Of Dawn and Darkness

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jerri was less than impressed with these Sleepless acolytes.

The group of robed men and women wearing the Open Eye medallions had dragged her crew through the streets of Silverreach, shoving them into a hollowed-out house that stank of fish. They acted like a gang of base kidnappers, and didn’t even try to persuade the prisoners to their cause.

It would be hard to do, she had to admit, given that they were taking prisoners. But she wouldn’t have made that mistake. She would have greeted any newcomers warmly, like guests, showing them that there was nothing to be afraid of.

Then again, there was something to be afraid of.

While the Sleepless were still pushing the crew of The Testament into the house, the spider-like Inquisitors caught up. They slid through the doorway, in the middle of the crowd of humans, and even the Elder cultists shied back. Jerri couldn’t help a surge of contempt; she hadn’t backed up a step.

The two Inquisitors circled Mr. Valette, making noises like the rapid click of a dozen knitting needles. The Watchman’s captor stumbled away, leaving the man in the black coat to the Inquisitors.

To his credit, Valette didn’t shy away. He held himself straight, chin up, and slid a black iron spike out of one pocket.

Jerri admired him. He stood against the Elders as an equal, unbowing. These acolytes could learn a thing or two from him about proper conduct.

At the sight of the Awakened nail, the Inquisitors got excited, waving their limbs and stalk-eyes and frantically circling him. He moved to keep both in view, but he wasn’t fast enough.

One spider-leg flashed out, too quick to follow, and a spot of red bloomed on his calf. He cried out and fell to one knee, striking out with his spike. The second Inquisitor dodged, seizing his weapon between two surprisingly delicate limbs. Its partner seized Mr. Valette under the shoulders.

In one scuttling motion, they were gone, the door slamming shut behind them.

The old man in charge of the Sleepless shook his head sadly. “May his soul fly free. We must come to a closer understanding of our Elder neighbors. If we could communicate, we could have saved that poor man. Alas.” He wasn’t a member of the main cabal, the leadership of the cult, but he apparently had command of the other acolytes. If Jerri got the chance, she would see that he was ‘demoted’ to feed the worms of Kthanikahr.

The prisoners were separated by gender, as Calder and the others were prodded into a room full of male prisoners. Jerri was led across the hall, where a handful of women were kept.

As Calder saw her taken away, his eyes flashed with rage. He shot forward, breaking free of the first man holding him, but his weapons had already been confiscated. Three Sleepless piled on him, crushing him to the ground.

Hot rage boiled up, stoked by the fires of her Vessel. How dare they treat us like this? We will rule them all someday.

She was almost swallowed up by a daydream of sweeping this place with emerald fire, searing the flesh from their captors’ bones and leading the imprisoned to freedom. Seeing Calder on the floor, struggling to fight for her, it was harder to resist than usual.

But she still had other goals. Instead of killing everyone, she forced a smile, reminding Calder that she was still all right. She allowed her captor to lead her across the hall, where she joined four other women with bound hands and feet.

When the Sleepless man pulled a stretch of cord from his pocket and moved forward to bind her, she gave him her most charming smile. His eyebrows raised, and she stepped in closer, leaning her chin on his shoulder.

She whispered straight into his ear, “If you touch me again, I will burn you from the inside.”

His head bobbed back so he could look her in the eye. She tapped her Vessel so that her earring would spark ever so faintly.

Burn the disobedient to ash.

With greatest care, the Sleepless backed out of the room. He didn’t take his eyes off her until the door was shut and bolted.

Jerri found a chair in the corner and pulled it around so that it was out of sight of the doorway. If the door swung open again, she didn’t want Calder to see her free. She might have to come up with an explanation.

As she sat in the chair, unbound, and started to plan a way to use these developments to her advantage, she felt four sets of eyes on her. She looked up, and the other women gazed at her with expressions of awe.

“What did you say to him?” one of them whispered.

Looking at the four frightened women, Jerri realized her opportunity. “You have to know how to talk to these people,” she said. “And to do that, you have to know a little about the Elders.”

Calder’s hands and feet were bound and he was bruised all over from being tackled to the ground, but frustration and anger choked him. Elderspawn, he could understand. They were evil and alien, and they viewed people as particularly stupid animals. But what were humans doing on the side of the Elders? How short-sighted or cruel did you have to be to take orders from a Great Elder?

