Varles stared into Shade’s mocking gray eyes, so at odds with his courteous use of the formal ye, and then looked him slowly up and down. Dressed in a tunic of gray wool topped with a vest of brass mail and a thick white kerchief at his throat, he made a dowdy figure next to the captain’s flashing silks and blood-colored cloak. But sun-bleached hair and gray eyes gave Shade a dignity and air of assurance that far surpassed his simple dress.
Many tales were whispered of Shade, the man who walked in shadows.
His father was a god, they said, or perhaps a demon. Or mayhap even one of the Elder races that sank with the rise of Man. Wherever you heard the story, the details changed. One truth they all whispered, with eyes a-flicker for unprivileged ears: Shade knew magics no other knew, or would care to. Certainly, his powers were far greater than Varles’s, who knew only the simple spells of the sea that any mariner knows: the arts of wind calling and fair-weather sailing. From what Varles had seen of a sorcerer’s life, he’d stick to his sword and his ship and leave the spell casting to those with a taste for it. He wondered fleetingly what Shade thought of him and his life. He shrugged. He cared not. There was a cry in the distance, and he raised a flounced-silk arm in answer.
Jarryl was standing alone some way up the beach, pointing into the jungle. As Varles watched, a crewman appeared as though from the air itself, followed quickly by another. Shade raised an eyebrow, and Varles hid a grin. Jarryl knew tracking better than any mate he’d ever had, though of course it would never do to tell her so. He set off up the beach with Shade and the others straggling behind him.
The path Jarryl had found was long neglected and overgrown, but it was undeniably a path. With swinging swords and machetes, they slowly cut their way through drooping creepers and heavy vine-strewn branches. Varles and Jarryl struggled side by side, the sweat dripping from their aching arms onto the dusty ground they trod. It seemed as though the very jungle itself was their enemy, intent on keeping them from their goal. They scowled, chewed their tongues to keep their mouths wet, and trudged slowly on. Shade strode unhurriedly at the rear of the party, making no attempt to help.
“What’s the matter?” snarled Jarryl, during one of their infrequent halts. “The work too hard for your dainty hands?”
Shade shook his head. “My talents lie in other directions.”
Jarryl laughed coarsely. “Aye, I’ve no doubt ye’d make a fine addition to a lady’s bedchamber, pretty boy.”
Shade smiled politely.
Varles called for the party to move on, and the slow march continued.
3.
“Baran! Will ye look at that. . . .”
Jarryl’s voice died away as she stared out over the wreck of what had once been a thriving city. The burly sailor at her side shook a clinging creeper from his blade and followed her gaze. Stretched out before them the ruins of a proud city lay sprawled in the morning sun. The lofty walls were cracked and creeper-strewn, and the rusty iron gates lay lichen-pitted among tall grass. Tall watchtowers were holed and scarred by long rains, while weeds and foliage of a dozen varieties choked the narrow streets.
“This was a beautiful city, once,” breathed Jarryl, eyes entranced at the sight of so much marble.
“Aye. But always remember why it fell.” Baran’s voice was low, and he gestured nervously at the sky with a scarred three-fingered hand. Jarryl glanced up at the handful of blackbirds circling over the fallen city and felt her hackles rise.
“The raves still glide over Ravensbrook,” sighed a quiet voice immediately behind her, and she spun sword in hand to face Shade. She spat on the ground between her feet and then his. Shade’s brow wrinkled in polite puzzlement.
“I warned ye not to sneak up behind me again.” Jarryl’s voice shook a little with rage and humiliation at being caught napping twice. “I give ye challenge; put forward your blade.”
Shade chuckled and spread his empty hands. “I carry no blade, nor have I need of one.”
He gestured with a slender-fingered hand and creepers fell from the surrounding trees to cover Jarryl in fold after fold of clinging greenery. She cursed and struggled as the sheer weight forced her to her knees. Remorselessly, the vines wrapped around her, squeezing tighter, ever tighter. Her vision blurred as her sword slipped from numb fingers. . . .
“Hold!” Varles pushed his way through the watching crew and took in the scene. “Shade, release her.”
