Cargo:

  Fifty-three prisoners (two are near death, may not make it to shore)

  four crates of rations (provided by the Greenwoods)

  2 kegs of rum (bought by meself) - Manifest of the Salty Pelican.

  Redport, in Judge’s estimation, was a farm girl attending a banquet. It was playing dress up, scrounging together the nicest things she could afford in the hopes of attracting the attention of a lavish young gentleman to provide her a better life. Such things never worked though, and it was often better to stay away from such men’s attention. They preferred short term value over stability. The buildings in the city were adequate, with a few stand out ones to draw attention from preening richfolk to ooh and awe at them. Judge ignored the towering architecture he passed beneath. Who cared how much effort had taken to construct it? A building was a building, a person a person. The outside was a distraction, it was within that mattered.

  He knew all too well he was in the minority for his sentiment, feeling his face stretched to its limits. A few clerks nearby gave him a wide berth, for some reason unfathomable to Judge, they appeared uneasy. He barked out a laugh, long and just mad enough to inspire fear or worry in those who heard it. Best keep up his reputation. Perhaps he was not so far off from that farm girl either, he was playing pretend just as much as her. Yet, he had the advantage of people heeding his words, if only under threat of imprisonment–or worse.

  He eventually reached his destination. Opening the door, he entered into his own private chambers. Of all the advantages he was afforded for his power, this might be his favorite. Across all of Artaghan, he had rooms made ready for him to take at a moment’s notice. In Redport, the room was simple, lacking decoration. That was fine by him, clutter made for weak minds. Knick-knacks were a tool of the distracted and the boring to generate interest for themselves. The only important thing to note in the room was the man standing still in the back, almost like a statue.

  He looked human, still was–if only barely. Judge nodded to Fourteen when he entered. They did not move. “You have Sendings.”

  “So I do,” Judge replied, collapsing onto the couch in the room’s center. He rubbed at his forehead, and massaged his aching jaw. Why must speaking hurt? “From whom?”

  “Arrietty complains about the changing tides and you abandoning her. Baudouin is updating you on the noble rebellion in House Groloth, apparently Benedikt is gaining support. Darius warns of more frequent attacks on the Reef.”

  “Is that all?” Judge asked.

  “Yes,” Fourteen said seriously. Sarcasm was lost on the Senders. Judge rolled onto his side, sprawling on the couch, trying to get comfortable while he thought. “Send to Arrietty that I apologize for my sudden absence, but I received word about a large capture of House Groloth agitators, and believed I needed to be there. Promise her I will be back in the capital soon, and that it will not happen again.”

  Judge closed his eyes, thinking while Fourteen sent his message. The Senders were unnerving. Their Guild was an enigma. They had no origin, history seemed uncertain when they came about, with rumors persisting they had existed in one form or another since before humanity’s arrival from the Broken Land. Their Gift gave them a pseudo hive mind, allowing instant communication from one Sender to another, regardless of distance. Whatever Spirit it was that granted such a Gift, was a zealously guarded secret, hidden in the bowels of their fortress in Runnings.

  Arrietty needed to be placated. She was growing restless, stuck in the capital, and surrounded by the old families, who, despite the remaining Flowers best efforts, still were the ones who made the decisions. Time would tell which of them would stand once Judge had his way. But, plots were glaciers, and Arrietty demanded a wild fire.

  “Your message has been received.”

  “Good,” Judge said, though he doubted he would feel the same when Arrietty finally returned his message. Her temper had been draconic in the last few years. “Send to Baudouin that I understand the current situation, and am in Redport trying to get further information. Oh, and remind that old codger to stay out of my business and to do his duty.”

  Cursed Baudouin. Of all the arrogant old nobility, why had it been him Arrietty chose to work with? Granted, he was the only one who offered allegiance when they needed it, but still. He was nosy to a fault, and entirely too good-hearted to get anything of note done. Judge would have positioned the Flowers much further ahead if Baudouin did not consistently interrupt his illicit dealings. Deal with one annoyance, and another takes its place. At least with Baudouin, Judge could predict his every decision.

