13

  Aboard the Falcon, headed north by northeast, bound for the mainland:

  Despite Filimar’s prodding, Val could not simply transport them all off of the ship to save Nalderick. He’d signed a contract and given his word to serve aboard Falcon in return for his passage and that of two stringy old nags. Miri was able to pay her own way, having found work in the airship’s galley.

  Filimar objected (maybe a little afraid that they’d leave him behind) but Valerian went to the captain first, anyhow. Varric Gelfrin was down in the cramped, noisy engine room that evening, with Hallan and two of the crewmen, Laurel Greenbow and Not-Jonn. The four were mucking about with Falcon’s perpetual motion machine. Greenbow and Not-Jonn were sweaty and frustrated, the captain mildly annoyed. As for Hallan, Varric’s younger brother was enjoying time off from his regular duties and he greeted Val with a wave.

  “Power transfer ’s dropped to near half,” complained Captain Gelfrin, straightening from his work on the juddering drive system. “Perhaps you might have a look, mage?”

  The red-haired elf stepped aside, ducking beneath an overhead crossbeam. Val started forward, but Filno beat him to it, knowing more than he’d ever let on about airships.

  “You’ve got to maintain the whole system… Sir,” grumped the young elf-lord. “Not just the parts that are in this dimension. There are components located ana- and kata-ward, future and past, and those can get bunged up, unseen. Give me a blade and a rag, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Laurel Greenbow handed him both at the captain’s nod, then edged past the whirling drive shaft to make room for Filimar. The dark-haired lord was normally sarcastic, proud and indolent, but now he dropped that fa?ade and turned serious. Moving… not sideways… he went partway invisible, displaying his pulsing innards and bones. Next, Filno set to work, reaching deep into Falcon’s squealing perpetual motion machine.

  Less than half a candle-mark later, he had the device glowing and whirring again. Filimar had to withdraw his hands in a hurry or lose them. One of Falcon’s blue eyes glided into the compartment to watch as the smiling elf-lord gave his stained rag and chipped blade back to Greenbow.

  “That’s got it,” he said, almost humbly. “Ought to run like a top for three years, at least, but you can’t neglect ultra-dimensional maintenance, Sir.” Something he’d probably learnt from his father, Lord Tormund.

  Varric smiled back.

  “You’ve saved us some bother and coin at the dry-docks, Arvendahl. Note will be made in the log, and a measure of wine ladled out with your supper.”

  Miri had slipped into the engine room behind Falcon’s silently gliding eye, holding a “sample” for Varric on a brightly scrubbed tray. As the way to their captain’s heart lay through his stomach, that was simply good strategy.

  Varric sat down on a thrumming engine cowling to deal with his food sample, downing hot stew and then wiping the pot clean with freshly baked bread. There was day-brew, as well, thick with sugar and cream.

  “Excellent,” he remarked, looking wistfully down at the emptied tray. “I shall be all impatience for supper, Cookie.”

  Everyone else’s stomach growled mournfully, and now was the time to broach the subject of leave.

  “Sir,” said Val, bowing. “I took passage aboard Falcon to locate and help a friend of mine, but it turns out that he isn’t headed for Rich Port, after all. He is far inland at, erm…”

  “Longshore,” supplied Filimar, slouching back into his usual, mocking persona. “On the bank of some festering bog.”

  Val signed: Shut up and kept talking.

  “I am requesting leave to go after my friend, Sir. He’s…”

  “Cursed,” Filimar butted in once again. “An absolute fetid husk of his former self. Pitiful, really.”

  Valerian stamped on the lordling’s booted foot, grinding down hard with plenty of extra-dimensional mass.

  “In trouble,” corrected Val, glaring at Filno. “He needs our help, which shouldn’t take very long. I can bring him back here to work aboard the Falcon or leave him with my family.” (Who were all at once there on the mainland, having been swept out of Karellon by some powerful spell.)

