Next time you’ll get one of the new muskets. The smithies have a better boring process and slower burning wicks. Should help the aim but not the kick. They’ll still need to be braced.”

“Then they can’t be used on horseback. Just give me a saber and let me charge; I’ll cut down anyone shooting powder at me.”

“The sentiment of all cavalry. Glad to see I didn’t waste all that training.” He laughed and slapped her on the back, which was as sentimental as he got. “Now go. I’ll take care of the tack and weapon.”

She said goodbye, hefted her personal belongings over her shoulders, and walked toward home and the promise of a wash. Her scalp itched from her long silver hair being bound in braids and pressed down about her head from the garrison cap. The skin on her cheekbones and nose felt raw from wind and rain. The saddlebags weighed heavily on her left shoulder while her sword belt looped over the other. The sheathed sword hit her in the back of her right leg with every other step, no matter how she tried to control her lanky stride. She might have the coin for a carriage, but the thought of taking the bags off her shoulder and rummaging through them on the muddy street kept her slogging forward. She’d attained a numb equilibrium and didn’t want to stop.

Four blocks from the main square, she passed the Sea Serpent Pub. It was a respectable establishment catering to varied clientele: King’s Guard and council members mingled with City Guard, ship owners, and shopkeepers. It’d been in business for more than four hundred years.

Noise tumbled out of the tavern door. She paused and listened to the joyful racket of those who were looking forward to the end of the eight-day. The spring sunlight felt warm upon her back. She counted the chimes of the clock on Bridge Square and figured she could do with food and drink. Particularly drink, given Horsehead’s news that her vocation as a City Guard officer was foundering. Besides, Peri was still in lessons and she didn’t want to face the matriarch waiting for her at “home.” At least, not yet. She strode into the Sea Serpent.

Rays of sunlight burned through slatted windows, crossing the floorboards while the corners and upper gallery of the large room receded into comfortable gloom. A few lit pipes made enough haze for the sunlight to become solid in the air. The aroma of the pipe smoke harmonized with the smell of potato soup and the hops and malts used in Tyrran beers and ales. Her mouth watered.

“Draius, b’my ancestors, are you back already?” The familiar roar came from the foot of the stairs. A shape lunged up from a chair. Berin sported an untrimmed beard and short bushy hair, contrary to current Tyrran styles. Not that he’d ever followed fashions for as long as she’d known him.

“Greet’s, Draius.” He laid a beefy arm around her shoulders. Draius was tall, but she barely reached Berin’s chin. “Stinky, dirty, and ready for a beer? I’ll have to say that in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you looking worse.”

“Thank you. And greetings to you too, Berin.”

He laughed in his resonant bass and guided her to his table, helping her stow her items. Berin owned warehouses that sheltered goods sent in and out of the harbor and he frequented the Sea Serpent several times an eight-day. Draius sat down next to Berin’s assistant, Wendell, with her back against the gallery stairs.