The Crown's Dog

  Erion laughed. “You didn’t know her.”

  “Nana wouldn’t have hired her if she was,” Baldair asserted. “Plus, I’m a great judge of character.”

  Erion couldn’t argue that. Three years ago, Erion had gone to the prince to plead for Jax’s life, a man he had only heard Erion mention on occasion. Baldair had risen to the task without hesitation. Erion could only hope he had never come to regret that decision.

  “Maybe she stole Adela’s treasure.” Erion pushed away from the table.

  “I’m beginning to think that the rumors of the treasure sinking to the depths are true after our previous luck.” Their two weeks of hunting certainly hadn’t yielded much. But Erion couldn’t imagine what the prince thought they would find. They couldn’t be the first to go after the “crown treasure” of the South.

  “I’m going to wash up so we can leave.” Erion kept focused. The treasure was likely lost to time, but what was before them now was a dead woman.

  “Good, you smell bad enough to scare away any ghost or man.”

  It was Erion’s turn to give a mocking laugh.

  The three of them were on the path to town within the hour. A well-worn dirt trail cut through the thin pine forest, winding toward the city nestled between ridges. Oparium was built on a slope in the only valley with year-round access to the sea. The high mountains and rocky bluffs that surrounded it helped sheer away particularly bad storms. It was originally the only access to the sea for the old Kingdom of Solarin, and the rich history was visible in both the construction of the town and the people who occupied the structures.

  “Why doesn’t your family come here more often?” Erion asked the prince. It was a serene place, filled with a beauty that was only ever found nestled next to the sea.

  “Just never have.” Baldair shrugged, clearly indifferent. “It wasn’t something my father ever spoke of much, and Mother seemed no more inclined.”

  “Seems a shame; it really is a beautiful town.” As if on command, Oparium became visible to them over the rocky bluff that held the carved stairs down into the town proper.

  The houses were stacked upon each other like dominoes, precariously perched on the sloping land that quickly ended at the sea beneath them. They had the same architecture that Erion had become accustomed to in the South. Their tier-stacked buildings and shingled roofs were different from the boxy straight lines of the West. Oparium was not unimpressive as far as ports went, but it was certainly not Norin.

  “Has it been upgraded to ‘beautiful town’?” Baldair joked. “And here I thought it wasn’t half as impressive as Norin.”

  Erion rolled his eyes. He’d made his opinion too well known stumbling around the docks after their first night at the alehouse, pointing out all the ways he’d do things differently if he were running the port.

  “It’s not.” Jax started down the stairs, taking Erion’s side on the matter.

  “But that doesn’t make it bad.” Erion followed behind, careful to mind his footing on the weathered stone. They had made the journey near daily, and yet it somehow still seemed precarious.

  “Just not as good.” Jax glanced back at Erion with a small grin.

  “Such is the way of West and South, isn’t it?” Erion made a show of speaking only to his fellow Westerner. “Never quite compares.”

  “They do try though.”

  “Oh right, right, team up on the outnumbered Southerner.” Baldair rolled his eyes, two steps behind them.

  “Outnumbered? I thought you were strong enough to take on both of us?” Jax teased.

  “I do remember him saying something like that,” Erion affirmed.

  “That was a year ago!”

  “And what happened then?” Erion rubbed his chin in mock thought.

  Jax folded his hands behind the top knot he’d fashioned in his hair, as was becoming more and more the norm. “I do believe we put him in his place.”

  “An experience I’d rather not repeat.” Baldair rubbed his side in the spot Erion distinctly remembered landing a solid hit with the blunt of a training sword.

  “I do think the prince fears us.” Erion nudged Jax.

  “Good, I should be feared.” There was a wild timbre to Jax’s words that Erion wished he could unhear. His mouth curled into a grin that Erion was seeing more and more, despite it always looking to him like it had no real place on his friend’s face.