More specifically, what were they doing to Jerri?

The boy who had tried to escape was shoved in a corner, wrists and ankles tied, just as Calder’s were. He had a look of absolute despair on his face, as though he knew what was coming and it was too horrifying to think about. There were five other men in the room, besides Andel and himself. Four of them were in various stages of insensibility—either unconscious, dazed, or possibly dead. One, an old man with a wild mane of gray hair, watched Calder with a smirk.

“What are you squirming about? You think you can fight Elderspawn with both hands tied, do you?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Calder said. He had. The Lyathatan looked like it was made out of sharks and nightmares, and made the Inquisitors seem like bizarre lobsters by comparison. As for their current situation…well, he’d been in tighter straits outside the Candle Bay prison. He’d been forced to bargain with a Great Elder to break out, true, but he had escaped. This was nothing.

The old man chuckled, raising both of his tied hands to lift a pair of glasses to his face. For the first time, Calder noticed two pairs of glasses hanging from a leather thong around the man’s neck. Why would someone need two different sets of glasses?

He snorted when he saw Calder through the lenses. “What are you, eighteen?”

He was seventeen, but he didn’t feel like saying so. “‘Remember the wisdom of the blind man, who does not weigh the silver in another’s hair.’ Laius the Younger.”

Gray eyebrows lifted. “Sounds like you’ve cracked a book. Must not be a local.”

Calder smiled as broadly as he could, though his chin was bruised, and it came out more like a wince. “Calder Marten, Navigator Captain.”

“Imperial prisoner,” Andel corrected, “under the supervision and probation of the Navigator’s Guild.”

“Ah,” the old man said, nodding as though the picture now fit perfectly. “And you are?”

Before Andel could introduce himself, Calder stepped in. “This is Andel Petronus, a barnacle that attached itself to my ship. Somehow, I can’t seem to scrape him off.”

Andel ignored Calder, focusing on the old man. “And you are?”

“…Duster,” he eventually said.

Calder and Andel stared at him together.

“That was a strange pause just now,” Andel said, just as Calder began, “If you don’t want to tell us your real name…”

‘Duster’ grumbled, staring into his nest of a beard. Calder thought he saw the man’s cheeks color. “If I say my name’s Duster, it’s Duster!”

Andel nodded to him, conceding a point. “Well, Mr. Duster, we’ve given you our professions.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a valet,” Calder said. “I won’t be able to resist making a joke about dusting furniture.”

Duster shot Calder a look, and addressed his response to Andel. “I used to be a gunsmith.”

A light came on in Andel’s eyes, and he stared at Duster’s face as though he’d figured something out. Calder inspected the old man too, hoping to learn something. As far as he could tell, Duster was the same as every other man over seventy years old: craggy face, gray hair, scowl for anyone under thirty. Only his untamed hair and his two pairs of glasses set him apart.

But whatever Andel had figured out, Calder couldn’t worry about it. He was too busy figuring out a way to escape.

“Were you any good?” Andel asked, his voice layered with implication.

Duster met his eyes. “Some would say so.”

Calder jumped in before they could bore him with pointless reminiscing. “You don’t have a gun, do you?”

From the way Andel and Duster looked at him, you would have thought it was the dumbest thing that had ever come out of his mouth. It was an honest question.

“Were you armed before you came in?” Duster asked, a little more harshly than Calder felt he deserved. “Are you armed now? What kind of kidnappers would they be if they let us keep our guns?”

“Not very good ones,” Andel said, holding up a gun.

This time, the ensuing silence was shock, as everyone conscious in the room had their attention stolen by the sudden presence of a pistol.

Calder kept his voice calm. “Andel. Where did you get that?”

Andel gestured down to his white belt. “I tucked it into my pants while no one was looking. After they found my spare, they stopped searching. But don’t get too excited. It’s the one I fired earlier, so I have neither shot nor powder.”

“Still, it’s something. Good work, Andel.” Calder’s mind kept moving, piecing together a plan. They could at least threaten the guards with their weapon. That would be better than nothing, and it might slow the cultists down. First, they only had to get out of the room.

“All right, we can do this,” he said at last. “It will only take me a day or two to Invest the latch enough that we can escape. Once we do, Andel—”

Duster snorted. “I’m a Reader, boy. Can’t be done.”

