“You find a smuggler willing to run the blockade,” Dak said, “and I’ll go with you.”
Even though Yanko had been hoping to elicit this very statement, the fact that he had actually gotten it shocked him. He pressed his palms together in front of his chest and bowed. “Thank you, Honored...” He groped for a title that would work in this instance. Honored Turgonian? Nobody ever said that. Honored Bodyguard? He wasn’t sure anyone had ever given a bodyguard that much status, either. Honored...
Dak grunted. “Enemy?”
“Well, technically perhaps, but I hope that won’t be the case. Thank you. Where can I find you after I’ve, uh, secured the services of a smuggler?”
Dak’s dark eye narrowed. He probably knew Yanko had no idea where to look for someone. “The Lady’s Skirts.” He waved toward an alley at the far end of the docks, where large signs, most with pictures rather than words, promised pubs and hostels and brothels. “I’ll be there after dark. Bring your weapons. It’s a rough place.” With his eye still closed to a slit, he added, “Captains sometimes get drinks there.” His words spoken, he resumed his brisk stride toward the warehouse.
“I’ll be there,” Yanko called after him. “Thank you!”
A couple of sailors walked past and gave him a strange look. Yes, a Nurian kid yelling words of gratitude to a Turgonian wasn’t common, but Yanko didn’t care. He couldn’t keep from grinning. He might not have any idea how he was going to talk a smuggler into risking having his ship pulverized just for Yanko, but he had a bodyguard. A good one. Something was finally going right.
Chapter 7
“You want the good news or the bad news?” Lakeo said, sliding into a seat across from Yanko.
Thanks to the boisterous crowd in the combination pub, hostel, and brothel, he barely heard her. “What?”
She repeated herself and plunked two frothy glass mugs onto the table. They smelled vinegary, and a dead fly floated on the top of one of the heads. Oh, it wasn’t dead yet. He plucked it out, wondering if it would survive the bath in the toxic substance. “Both, I guess.”
They sat at a table the size of a stool in the back of The Lady’s Skirts, an unsubtle name, given the number of ladies for hire that were perched on men’s laps. There were a few female customers in the establishment, most drinking with groups of male comrades, but Lakeo was a rarity. She didn’t seem to notice or mind. She quaffed a third of her beverage, set it down with a heavy clunk, and wiped her mouth.
“The bad news is that the drinks are awful,” she said. “The good news is that the drinks are cheap, so it didn’t take much of your money to buy them.”
Yanko would have rather passed, but the waitresses had glowered at him and pointed at the door when he had suggested he wasn’t thirsty.
“Dak is going to stand out if he comes in here.” Yanko only saw a couple of foreigners or mixed breeds in the establishment, none that appeared Turgonian. The Nurian sailors and dockworkers trading jokes and handling—or mishandling—their prostitutes all wore their hair down or short. No moksu men in here. Yanko’s topknot had earned him a few speculative looks, and he realized he should have worn it down. These people would not appreciate anyone who smelled of a privileged lifestyle. Nobody had bothered him yet, but he was wearing his weapons openly and keeping his pack on his lap in front of him.
“Maybe he won’t show up.” Lakeo frowned at him and leaned close to be heard over a raucous drinking song that had started up at the next table. “I don’t know what you were thinking. We don’t need him.”
“You don’t think we can use all the help we can find?”
Yanko waved away a full-busted woman sashaying toward him. This was her third attempt to lure him up the stairs. He would like to be flattered, and he did find her revealing clothing very eye-catching, but he was sure her interest was only a result of his social rank—and the riches she must presume he had. Alas, they were paltry riches. Lakeo might have done better with the carriage negotiation than he would have, but he sensed they had been grossly underpaid. Made artifacts were rare and valuable. He worried that smuggler captains willing to run blockades would be too.
“Not Turgonian help,” Lakeo said. “You can’t rely on him. He figures out what your mission really is, and he’ll crack you on the back of the head, toss you over the railing, and go after that thing for himself.”
