Of Truth and Beasts

Shade became even more enraged when Wynn made it clear that Chane was still coming with them. She had woven back and forth in the courtyard as if looking for a way to get at him. All Chane did was raise empty hands and wait. Wynn had to drop her belongings and grab for Shade. From that moment on, amid the rush to port, Wynn and Chane stayed focused on the task at hand. Neither of them spoke of what had happened the night before in the inner bailey.

Tonight, Chane was dressed the same, minus glasses and mask. The only noticeable difference was his old sword strapped on his other hip. He’d mentioned taking it to a blacksmith and having the broken end ground to a point, so it would be usable again. The old sheath’s end was cut short for the blade and crudely closed with leather lacing.

Wynn wondered why he’d brought it at all, as the sword he’d gained from Ore-Locks was far superior. But she didn’t ask. Chane had both of his packs—or, rather, his own and the one he’d taken from Welstiel—hooked over his shoulders. More than ever, Wynn didn’t like that insidious vampire’s toys being in Chane’s possession, with the possible exception of the brass ring.

Wynn wore her old elven tunic and pants beneath a knee-length gray travel robe and a heavy winter cloak. She carried her staff, its long crystal sheathed, and her own pack stuffed with scholarly needs. She’d also belted on Magiere’s old battle dagger. The last of their baggage was a medium-sized chest that sat at Chane’s feet, loaded with supplies, clothing, and Wynn’s journals.

They were as ready as they would ever be.

Chane pointed outward. “The skiff is coming.”

But Wynn looked back toward Calm Seatt’s great waterfront.

She saw no sign of Ore-Locks, though she’d sent him a message that morning as to the time and place of their departure. Only a few moments after, she’d second-guessed herself, but if he was determined to follow, there was little she could do to stop him, anyway. Still, if Ore-Locks missed the boarding, it wouldn’t be her fault.

“How many cabins do we have?” Chane asked.

Wynn welcomed the question, as the silence was getting thick. Anything mundane put off talk of what had happened between them.

“Two,” she answered. “I told Ore-Locks to make his own arrangements.”

She and Shade would need a cabin to themselves. Chane valued his privacy for obvious reasons. Ore-Locks could fend for himself.

“Perhaps he’ll change his mind,” she said.

“I do not think so.”

Chane was probably right. Ore-Locks’s estranged sister, a master smith fallen on hard times, had made Chane’s new sword. Wynn couldn’t guess what it had cost Ore-Locks financially and personally, and she wondered how he’d acquired it to barter for his inclusion in this journey.

The skiff had almost reached them. Wynn made out the beard stubble of one sailor kneeling in the prow. When the boat neared the dock’s ladder, the slim man climbed up to meet them and glanced down at the chest.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Just our packs,” Wynn answered. “We’ll keep those.”

She’d done well in using only one chest, considering they had no notion if they’d find horses, let alone a cart, when they hit final landfall.

“In, Shade,” she said, pointing to the skiff.

Shade circled behind Wynn, still watching Chane closely.

Wynn regretted not trying harder last night to suppress her memories from Shade, but she’d been too overwhelmed. Hopefully, Shade would come to her senses and remember how Chane had always protected Wynn in the past. They needed him on this journey.

“Shade, go,” she said.

The dog circled back, growling as she approached the dock’s edge. At the sight of her, one of the sailors at the oars looked up. His eyes widened at the massive wolf above, and his hand dropped to a knife in his belt.

“Leave off!” commanded the stubble-faced one.

High-Tower must have explained about Shade when he’d booked their passage.

Shade dropped off the dock’s edge. She landed in the skiff below, and it rocked sharply. Both oarsmen grabbed pier lashings to steady the vessel. As their foreman heaved the chest, the sound of heavy footfalls vibrated in the planks beneath Wynn’s feet.

She didn’t need to look.

Ore-Locks came down the dock, stopping at Wynn’s side with his long, red hair glinting under the lanterns. An overburdened sack was slung over his broad shoulder. He still dressed like a shirvêsh of Feather-Tongue, iron staff and all.

Wynn bit her tongue as he proffered a slip of paper to the bearded sailor.

It seemed he could pay his own way. How a stonewalker acquired money was a puzzle, but Wynn now had no legitimate excuse to leave him behind. Then she felt an unwanted spark of petty glee.

Ore-Locks looked down at the skiff and grimaced slightly. Most dwarves disliked sea travel intensely. Not that they couldn’t learn to swim, but rather that it didn’t matter—because they sank.

The sailor carrying the chest eyed Ore-Locks anxiously. He glanced at the voucher and then down at the skiff. A dwarf’s weight alone might make it sit very low in the water.