Calder stopped, a little stunned from the sudden interruption to his flow of thought. Before he’d collected himself, a question came out of his mouth. “You’re a Reader, and you decided to be a gunsmith?”

He’d seen bad liars before, and ‘Duster’ was one of them. “Readers make good craftsmen! Anyway, if you are a Reader, why are you…” The old man hesitated, trailing off as he realized what he was about to say.

Calder finished for him. “…a high-ranking Guild member? Because it pays well, it’s among the most respected positions in the Empire, and because it’s what every Reader aspires to be. Not a gunsmith.”

“Technically, it’s because you were conscripted to pay off an enormous debt to the crown in reparation for your numerous, irresponsible, and destructive crimes.” Andel’s voice was as bland as his face.

“Thank you for volunteering, Andel. We needed to feed someone to the Elderspawn on the way out.”

Duster must have been lost, because he returned the conversation to the previous track. “Anyway, I’ve only been in here three days. When it started, there were forty of us.”

Calder looked at the room’s eight total inhabitants: four unconscious or debilitated men, one little boy huddling in the corner, and the three of them. “Ah.”

“Yeah. Those spiders pull a handful of us out at a time, and I’m not expecting any of them back, if you follow me.”

Still, Calder couldn’t imagine that a Reader had sat idly in a room for three full days. “You had to have found something.”

By way of demonstration, Duster pinched the cord between his wrists and pulled it apart. It tore like spun sugar. “Been working on this the whole time. Not that it will do me any good. First thing I did was try the door, and guess what? Too much Elder Intent. I barely Read it once without trying to swallow my toes. I do it again, or you do, and we’ll likely kill everyone else in here.”

The old man leaned back against the wall, eyes shut. His resignation frustrated Calder, but it seemed to intrigue Andel, who said, “You seem awfully cavalier for a man about to meet the Elders.”

A smile touched the corner of Duster’s mouth. “Nothing I can do about it, is there? Might as well wait my turn. And some things…well, not everybody fears dying quite so much as they maybe should.”

Calder dismissed the gunsmith and his fatalism, chewing on their problem once again. They had two Readers and a gun; there had to be something they could do with those. And if the Inquisitors really took away groups of prisoners each day, then Jerri was in as much danger as they were. He needed to get everybody to safety, and he needed to do it immediately.

Andel only watched him think. At any second, Calder expected a sarcastic comment, and he was prepared to respond in kind. But Andel stayed silent, watching.

For the better part of the next two hours, Calder considered and rejected plan after plan. They didn’t have enough time to invest anything substantial, and it would be foolish to rely too much on the gun. What if the cultists were willing to take a pistol round?

What it came down to, as always, was a lack of information. When did the Elderspawn Inquisitors come to take their prisoners? What would happen to them afterwards—might there be a chance to escape en route? Calder posed several small questions to Duster, but either the man didn’t have the answers, or the answers were useless.

After two hours of collecting and sorting information, Calder finally asked, “Are you certain you have no idea where our other weapons are?”

“I was sure the last time, and I haven’t come across any new information in the past ten minutes.”

“Not a hint? Not a clue?”

Duster peered around, his eyes mockingly wide. “I can be fairly certain they’re not in this room.”

This time, Calder let himself be deterred. “We’re going to have to fight someone or something, and we can’t do that with an empty pistol. If we at least had some powder and ammunition, that would be something.”

Absently, Duster pointed straight to the corner of the room.

Calder followed the end of his finger, but saw nothing there. “Are you trying to send me to sit in the corner, or…”

“My tools are in that direction. No weapons, but I could build a whole gun with the spare parts and tools I keep in there. Load it and fire it, too. We get to those, we could load the gun.”

It was hard not to snatch the pistol from Andel and club Duster over the head with it. “You said you didn’t know where the weapons are!”

“I don’t. I know where my tools are. I always know.”

Andel and Calder exchanged a look. “You’re a Soulbound? And you’re still in here?”

Duster let out a deep breath, ruffling the edge of his beard. “Not the kind of Soulbound you’re thinking of, son. If you need somebody to assemble a working pistol in two hours, I’m your man. You want a musket that will strike in the damp and never jam, no problem. Can’t throw much of a fireball, though.”