“That thing? I don’t recall telling you what my mission is.”
“You and your brother should talk more quietly if you want your secrets kept. And check who’s standing outside your door before reading important letters aloud.”
“I should have known you were there, since I didn’t hear your snoring until later.” Yanko hitched a shoulder. He had been willing to read the letter in front of her, anyway. Even now, he doubted if she cared about his mission or the ramifications of an undiscovered—or discovered and then lost—continent.
“I don’t snore. And I don’t trust Turgonians.”
At least one of those things was a lie. Yanko didn’t point it out. His brother had once told him that a man should never call a woman a liar, even if she was caught out in public in the middle of a fib. Since Falcon had always been much more successful at capturing the eyes of girls in the village than he, Yanko usually heeded his female-related advice. He did, however, need to know if there could be trouble between Dak and Lakeo. He couldn’t afford dissent amongst his crew, if two allies could be called a crew.
“Are you upset because I asked him to be my bodyguard?” Yanko asked. “The way I foisted that task on you while we were fighting in the mines, I thought you’d be relieved.” Actually, all he had requested was for her to watch his back. He hadn’t even implied it would be a permanent position. Though if she had been listening to the entire conversation with Falcon, she would have heard them talking about her as if it was.
“It’s not that.” Lakeo waved her hand. “Even if I do think you’re stupid to want that man at your back. Turgonians can’t be trusted. They’re all animals,” she finished with a snarl.
Her open hatred surprised him. True, many Nurians felt that way, especially those who had fought in the various wars, but because of her height and strength, he had assumed she was part Turgonian. He sipped from his mug, found the beverage as unpleasant as he had guessed, and set it back down. But in that moment, he had a revelation. Maybe being part Turgonian was the problem.
“You’ve never mentioned your father,” Yanko said, wondering if she had a reason to loathe him. Maybe he had left her family the way his mother had.
A sheet of ice froze over Lakeo’s eyes. “No. I haven’t.”
Ah, not a good topic to bring up.
“Look, are you going to figure out which one is a captain and get us passage, or not?” Lakeo asked.
“I’d like to do that,” Yanko said, happy to change the subject, “but they’re not exactly wearing military uniforms that denote their rank and status.” Most of the men in the pub wore similar loose clothing, some grimier and with more holes than others, but Yanko was one of the best dressed people in the room. After his days of travel, that wasn’t saying much. “Any idea how to tell who might own a ship?”
“Maybe we can judge their wealth by the number of women in their laps.” Lakeo pointed to one fellow who had a busty lady on each knee with a third standing beside him, an arm draped over his shoulders. “More rank, more money, more women.”
“An interesting theory.” Yanko drummed his fingers on their tiny table for a moment, then snapped them. “I have an idea. Watch my belongings, will you?” He pushed his pack toward her.
“Will it involve a chance to see you humiliate yourself?”
Unfortunately, it probably would. But Dak hadn’t shown up—and Yanko could not be certain he would—so he had to try something. Besides, Dak had said he would only join if Yanko managed to arrange passage. He needed to do this on his own.
Yanko stood on his stool, which wobbled precariously beneath him, and raised his voic
e to call out to the room. “Greetings, my friends. I am looking for—” He cut himself off because nobody had turned toward him. Nobody had even heard him. Only the bartender, glowering from beneath a heavy brow, gave him a cool look as he dumped one table’s mugs and refilled them for another table without washing them.
“All right,” Yanko murmured to himself. “Just need to get their attention.”
Despite the threat of being followed, he had managed enough rest on the ride down from the mountains that his headache had gone away. He could call upon his talents tonight without repercussions, at least not repercussions from within. He decided on a few illusions and some noise. After contemplating the proper illusion for a moment, he concentrated and thrust a hand toward the ceiling in the center of the room.