  He had hoped Jax would mend with time following the trial three years past. But it seemed he was merely healing crooked, like an unset broken bone.

  “I think we should split up,” Baldair announced as the stairs deposited them into a narrow alley that became Ocean Street at the corner ahead of them. The prince was oblivious to Erion’s concerns. “We’ll cover more ground that way.”

  “What ground is there to cover?”

  “We only have one lead: Renalee worked in the jeweler,” Jax said, reading Erion’s thoughts.

  “Exactly. She lived here her whole life according to Nana, and we only have one lead. Seems suspicious, doesn’t it? Someone must know something more about her. Maybe not the sort we invited to our gathering…” The rich sort, Erion filled in mentally. Baldair might be mindful of his lessees, but his regular associations betrayed his princeliness more than anything else.

  Not that Erion blamed him. He much preferred associating with people who could offer him something in return for his time. One never knew when a contact or carefully placed word of support would come in handy. It had served the Le’Dan family for generations, and Erion was a pupil of that school of thought—in all matters that weren’t Jax or Baldair, at least.

  “So what are you thinking?” Jax seemed to buy the logic.

  “You head down to the market, Jax. Some of the jeweler’s wares may have been bought or sold there, could be something. Erion, you’re the exotic lord. Head to the jeweler and see if you can get people to talk.”

  “I’m exotic?” Erion raised his eyebrows.

  “Dark hair, bright eyes—what a blend of South and West!” Baldair’s voice went shrill in a poor imitation of a maiden’s as he brought the back of his hand to his forehead in a swoon.

  “Careful, I think he’s falling for you,” Jax cautioned.

  “I think you’re the one who should look out.” Erion started along the alley for the paved street ahead. “You’re the one who has to live with him all year, and he clearly has a thing for Westerners.”

  Jax waggled his eyebrows at Baldair. “And where will you be, handsome?”

  “I’m headed to the brewery.”

  Erion snorted loudly. “He wants to drink while we work,” he said to Jax. He had not the foggiest idea how Baldair could even entertain the mere notion of more alcohol.

  “No, bartenders hear things,” Baldair insisted.

  “Things like, ‘Another ale!’” Erion deepened his voice for his best attempt at an impersonation of Baldair’s booming timbre.

  “Good Gods, I’m glad we’re splitting up. I’ve had enough of you both this morning.”

  “You’ll never have enough of me,” Jax called as he strolled away from them, drawing more than one look from those milling about the street.

  “Was he always like this?” Baldair asked with a laugh as he and Erion struck off in a similar direction.

  Erion tried not to sober the mood. The honest answer was no. The Jax Erion had met years ago was a well-balanced man—the eldest son of a modest family, loving brother to his two sisters, and well-set to build upon the family legacy with a smartly chosen betrothed.

  “Maybe somewhere in him,” he answered vaguely.

  “The insanity is rather fun.” Baldair grinned. “Can’t say I mind having someone around who shakes things up and isn’t afraid to be a bit wild.”

  Erion debated his response. Encouraging the change in his friend felt wrong. Jax was a good man, as he had always been. But was this brokenness the man he was meant to be? Jax had to find some way to live in the world as it was now st
ructured for him, Erion surmised. It may not be fair of him to expect anything different. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  The two finally broke paths at Main Street. Baldair headed toward the sea and the brewery that was nestled along the cliff at the water’s edge by the docks. Erion headed upward into the residential section of town. The gaps between the houses began to widen, as if making room for the supposed wealth their occupants had.

  Real estate was at a premium on the bluff, especially land with a view of the sea. And nothing said, “Look at me, I’m rich,” like owning land and not doing anything with it other than planting and pruning some lovely trees. Erion rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, bowing his head to some ladies as they passed. The two tittered and moved on.

  If there was one thing that was true regardless of culture, region, or fashion, it was wealth. Everyone wanted it. And everyone could recognize it when they saw it.