“A Soulbound gunsmith should be the best,” Calder said. “Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

Andel made a point of rolling his eyes. That was unusual for Andel; usually he understated his criticisms. And kept them less childish. Calder must have said something really stupid, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Be that as it may,” Andel said, “I think we’ve strayed from the main point. Marten?”

“Good point. I’ll get us out of the door. Duster, you’ll take us to your tools. From there, we’ll fight our way out.”

Duster peered at him as though examining a jewel. “That’s your plan, is it? Fight to my tools with an empty pistol, load it, and then fight the way out with one shot?”

“I wouldn’t consider planning my strongest suit, but my plans have worked so far.”

The gunsmith looked around, taking in the room where they were held prisoner. “Have they?”

Andel sighed, awkwardly lurching to his feet with his ankles tied together. “I hate to encourage him, but he’s almost right. At least he’s proactive, which I prefer to sitting here waiting to die.”

Calder pointed to Andel. “See? He’s onboard.”

“I said following your lead was preferable to being eaten alive by Elderspawn. Don’t let it go to your head.”

But it was too late. Calder knew a compliment when he heard one, and he couldn’t stop a slow smile. At this rate, Andel would trust him before the year was out. Then maybe he could work toward skipping out on his debt.

Duster reached down and pulled his ankle restraints off. They parted as easily as the bonds around his wrists. “Might as well face death like a man instead of lying here.”

“The measure of a man is his attitude,” Calder said brightly. Then he held out his bound hands to Andel. “Pistol, please.”

With visible reluctance, Andel handed over the gun.

Andel Petronus gave Calder the gun on what one might call a whim.

While Andel didn’t trust Calder Marten’s character, he was starting to trust a few other things about the man. For one, Calder kept trying. Persistence was an admirable trait on the Aion, even when it resulted in the man trying the most ridiculous, least likely plans.

To get past the door, the Navigator took the pistol and hammered with the butt on the door. He pounded away in a rhythmic pattern, as though trying to tap out a code. Finally, when a robed man opened the door with a sword in hand, ready to subdue the prisoner, Calder broke his nose with the pistol.

It was quite possibly the worst plan Andel had ever seen in action.

What if the man opening the door had carried a pistol of his own? What if they hadn’t opened the door at all? What if the Elderspawn had entered the room and simply eviscerated them all, unafraid of Calder’s empty pistol?

But it had worked, and now—somehow—he and Calder and ‘Duster’ were crammed inside a dingy closet at the back of the house while cultists pounded on the door and shouted dire promises. Calder set his newly acquired cutlass down and pressed his untied hands against the door. “Everything coming along back there, Duster?”

The old gunsmith grumbled, his hands blurring over the upturned traveling trunk they were using as a table. He’d first loaded the pistol, faster than Andel had seen it done, and put it into Andel’s hands only seconds after he’d received it. Now he was working on a more delicate project.

Duster—Andel already suspected the man’s real name, though he couldn’t be entirely certain—had a wide leather belt buckled around his middle. Every inch of the belt was covered in pockets and straps, and in each position, there rested a tiny handheld tool. If Andel didn’t know differently, the belt would have convinced him that Duster was a leatherworker.

But now, knowing what he did, he understood that he was looking at the Vessel of a Soulbound craftsman. Even when Duster wasn’t actively using his tools, their presence hung with dark gravity in Andel’s mind. Soulbound made him uneasy.

Not that he would show it.

Duster continued rolling powder into tight cylinders, tying each end off so that a single cowlick of paper stuck out. As he placed one cylinder into a pile, his other hand was already rolling another.

“Make something that explodes,” Calder had told him, and the gunsmith didn’t question it. He’d simply begun wrapping powder in paper—it looked like a mixture of ordinary black powder and something else, a bluish dust that had doubtless come straight from an alchemist.

“How many?” Duster finally asked, now that he had a healthy pile of ten or so miniature explosives.

“As many as you can make,” Calder said, just as a jagged pincer splintered through the door. The Elderspawn had arrived.

“…which is however many you have now,” Andel continued. “We’re out of time.”

“Point taken,” Calder responded. He released the door and steadied his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. “Duster, when this door collapses, light one of those things and throw it. Then…keep doing that.”

Duster held one up, though Andel was the only one to see it. Calder was facing the door, which was steadily being shredded under the Inquisitor’s assault. “Won’t get much out of these, just a flash and a loud bang. Might light a fire, if we get lucky.”