A ringing boom sounded, like the noise from a hearty firecracker. At least, that was what he intended the noise to sound like. It might have come off as closer to a cannon firing, because half of the patrons threw themselves under the tables. Some pushed their rented women aside—others pulled them atop their bodies for cover. Yanko made a quiet note of who those people were; they wouldn’t be his first choice for shipmates.
He waved his hand, and colored lights appeared in the air above the tables, then coalesced into the shapes of curvaceous women dancing. That convinced some of the men to crawl back into their seats.
“Greetings, my friends,” Yanko repeated, now that the room had grown quieter. “I am an aspiring bard, writing the songs that will one day earn me a place at the Great Chief’s court.” He hoped nobody demanded to hear a song, because Yanko was the only tone-deaf Nurian he had ever met. “I came to this humble establishment hoping to hear stories of bravery and cunning. Sea stories. I hear the Great Chief has a great fondness for sea stories.” He’d heard no such thing, but he hoped no one else knew enough of the preferences of a leader a thousand miles to the north to dispute him. “Who in here has the fastest ship? Has escaped from the most difficult of odds? I’ve got a gold coin for whoever can tell me the greatest story of their own adventures.” He held up the coin he had selected. It was the smallest, thinnest gold coin in the region, but it would still buy drinks for the night for an entire table. As much as he hated to throw such money away, it would be worth it if he was connected with a suitable captain.
Hands went up all over the room, and several men started talking at once.
“The stories must be the truth,” Yanko added, using his power to amplify his voice. “I’m sure none of you would exaggerate your exploits, but the coin will know if you speak the truth or not.” He pretended to flick it into the air, but was sending another illusion to land amid the dancing ladies. The floating coin glowed golden, enough to impress the group, he hoped.
Several men stood on tables, trying to get the attention of the room. Yanko had expected more skepticism and for at least one person to demand to see the coin up close, but perhaps getting drunk men to talk about their own exploits wasn’t so much of a challenge as he had thought. Maybe he hadn’t even needed the coin.
When it became apparent that they weren’t going to politely yield to each other, Yanko pointed at one of the more promising ones—meaning he hadn’t used a woman for a shield when the boom had gone off. “You first,” he said with his amplified voice.
He glanced down at Lakeo, curious as to whether she had an opinion about his tactic. It wasn’t, he admitted, the most subtle move he could have made. If any assassins came looking for him on the waterfront, at least fifty witnesses here would remember him. Still, if they could find someone who could take them out of the city—off the continent—tonight, wasn’t that worth the risk?
Lakeo met his look frankly and shook her head in a you’re-an-idiot manner. Well, that answered that question.
“...so we’re coming through the Dragon Fangs Straights,” the fellow Yanko had elected was saying, “and three pirate ships came out of nowhere to jump us.” He flicked a glance at the coin, which presumably meant he was lying. Yanko made his illusion pulse with indignation. “Two pirate ships,” the man corrected. “I always forget.”
“Big numbers like that must be a challenge to keep in your head,” a bald man sitting by himself in the corner said. He didn’t have any women draped over him—the way his feet were propped on the other stool at his table didn’t invite any to join him, either. He had a black eye and glared sullenly out at the room from behind a row of empty mugs. One less empty one rested on his stomach as he leaned against the wall. An interesting array of gewgaws hung from the loops of his belt, at least a couple of them having a hint of magic about them. Charms?
“Shut your grog hole, Shark. You can have your turn later.”
“My turn? To impress some snotty brat?”
Yanko raised a finger. “Excuse me, I’m a snotty bard, not a brat.”
“Who cares?” The man—Shark—returned to his beverage.
Lakeo slapped Yanko on the leg. “That could be your man.”
“The one with the impaired counting abilities?”
“No, the other one. Shark. That sounds like the name of a captain.”
“Please. Everyone here probably has some pompous sobriquet.”
“Sobri-what?”
“Never mind. We’re not interested.” Yanko turned his attention back to the earnest storyteller, one who was so drunk he might fall off his table at any moment.