Shade smiled slowly, gray eyes narrowed. “She gave challenge to me.”
Varles drew the silver dagger from his sleeve and set the point under Shade’s chin. “By the terms of our bargain. obey me.”
He applied a gentle pressure, and a single drop of blood trickled down Shade’s throat to stain the white kerchief at his neck. The gray eyes never wavered, but the creepers slowly relaxed their hold till Jarryl was able to struggle free. Baran helped her stagger to her feet and recover her sword. She leaned on him for a moment, and then threw herself at Shade, her sword seeking his heart. Varles plucked her out of midair and threw her to one side. The crew murmured quietly at the captain’s casual display of his strength, but none laughed as Jarryl rolled quickly to her feet and dropped into a fighting crouch, her sword flickering back and forth before her like a serpent’s tongue. Varles made no move to threaten her, his blue eyes calm and watchful. The silver dagger had disappeared back into his sleeve again, but his right hand hovered near his scimitar. He was under no illusions that Jarryl’s feelings for him would stay her for a moment if she felt her honor threatened.
Shade glanced from one to the other, taking in the rage heating Jarryl’s face and coursing through her sword arm in bunching muscles, comparing it with Varles’s relaxed stance, his sleepy blue eyes at odds with the wide shoulders and scarred arms wherein his strength lay coiled like a sleeping mountain lion.
The tableau held for a moment, and then the mood was shattered by a shrill scream. They all whirled in time to see Baran slump to his knees and fall on his face in the dirt. Blood rilled from two gashes across his back, which dripped a curious muddy green slime. Jarryl flailed wildly about her as Varles barked orders the crew jumped to obey, splitting into pairs, before darting into the jungle darkness. Shade knelt by the body and fumbled inside his tunic, before producing a paste amulet to mutter over. Varles and Jarryl stood back to back beside him, swords at the ready.
“We settle our differences later, agreed?” Varles’s voice was still calm, though his eyes scanned the concealing jungle ceaselessly.
“Agreed.” Jarryl warily eyed the city walls gleaming palely in the sun. “This is no place for quarrels; Port Blood’s reputation seems to have been well earned.”
Shade tucked away the amulet and then fingered the slime drenching Baran’s back, before fastidiously wiping his fingers on the dead man’s sleeve. He shook his head.
“What killed him?” Varles didn’t take his eyes off the jungle.
Shade shrugged. “Sword in his back. It’s the slime that interests me; it’s like nothing I’ve seen before, yet strangely familiar for all that.” He got to his feet and smiled condescendingly at their ready swords. “Ye won’t need those. We are in no danger.”
Varles glanced around suspiciously one more time and sheathed his blade. Jarryl relaxed but stubbornly hung on to her sword.
“Might there be others after the treasure?” she growled.
Varles frowned. “Possible but unlikely; there are few who’d risk the Brotherhood’s anger, even for the treasure of Port Blood. And had there been another such voyage as mine, I’d surely have heard.” He glanced down at Baran’s body. “Are ye sure those are sword wounds, Shade?”
Shade raised an eyebrow. “To the best of my knowledge, Captain, but I am not infallible.”
Jarryl sniggered and swung her sword lazily before her. Shade took no notice. Their heads snapped around as one as a shocked scream rent the air, followed by oth
ers till the air echoed with agony. Jarryl glared at Shade.
“No danger, ye said?” She started into the darkness.
Varles caught her by an arm. “If they couldn’t cope together, we can’t help them.” He had to shout to be heard over the screams. “Rush in there alone, and you’d be picked off for sure.”
“Then what do ye suggest, Captain?”
Varles glanced at Shade suspiciously, before gesturing at the city below them. “We’ll have to entrust ourselves to the tender mercies of Port Blood. At least there we can fight with a wall at our backs.”
Jarryl nodded and darted along the overgrown path that led down into the city. Varles and Shade followed her. The last scream died away in a sudden liquid gurgle. Silence held dominion over the jungle again, as though it had never been disturbed.
4.