  Ridge Road wound upward to the point where he was nearly sweating from the steep hike. Erion had all but turned around, deciding he somehow missed the rumored jeweler, when the road forked, and he saw a swinging sign dotted with metal and semi-precious stones. “The Jeweled Crest” shone brightly in silver, catching the light.

  Erion adjusted his belt and ran a hand through his dark hair. He might be mostly unknown to the general populous, but if his name would carry weight somewhere, it would be a jewelry shop.

  A silver bell at the top of the door chimed brightly at his entry. A few patrons milling about looked to the entrance instinctively. Ladies adjusted the draping of their skirts to turn for a better look at the Westerner newly among them. But propriety won out and none stared.

  “Ah, did you finally work out the issue with the port master?” a man from behind the counter addressed him with an eager clap of his hands.

  “I think you confuse me for someone else.” Erion was caught off-guard, wondering what the port master had to do with him.

  “You’re not from the Lady Black?”

  Lady Black. Erion vaguely recognized it. One of the ships in a fleet belonging to an old lord of the West, of the family Twintle. A family the Le’Dans made a point to cease all associations with long ago, when the Twintles refused to commit to a new, Imperial world order that divided the West

  between those who clung to the old ways and those who sought progress.

  “I am not. You may be surprised to learn that Westerners can travel outside of the Waste for reasons beyond commerce.”

  “Forgive me, sir.” The shopkeep raised a gloved palm to his chest, bowing his head in apology.

  “Lord Erion Le’Dan,” Erion clarified.

  The man’s head snapped up in recognition. “Le’Dan?” he repeated, as though he couldn’t have possibly heard right.

  “The same.” Erion made a show of inspecting the jewelry in the case, as if leveraging his family’s decades of expertise and passing judgment on their craftsmanship. It was a good thing he wasn’t here to do so, because the wares were not up to notoriously high Le’Dan standards.

  “What brings you to our shop, my lord?” the man asked eagerly, no doubt assuming Erion had some hope in establishing a trade deal. The shopkeeper’s reactions had the other patrons taking note. Erion stood a little straighter.

  “I have a question for you about one of your employed.”

  The man paused briefly. “You’re one of the prince’s boys.”

  “Watch your words, sir,” Erion managed to scrape together every bit of politeness he could. “I am one of the prince’s guards.”

  “My error.” The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I heard about the prince’s night of debauchery and assumed.”

  A lady couldn’t completely muffle a titter, and Erion fought an embarrassed flush. He was not the type of young lord to be associated with such rumors. The irony that the prince, of all people, was the one to ruin him did not escape his notice.

  “I am inquiring into Renalee.”

  “Yes, I heard about her.” The shopkeeper surprised Erion with his sudden candidness and calm demeanor. If this man had any hand in the woman’s murder, he was playing the fact quite cool. “Just a horrible fate for her to have been dealt.”

  “I think fate had little to do with it,” Erion pressed. He could hear his father’s scolding. Fate was the design of the Mother; shunning it was near blasphemy. But he hoped the goddess above would forgive him for the sake of justice. “I am trying to root out her killer on behalf of Prince Baldair.”

  “You can’t hunt a ghost,” the man whispered. “You should know this better than anyone. I’ve heard the rumors in town that you and the prince have been going about mentioning the pirate queen for a couple weeks now.”

  Erion pressed his lips together a long moment, quite fed up with the mention of ghosts. “As I said, I am seeking justice on behalf of Prince Baldair.” Erion tried to throw rank to get the man to acquiesce. “Renalee, was there anything suspicious about her activities? Any changes of late?”

  “She had reduced hours while she was working at the Imperial manor, but she asked for permission to do so, and it was no strain on the shop as a result. She was never late for work, always kept herself tidy.” The man thought a long moment. “I can’t think of anyone who would seek to harm her. Though, if she said the pirate queen’s name, well, that’s not something sane men involve themselves with.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Erion turned to leave. He wasn’t going to talk about specters with the shopkeep.