  Captain Gelfrin handed the tray back to Miri, patting her curly brown hair as he stood up once again.

  “In light of services rendered, Mage, I will authorize seventy-two candle-marks’ personal leave for you and young Arvendahl. You may spend that time as you see fit, but you must return by sunset on the third day or be considered absent without leave and subject to fleet discipline. Cookie, however, stays here.”

  The girl dropped her tray, which did not hit the deck because Val reflexively caught the thing using magic. The clay pot, spoon and mug, too. Meanwhile, Miri darted across to grab Valerian’s tunic hem, shaking her head. Finding the courage to be more than just a kitchen girl, she said,

  “No. I have to stay with milord. I’m his prentice, Sir!”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Her face had gone red, with hints of storm-cloud blue at the edges, until Valerian strengthened the girl’s disguise spell. Filimar snorted, but he’d never believed in coddling servants.

  More interesting was Miri’s expression as she gazed up at Varric. Pleading, yes, but also… maybe a little in love?

  The captain strode over, then crouched down on deck to bring himself level with that shivering half-elven girl.

  “Cookie,” he reasoned. “Your master and Arvendahl are setting forth on a dangerous mission. They will need all their wits and focus. If you are with them, our mage will be concerned about your safety, rather than his own. He may overlook a trap or be slow with his spells, trying to keep you from harm. Besides, you are very much needed and cherished, right here. What shall we do without our cook?”

  Miri glowed with blushes, heart pounding wildly, but she buried her face in Valerian’s blue tunic, whispering,

  “You don’t know what I am, Sir. You don’t know me at all. I’m… I…”

  Valerian could have told the bewildered captain that his beloved Cookie was a rescued half-drow slave… but that was Miri’s secret to share, not his. Her disguise spell would only function while he was nearby, though, meaning that she had to come with him or face exposure. As Gelfrin stood up, Valerian scooped the girl into his arms. Then he managed a graceful bow, apprentice and all.

  “Requesting permission to bring Miri with us, Sir. She’ll stock three days’ worth of meals in the galley and…”

  “And I’ll come along to watch out for her,” cut in Hallan, crossing his fingers in sudden hope. “You can count on me to keep a clear head and make sure we all stay out of trouble, Var… Sir.”

  Faced with nothing but wide-eyed, earnest entreaty (except from Filimar, who pretended to fuss with the sleeves of his uniform blouse), Varric gave in.

  “Very well. Seventy-two candle-marks, starting right now,” he growled. “Succeed or fail, but whatever you do, guard my cook!”

  XXXXXXXXXX

  Out in Longshore, near dark of the moon:

  Voices murmured and whispered. Broken glass tinkled, then somebody grunted, clambering over the sill. A soft thump was followed by several more, and a stifled giggle. Next, flint tapped and scraped against steel. A shower of sparks lit up a grinning, bewhiskered face, driving back darkness while three avid figures bent nearer to watch.

  Longshore’s main warehouse was wooden, but it was soaked with rain and coated in ice. The building itself wouldn’t burn very well, but its contents… dried fish, lamp oil, bundled wool, rope and grain… those caught at once. Back through the opening, then, arms full of stolen barley and fish.

  Very soon, a red glow was seen through that smudged, broken window. Smoke began billowing forth. Flames erupted, roaring aloud like a furious dragon. A pulse of heat rolled away from the warehouse, while air came whistling in to feed the ravening flames.

  A passing guardsman took notice and cried the alarm, rousing Longshore from sleep. His alert was choked off when a nearby vagrant leapt on his back, striking the man again and again with the hilt of a knife. Three others whooped and laughed, cheering their friend, and their blazing distraction.

  ‘Lud Derrick’ barely noticed. Just kept to the plan, edging his way along the town square as doors burst open and half-dressed townsfolk streamed out of their homes. He kept to the swaying shadows, waiting until the guards shot out of their station with buckets and pry-bars. Then, the young skulker stole into that empty building. In all the commotion of fire and fistfight, no one had bothered to lock the front door.