Jarryl ran a callused hand caressingly over the smooth marble wall. In the cold lands of her people, marble was so rare as to command twice its weight in gold, and though she had seen many wonders in her rovings as a pirate, she could not hide her admiration for an entire city hewn from the pale-veined stone.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” she demanded of Varles as he emerged from yet another derelict house, this time with a cup of wine in his hand. He shook his head and offered her the cup. She took it gratefully and studied the cup’s acid-etched scrollwork for a moment, before gulping at the sticky wine. “Where did you find this?”
“In there. There was an empty bottle on the table, and another still sealed beside it.”
“You mean this wine has been here since the city fell? How many years is that?”
Varles shrugged. “Must be a good vintage by now.”
“Any wine that doesn’t throw up your food is a good vintage after so many months at sea.” She drained the cup and threw it back to Varles. He snatched it out of the air and tossed it carelessly back through the house’s gaping door. Shade emerged from an alley’s shadows and strolled over to join them.
“Did ye find anything?”
“No, Captain. It’s strange: goblets and platters set out as though for a meal but newly abandoned. Signs of many a fierce struggle, but . . .” He shook his head. “Where are the bodies? The stories tell of a great slaughter among the unsuspecting revelers, but not even a bloodstain remains to mark their deaths.”
He frowned, and reaching into a leather pouch at his waist, drew out a handful of blue chalk dust, which he muttered over and then tossed into the still air. Before Varles’s and Jarryl’s startled gaze, the dust spiraled madly on the air before them as though stirred by an unseen hand, before dropping slowly to the ground.
“Interesting.” Shade scuffed the chalk dust into the ground with his boot.
“What does it mean?”
“Damned if I know, Captain. But I’ll show ye another puzzle: Where are the birds that circled above the city? The ravens of Ravensbrook?”
They stared up at the sky. There were no birds, nor even insects. Varles shivered, despite the heat of the morning sun. “Mayhap they’ve gone to tell their master we’re here.”
Shade grinned sardonically. “Aye. Mayhap.”
Jarryl scowled. “Have ye no better answer, pretty boy?”
Shade turned his disquieting gray eyes on her. “Aye. I have. Whatever magic first called the ghouls to Ravensbrook is still operating here, and I for one have no intention of being here when night falls.”
He glanced around, and then started quickly down the street. Varles and Jarryl looked at each other, shrugged, and followed him, swords in hand.
Shade led them through a maze of narrow interconnecting alleyways, pausing now and then to throw his chalk dust upon the air and carefully scuffing it into the dirt, before continuing. He finally came to a stop before an old building whose walls loomed far above the highest of the city, with slit windows fully twenty feet above their heads and the roof as far beyond again. The huge wooden door was barred with bands of beaten steel whose ends were buried within the surrounding marble wall. Varles stared hungrily at the night-dark wood and caressed it lightly with his fingertips.
“Just as it was described to me, those many years ago in Meligarr. The storehouse of the Old Brotherhood, in the days before women were admitted to the Charter. Here lies the horde of a dozen master pirates! Loot from a hundred ports and countries that no longer squat on any map. Gold and jewels, spices and potions; enough wealth to make us rich beyond our most feverish dreams.”
“Mayhap. My dreams arise from no mere fever.” Jarryl sounded distinctly unimpressed. Varles chuckled and shook his head.
“I know you like to think the Brotherhood was nothing till women sailed the seas as well, but we’ll know soon enough. Shade, this is your moment.”
“I thank ye, Captain. If ye will allow me . . .”
Varles stepped back to give the man room. The sun was high in the sky, and the heat beat down unmercifully. As Shade studied the thick steel bands and the surrounding marble, Varles mopped at his face with a silk rag and took a slow pull of water from his canteen. He handed it to Jarryl, who nodded her thanks, before sucking greedily at the lukewarm water. The air was dry and still, the silence oppressive. No insects crawled in the dirt of the vine- and wood-strewn street, and still no bird flew. Varles glanced fleetingly up at the jungle beyond the city walls and promised himself a vengeance on whoever had taken his crew. Or whatever . . .