“That’s all we need,” Calder said, and at that moment the door burst inward.

The Navigator had to brace himself as a piece of the door slapped him, holding one arm to cover his face, but Andel was prepared. He was far enough back that none of the bigger debris hit him, and his eyes were narrowed to slits. When the Elderspawn scuttled inside the closet, Andel fired.

On the deck of a ship, a pistol was loud. Inside a closet, it was deafening.

A cloud of powder-smoke stole his vision even as the gun stole his hearing. His right ear felt as though a Watchman had driven one of those foot-long iron stakes through it, and his left was hardly better. But the ball had taken the lead Inquisitor in the head, popping one of its eyes. It flailed its ten spider-legs, backing up into the Elderspawn behind it. So the round had done its work.

Calder shouted something, probably trying to make himself heard over his own ringing ears, but a second explosion cut him off. It was the tiny bomb that Duster lobbed from the back, and it went off in a startling bloom of orange-white flame.

There were a number of Sleepless cultists behind the Inquisitors, but as soon as Andel had pulled his trigger, they’d gotten out of the way. Now the Elderspawn were fighting one another to back out of the doorway, flailing their spear-sharp legs as if they were blinded. They might have been screaming, though it would be impossible for Andel to tell.

Once the explosive had gone off, Calder charged forward. His lips were moving, which amused Andel in some small way. He can’t even hear himself, and he’s still talking.

Andel had decades of experience in combat, including several small skirmishes with Elderspawn. Never with Ach’magut’s Inquisitors, unfortunately, but he had an idea how this should play out. Calder would strike quickly, hopefully drawing some blood or taking a leg from the Inquisitor, and then back up to avoid the counter-thrust. If he could disable the Elderspawn in the few seconds before the Sleepless regained their courage, then he would be able to regroup with Andel and Duster. The three of them would overpower one of the cultists, taking the man’s weapon and turning it against the rest. In that way, they should be able to fight their way through the house. The narrow hallways helped them, preventing them from facing more than two or three at a time.

He was so convinced of this version of events, so absolutely swallowed by his vision, that he almost didn’t notice when reality played out differently.

Calder struck with the cutlass once, and an Inquisitor’s head slid off. Twice, and a crack appeared in the exoskeleton of the second. Though their heads held most of their eyes, they had at least a few sets covering every angle, and both struck at Calder as though they could see perfectly well—even the headless one.

But the young Navigator slid to the side, out of the doorway, and his blade flashed twice more. Chunks of Elder flesh fell to the floor in pools of inky purple blood, and the Inquisitors collapsed.

Then red blood sprayed against the walls.

One robed body fell down, two, three, and Calder lowered his cutlass. His chest heaved as he panted, though Andel still heard nothing over the bright ringing in his ears. Calder said something, gesturing to the dropped weapons, and then jogged away down the hall.

Before this moment, Andel hadn’t realized that he had never seen Calder fight. Calder had mentioned something about his mother training him as a duelist, and Andel had taken it as a joke.

He looked at Duster, whose mouth was slightly open as though he couldn’t figure out what to say. One of the cylinders blazed in his right hand, its paper fuse lit, and he absently extinguished the flame between two of his fingers.

Duster raised his eyebrows in a question to Andel, and Andel could only shrug. Then they remembered themselves and ran out.

Calder stood at the end of the hallway, facing an old man with a bayonet-fixed musket. The old man was visibly furious, his face red and his teeth bared in a snarl, as he thrust the bayonet toward Calder like a spear. Andel saw the problem immediately: Calder couldn’t swing his sword to parry in the close confines of a hall, and couldn’t get close enough to lunge under the superior range of the bayonet.

As Andel got closer, he simply lifted his empty pistol.

The old man jerked back at the sight of the gun, and Calder found his moment. The sword licked in, sliced the inside of the man’s arm, and slipped out. He grabbed Calder on his way down, forcing the Navigator to waste time peeling him off.

Andel walked by them. He might have helped, but Calder could handle it.

Past Calder, Andel glanced to the right. Everything was as they’d left it there: door open, the little boy hunched in the corner, the four men in varying states of consciousness around the walls. So he looked to the left, where a locked door stood between him and the captive women.