“Because he called you a snotty brat?” Lakeo asked. “You’re not going to find a smuggler who’s going to call you Honored Mage, you know.”
“No, I—”
A crack rang out, a mug smashing into the table their orator was standing upon.
“Boring,” someone shouted, drawing the word out to at least six syllables.
The speaker raised his voice and kept telling the story of his great pirate escape. The next time, someone threw a plate of food. The pub erupted in laughter. The speaker threw his hat down, grabbed a knife, and flung it at the first person. That person ducked the throw, and the long, sharp blade thudded into the wall inches above his head. The man who’d nearly had his hair cut off jumped onto his table, then leaped for the speaker, slamming into him. They both flew backward and onto another table, which broke under their combined weight, plates, mugs, and shards of wood flying everywhere.
Yanko stared, unable to believe how quickly his innocent request had turned into violence. Men who hadn’t been involved in the first altercation were throwing punches and upending tables. Lakeo was giving him that slow you’re-an-idiot head shake again. He jumped to the floor, lamenting that he couldn’t hide under the table when he had been thinking men cowardly for doing that same thing earlier.
“What do we do?” he asked, even though he should have known. Wasn’t he in charge here? Hadn’t the prince sent him the quest?
Lakeo thrust his bag at him harder than necessary, and it thudded against his chest, knocking him back into the wall. “Slink away before the owner comes over and demands payment for all the damages your dumb idea is costing him.”
“But, I—” They had to meet Dak here. How could he leave now?
A glass mug slammed into the wall above his head, bounced off, and nearly hit Lakeo. She glowered, not at the thrower but at him.
Right. They could watch for Dak from outside and intercept him. Leaving would be a good idea.
He turned and nearly crashed into the bartender’s barrel chest, the same fellow who had been glowering at him from behind dirty mugs.
He prodded Yanko in the shoulder with a meaty finger. “I’ll take that coin you were waving around. And any other ones you have, as well.”
A fresh crash sounded as a new table broke, and the bartender’s fists curled into balls. Behind him, a couple of burly men who worked for the establishment were trying to stop the fights. The ladies had disappeared up their staircase—a staircase that had several broken railings that hadn’t been that way when Yanko came in.
As much as he didn’t want to part with any of his c
oins, he did feel responsible for this mess. However inadvertently, he had caused a great deal of material damage. He reached for his coin pouch.
“What?” Lakeo grabbed his arm. “No. You didn’t tell a story, did you?” she asked the bartender. “That’s not your prize.” She shoved Yanko toward the door. “We’re leaving.”
The bartender grabbed his other arm, clamping down. Yanko groped for an appropriate response. His cheeks were hot with chagrin and embarrassment, and he didn’t know if he could concentrate enough to call upon his magic, or even if it would be appropriate if he could. He certainly couldn’t pull his sword on the man, a man who had a valid reason for demanding payment.
“I—”
The bartender’s hand was ripped away from Yanko’s arm with such force that he reeled back, knocking over a stool. A looming figure stepped in, his back to Yanko as he faced the bartender, a hand raised. “Back off,” Dak growled.
“He owes me money. Look at my pub. It’s wrecked.” The bartender flung an arm toward the mess without taking his eyes from Dak. Those eyes had grown quite round when the Turgonian had stepped in. Dak had to be six and a half feet tall. He towered over everyone in the room and made the burly bouncers look... less burly. At least the fights had dwindled, with people either being kicked out or ordered to pay for damages.
“You’re telling me it’s not wrecked every night?” Dak asked. His Nurian accent had smoothed around the edges in the six months since Yanko had seen him, but he still sounded very guttural. Very Turgonian. And that one eye glared even more effectively than two.
“Not... every night,” the bartender said weakly, his tone and attitude almost meek when it had been fierce before.
Yanko wondered if Dak had done something to earn a reputation here that went beyond simple assumptions made based on his appearance. Although when he pinned Yanko with his gaze, Yanko had to try hard not to squirm too.