Jarryl reluctantly lowered the canteen and brushed gently at her dry and cracked lips with the back of her hand. Her palms were hot and sticky, and her sword hung heavy in her grip. She glanced at Varles, who was staring out at the jungle, eyes dark and brooding. Something like compassion moved within her for a moment, as she considered the letdown the breaching of the treasure house would bring. But until Varles saw for himself that it was just another tale spun from too many drinks on a quiet night, his dreams would never be free. Jarryl switched her attention to Shade, who was swinging a bone amulet on a chain before the barred wooden door. She curled a dry lip. Magic; she would have spat, had her mouth been wet enough. She preferred the simple honesty of a good blade and an enemy she could face. Taking a last gulp of water, she handed the leather canteen back to Varles.
Shade put away his amulet and threw up his arms in the stance of summoning.
“Hear me, ye shades of the light that is darkness, and the darkness that is light! Hear me, ye shadow demons, for I am Shade, to whom each shadow is every shadow! Hear ye the Hanged Man, the Walker in Shadows!”
His voice deepened and rang harshly on the still air while Varles and Jarryl watched slack-mouthed a man they had only thought they knew. His face was hidden in shadow though he wore no hood, and as they watched, he ripped away the kerchief from his neck to reveal a raw scar that circled his throat, the mark of the hangman’s noose.
Jarryl could feel her hackles rising, and the air was suddenly cool on her cheeks. This was the man she had challenged. . . . She gripped her sword firmly. As she and Varles watched, Shade stepped slowly forward into the door’s shadow and was gone. Varles nodded. Shade: the man who entered locked rooms but not through the door; who walked between light and darkness, life and death; the master thief of the Known Kingdoms.
Shade was suddenly walking toward them out of the door’s shadow, and Jarryl bit back a startled curse.
“Well?” Varles’s mouth was suddenly dry again with anticipation. Shade grinned.
“More treasure than all our dreams put together.”
Jarryl hugged Varles and throwing back her head, howled with barbaric glee, glad that his dreams had not been betrayed. Her own dreams now stirred within her. Varles grinned at the fierceness of her embrace as his triumphant laughter echoed back from the walls. He clapped Shade on the shoulder and then spun Jarryl clean off her feet and threw her into the air, catching her easily as she yelled in mock anger. Their mirth rang clearly o
n the quiet, though Shade did not join them. They finally staggered to a halt, wiping tears of laughter from their eyes and clutching aching ribs. Shade was studying the door.
“What now?” Varles gasped, struggling to regain his calm. “Do ye have any spells to warp those steel bands and get us in?”
Shade shook his head. “No, Captain, but I have something else that may help.” He opened a hand to show them a small glass ball filled with an amber liquid. He hefted it gently and then threw it at the steel band highest on the door. The ball shattered and amber liquid smoked and hissed on the dull-gleaming metal. Varles nodded.
“Acid. How much do ye have?”
Shade produced more of the glass balls, which he carefully applied to the steel bands. Metal boiled like water, steaming in the air. Shade cautiously wiped the bands clean with a rag he then quickly discarded.
“And now, Captain, we must use our brawn and sweat; one by one, the metal bands must be bent back and torn from their settings. It will be a long job.”
Varles shrugged. “The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll finish. I’ve not come this far to be balked by steel bands on a wooden door.”
They labored long into the afternoon, levering the steel bands free from their settings, using their swords as crowbars and Varles’s strength to bend the bands back upon themselves. Shade labored tirelessly beside them, his slender frame glistening with sweat. When the last band reluctantly fell into the street with an echoing thud, the sun was already sliding down the sky toward evening. Jarryl sank onto her haunches, head hanging, breath rasping in her parched throat. The sweat was running off her in rivulets, and her back ached unmercifully. Used as she was to the heavy work common to all who sail the seas, this had taxed her to her limits. Varles dropped a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she looked up with a faint smile. Stripped to the waist, he stood smiling down at her, breathing no less harshly.
“Well, we did it,” he said slowly, as though having trouble convincing himself. His eyes stared past her, dwelling on his dreams of what lay behind the treasure house door.