  “Before you go,” the man said to his back, stopping him. “What will become of her earring?”

  “Earring?” Erion had heard no mention of earrings.

  “A ruby Western, quite large and very valuable. I’m sure one with as much of a discerning eye as you would recognize its quality. It couldn’t have gone unnoticed.”

  Erion ignored the backhanded compliment. “Go on.”

  “She wore it every day, on her right ear.” He pointed to his own for emphasis. “Without fail.”

  “Only one earring?” Southerners did make strange fashion choices.

  “She said she lost the first.” The man shook his head heavily. “I’m sure the ruby would mean nothing to a Le’Dan, or the crown, given the gemstones I’ve no doubt you have access to, but you see, for my shop, we could reset it and sell it anew…”

  Erion chose to ignore that the man was trying to cut a profit off a dead woman’s prize possession.

  “This earring, was it stolen?”

  “Do you think I would let someone work in my shop with a record of theft?” The man shook his head. “Mother, no, she said she paid for it in full. The girl had a taste for nice things, not something I discouraged.”

  “Where did she get the money from?”

  “I assume working.”

  Erion pursed his lips together momentarily to keep himself from asking if the shop really paid enough for her to afford such a prize. He could only push so far into the realm of impropriety before it was too far. Erion scanned the cases and tried a different approach.

  “Where did she purchase it? Western rubies are rare, as I am sure you well know, and I don’t see any in your inventory.”

  “We do get some things we keep aside for our best clients and employees from time to time,” the man answered vaguely. “Though, that earring she said she purchased from a traveling salesman, long gone I assure you.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this traveling salesman, would you?” Erion pressed.

  “I don’t investigate my competition.”

  “Only let your employees buy from them.”

  “Will you be needing anything else today, Lord Erion?” the man responded stiffly.

  Erion took the hint with grace. Clearly, he had exhausted his welcome, and the hostility of the clerk was only escalating with the scandalous whispers that were beginning to float around his shop. He took a step away from the counter.

  “Thank you for your assistance on this ma
tter.” Erion gave a respectful bow of his head. “It is appreciated by the crown.”

  The man said nothing further, letting Erion leave in silence. He wouldn’t call the exchange enjoyable by any stretch. But it was productive.

  He had at least determined a motive that extended beyond a pirate curse.

  10. JAX

  MARKET STREET WAS as rich in color as a painter’s palette. Broad strokes of azure were splashed against soft periwinkle with hints of royal blue layered atop. Fluttering above it all was the blazing, golden sun of the Empire stitched on white. It was Southern patriotism at its finest. Even though the Empire’s expansion across the main continent united three previously separate nations, it seemed everyone—the South included—was eager to hold onto their own ways of life.

  It was familiar now to Jax, in an odd sort of way. Perhaps it was because the West had never been that different. Even though they were no longer called Mhashan, every Westerner still held close the crimson strokes of their history.

  The colors were different, but no matter where you traveled, people—and their markets— were fundamentally the same.

  Hawkers sold their wares to passersby. Spices teased his nose, silks shone brightly in the sunlight, and musicians played for any who had coin to spare. The winds came right off the sea, sweeping over the docks to mingle the scents of fish and salt atop everything else.

  Jax tied and untied the knot in his hair once.

  No matter what horrors occurred in the world, life continued. Mothers would chase after their runaway children, squeals leaving an easy trail to follow. Laundry would be suspended between balconies, wetting the heads of any who didn’t mind its presence. None were the wiser to the horrors that had taken place two nights before. Even if they were, they likely didn’t have the energy to care. Surviving the day to day was an already exhausting task, and everyone was focused on making the best of it.

  Everyone except for Jax. He had lost that right to any enjoyment and now existed merely for whatever Baldair—or the Crown Prince, or the Emperor—designed for him. He had no will beyond that scope, and the more he embraced the fact, the better he would be.