It didn’t take long to find a key; as luck would have it, the ring was tied to the belt of the old man clinging to Calder’s shoulders. Andel delicately reached through Calder’s straining arms to the old man’s waist, snatching the keys and leaving.

As he did, Calder shouted something that Andel had no hope of catching. If his ears weren’t ringing, he could have recognized a plea for help, but alas. He had no way of knowing what the boy wanted.

He turned back to the women’s door—there were only three keys on the ring, so it took five seconds to figure out which was appropriate.

When the door swung open, he saw five women, just as he’d expected. But not in the way he’d expected them.

Jyrine knelt before them, arms spread. They crouched on the floor before her, nodding or weeping or both, and a strange green light filled the room like an echo of a quicklamp. Jyrine’s head snapped around at the sound of the door opening, the light cutting off and her last words unfinished. Of course he’d caught none of it, but Andel would have given a hundred silvermarks to hear exactly what those words had been.

Maybe being in the headquarters of an Elder cult had gotten to him, but the scene before him looked exactly like the early stages of an initiation dedicated to Elder worship. He’d seen scenes like this before, in the Luminian Order; usually he’d kick the door down at about this point in the ritual, after which the room devolved into utter chaos.

Jyrine’s eyes flashed with anger and irritation before snapping into a mask of happiness and relief. Tears even welled in her eyes, and she rushed up to him, saying something with a smile on her face.

Andel took a half-step back. It was how fast she’d covered herself, more than anything else, that told him something was actually wrong here. Only madmen or actors went from rage to tears of joy in a half-second.

But there were more important matters at the moment. He took his eyes off of Jyrine, waving to the others, leading them into the hallway. They hopped along after him until he used his stolen blade to cut free their hands and feet.

Calder had already gathered the men, and Duster was hurling fire at another Inquisitor who rushed down the hall toward them. Their crowd ran along together in a harrowing escape through the night-shrouded streets of Silverreach.

Swallowed up in their race for life, Andel pushed Jyrine to the back of his mind. He had worse to worry about, and he forgot what he’d seen.

For a while.

Thirteen people piled on The Testament and left Silverreach behind. To the sound of Elderspawn screeching impotently on the shore, Calder guided the ship out to sea.

Hours later, surrounded by black ocean, he sent his Intent down through his ship and urged the Lyathatan to stop. The monster halted its advance, the chains on its wrists tugging the human passengers to a comparatively gentle rest.

Nine of the ten passengers they’d picked up in town were asleep. Some of them rested in the spare cabins below his feet, others in his own cabin under the stern deck. The Testament had plenty of space for passengers and cargo both, and was intended to sail with a larger crew than this one. Though Calder could essentially operate the entire vessel alone, through his bond of Intent, there were a thousand tasks that no one could handle on their own. Magical powers aside.

They were anchored at the border of the zone most people called the ‘deep Aion,’ as opposed to the ‘shallow Aion.’ Here, they were unlikely to run into any of the unnatural hazards or monsters that plagued the deeps. Especially not with a giant pet Elderspawn of their own standing guard beneath.

Navigators had a different term for this area at the heart of the world: the Aion Sea. The shallows weren’t the true ocean, with its unknowable terrors. They were something else entirely, something for lesser sailors.

Usually, Calder would have no problem setting the Lyathatan to anchor them even in the hazardous depths of the sea. The anger of their Elder or the agony of the ship itself would wake him if they were in danger.

But tonight, the perils of the Aion Sea loomed over him like a dark wave. His hands shook on the wheel, and his knees begged him to collapse onto the deck. If he did, he wasn’t sure whether he would fall asleep as soon as his kneecaps hit wood or if he’d simply melt into tears.

The danger of Silverreach had come too close, and more than that, it was too personal. They’d grabbed him, taken his weapons, kept his crew. Locked Jerri away, where he had no idea what would happen to her. They’d threatened him with Elderspawn, and beneath it all, the oppressive presence of Ach’magut lurked as though he could split the earth at any second. Until they were two hours out of Silverreach, he’d still felt that silver tingle in his spine like he was being chased. He was having a hard time scrubbing the inhuman shrieks of the Inquisitors from his ears.

It was good that the fear didn’t overcome him in combat; it never had. He felt clear and clean when facing danger, as though he could see farther and faster than normal. But afterwards, when he had a chance to think, the razor’s edge he’d been walking finally sliced him.