  Roused by the heat and commotion, Kia stirred in his shirt, nipping and scratching, searching for food.

  “Dinner soon, I promise. Real food, and all our glory restored, Wind-rider,” he whispered, scratching her head with his fingertip. “After that, we’ll go home, where we’ll be treated like heroes, forever.”

  ‘Eat,’ insisted the eagle, filling his mind with visions of mice and fish.

  She bit the tip of his finger, not very hard. Just playing… but already growing in strength. He owed it to Kia to provide more than rodents and stolen fish pies, Derrick reasoned, creeping forward.

  Carefully, he eased the station’s iron-bound door open a crack, then slipped within and shut it behind him. So far, so good. The station was small, with only one floor, a barred cell and two storerooms. An orange glow leapt and danced on every reflective surface, making Derrick feel suddenly very uneasy. He had to keep going, though; had to score a sword and some armor, if he meant to take on that dragon and end his curse.

  There were many weapons to choose from. The wooden building was small, and the weapons rack had been set to the right of its street-door. Pikes and swords were still in their places, for no one brought weapons to a bucket brigade, and armor was no use at all against flames. Whatever. Their problem, not his.

  Moving faster, Derrick selected the best of those plain, work-a-day swords, along with a decent knife, wooden shield and studded leather helmet. There was a coat of mail that someone had left on the guard captain’s desk, as well as a wine flask.

  Nalderick took those, too. Crossing the plank-floored room, he passed a cell containing a lone, snoring drunk, then slipped off through the station’s back door, snagging a rucksack on his way out. There might be food, clothing or money in there, but whatever it held, the loot belonged to Derrick, now.

  Leaving the station, he found himself in a stone-flagged courtyard. It was set up for arms-training, with a couple of practice dummies that gave him a start, at first. In the leaping red glow of the burning warehouse, those man-shaped figures had seemed to lunge. Derrick slapped at one, going past, only to have it whirl on a pivot and strike his head with the flat of a wooden sword.

  Thunk!

  He staggered and slipped, nearly falling. Saw stars for a moment and then felt blood dribbling into his collar. Probably nothing… scalp wounds always bled a lot… so Derrick pushed on, forcing himself to keep moving. He made it across to the courtyard wall and then over, throwing his prizes out first, then scrambling after. Even this far away, the fire’s heat was intense. Nalderick wobbled back to his feet, looking around at a damp, filthy alley.

  Through alarm bells and flame-roar and the collapse of a big, shingled roof, he heard Trixie laughing and Wenchie calling for help. Someone… might’ve been Curtis… bellowed a searing oath. Derrick hunched his shoulders and pressed onward.

  The snow all around him glowed orange and sparkled like opals, melting fast. He kept going anyhow, muttering,

  “I told them not to do it!”

  Then, moments later,

  “It isn’t my town or my problem!”

  And,

  “They’re just a lot of grubby criminal hoodlums and a used-up whore. They can stand a few nights in prison to sober up, I’m sure.”

  Only… Only, the fire had been his idea, even if phrased as a “don’t”. Bert, Trixie, Curtis and Wenchie wouldn’t have thought to set the warehouse ablaze… destroying Longshore’s winter food supplies… if Derrick hadn’t mentioned it.

  Behind him, the former elf could hear screaming and blows. His friends wouldn’t live long enough to be jailed, Derrick realized. They’d be beaten into the grave first, by people now facing starvation.

  Nalderick stomped a few more yards down the alley, plowing through garbage and firelit snow. Then he stopped, breathing ragged and hard in the night. Somewhere ahead lay a plague-spewing monster, providing the chance to end his curse with a bold and heroic deed.

  Behind him lay shame, arrest, responsibility… and certain death. The question was, which did he choose? What did Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Jewel of the Realm, decide to do next?