He held himself together by sheer force of will, staring blankly into the night and trying not to think about what might have happened if they hadn’t escaped. As he did, a bat-winged shape fluttered out of the darkness and a heavy weight landed on his shoulder.

Tentacles tickled his right cheek as Shuffles checked his expression. “DARK,” the Elderspawn said, in its version of a whisper.

Inexplicably, even this presence—the presence of something that had just been giving him waking nightmares—settled him down. He reached up, letting the tendrils curl around his index finger. “Yeah, it’s dark. But we’re free, now. We’ve made it.”

Shuffles grumbled, not caring for his optimism.

The tenth and final passenger of The Testament stomped over to Calder, eyeing the Elderspawn through one pair of spectacles. Duster had declined space in a cabin, choosing to sleep on deck.

“You seem to like Elders, for somebody who doesn’t treat their worshipers so well.”

“‘Through understanding, we control the unknown,’” Calder said. “That’s one of the Blackwatch creeds.”

Duster grunted. “I’ve been checking your cannons.”

“And?”

“Lend me your shoulder, and I’ll push them into the water right now.”

Calder was too tired to laugh, and his limbs felt hollow. Nonetheless, he managed a weak smile. “Only had to use them once, and it turns out we didn’t need them.”

“Not too many naval battles among Navigators, I’d guess.”

“We don’t need the cannons for ships,” Calder said. “I’m more worried about other things of a similar size.”

“THINGS,” Shuffles rumbled.

Duster tugged on his beard before he spoke, avoiding Calder’s eyes. “You know, I was just passing through Silverreach.”

“Then you have Nakothi’s own timing.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have anywhere in particular to go. Give me meals, a bunk, a few silvermarks when we go ashore, and room to work, and I can take care of your cannon problem. Might be able to upgrade the rest of your equipment while I’m at it.” He flicked his hand at the pistol Calder wore as though brushing away dirt.

Calder all but froze, like a man afraid to startle a deer back into the woods. “We could use a gunner, as long as you can hit an Elder the size of a whale at a hundred paces.”

Duster snorted. “Son, at a hundred paces, I could shave you clean.”

Shuffles chuckled into Calder’s ear. “CLEEEEAAAANNN.”

“That’s a disturbing image, Duster, and I’ll thank you not to repeat it. And I’ll have to consult with the crew, such as they are, in the morning. That said…” He stuck out a hand for Duster to shake. “I expect nothing but a favorable response. Without you, we’d still be on dry land.”

The older man hid a smile behind his beard, but it quickly vanished. He didn’t take Calder’s hand. “One more thing you ought to know. I don’t intend to go into the hows and whys of it, so don’t ask, but I’ve never trusted the Guilds. Nor the Empire, and I have my reasons. As for the Emperor…let’s say that your Luminian wouldn’t like what I have to say about him.”

“Mr. Duster, believe me when I say that you are free to speak ill of the Emperor on this deck. Andel’s asleep now, anyway.”

“Keeping it polite, the Emperor is as distant and malicious as any Elder. Were it in my power, I’d see him stripped naked and quartered in the heart of the Capital at dawn tomorrow, and I’d take a saw to him with a smile on my face.”

Duster had stone in his eyes, as though daring Calder to contradict him.

After a few seconds, Calder let out a laugh and extended his hand again. “Welcome aboard The Testament, Mr. Duster. I can see we’ll get along.”

The older man shook, bewilderment on his face. An instant later, he was the one to hesitate. “And about this ‘Duster’ business, well…that’s not exactly my given name.”

Calder staggered back in an exaggerated display of shock. “What? Off the plank with you!”

Unamused, Duster plowed on. “I’m trying not to spread it around, so keep it to yourself, but I used to be from the Capital.”

“I’ll tuck that away in my vest and hold it there. You can trust me never to divulge that you were from the most populous city in the world.”

“…where I was a gunsmith,” he continued, ignoring what Calder considered perfectly delivered humor. “Name of Dalton Foster.”

Calder suddenly knew how his ship felt, snapped to a halt by the unbreakable grasp of the Lyathatan’s chains. He stood speechless for a moment before saying, “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I see.”

“Yep.”

Of the dozen questions floating around in his mind, he only had the presence of mind to blurt out one. “Are you sure you want to work for me?”