  “And to Darius?”

  “I don’t have time to deal with the Reef. He is being sent a contingent of traitors. Either use them, or don’t. Stop badgering me.”

  “Highly irregular way to speak–”

  “I don’t care Fourteen. I have given the Reef everything they have demanded and more. Never have they been better funded. I could not spare them an additional scale if I even had the desire.”

  “Very well.”

  That was a good thing about the Senders. They rarely argued, and when they did, they would concede with the slightest pushback. They existed to Send, and did little else. They ate less, talked less, lived less. Judge had tried to bring Fourteen with him to parties, merely curious as to his reaction. The thing refused.

  “New Sending for you.”

  Judge looked up, closing his eyes and preparing himself for Arrietty’s tirade. She never failed to respond quickly.

  “Greetings Judge, I have a new law I need passed.” Judge nearly fell off his couch as a strangled sound left his throat. When Fourteen spoke, this time it was in a voice not his own, a deeper basso that almost seemed to echo. Sender’s could mimic the exact message asked to be sent. He knew the voice well, for it was that of the man who held Judge’s life in his palm. Centurion Caesar Cicero, perhaps the most powerful man in the world.

  Careful to keep the tremble of fear from his voice, Judge stood back up and dusted off his coat. “Pray tell, what law is it?”

  Centurion was not a man for delay, Fourteen responded instantly in the older man’s voice. “Exact details will be forthcoming. I will be sending a friend to visit you, but the gist is that a new council must be formed. It will be composed of merchants, and be allowed to lend their voice to the decisions the Dragon’s Council and the Noble Council already makes. I am quite certain if you propose it to Arrietty as a way to give regular people a hand in the government, it will be a palatable law for her to pass.”

  Judge swallowed, entirely silent.

  “Well boy, speak up, I haven’t all day.”

  “I believe…” Judge began.

  “You believe nothing. You pass what I wish you to pass, lest we forget our deal. Unless of course, you wish that Dragon of yours to know–”

  “No need for that Centurion,” Judge said, his voice harsh. Centurion was a predator, and they would jump at the slightest sign of weakness. Judge had already given him the opportunity to pounce, and would not falter again. “I will hear out your friend’s proposal. But the scales are already against us, and Arrietty cannot afford more dissension. Threaten me if you wish, but you will not so casually remove me. Without I, you lack the ability to manipulate Arrietty.”

  Fourteen laughed, an eerie thing to see a man so without humor or emotion make such a sound. “This is why I like you Judge. Maybe though, if things fail to move in the way I want, the Throne might find itself open for the taking. You lack the understanding of all the moving pieces. This law must be passed, one way or another. I look forward to hearing from you.” Fourteen fell silent.

  The adrenaline finally caught up to Judge. He collapsed onto the couch, breathing rapidly, the sweat beading on his forehead. Centurion was now brazenly threatening Arrietty? He never was so obvious before. Either he was rattled, or he was confident. Either option was something to worry about. He felt the onset of a migraine as he rubbed his temples, eyes closed, trying to figure out the best step forward. The next step was always harder than the last, but you never reached your destination if you refused to move.

  *

  Lydia climbed into the carriage. It was not the nicest she had seen, but nor was it one of the prison carts she had been in before. The seat was hard against her bottom. Comfort was barely a concern. Four soldiers climbed aboard, two in front, two behind, and they whipped the twin horses into action.

  She was leaving Redport behind.

  She was leaving the Red Wraiths behind.

  She was leaving her sister and her family behind.

  She was leaving Gwynfor behind.

  Lydia knew she would have to, she never intended to stay in Redport for long. There had been too much to do. Yet, she had hoped for the chance to say goodbye, to help the girl find a bright future. Instead, Lydia had set her on a dark path, like the snake whispering to the dove. Would the dove be eaten by the wolves, or find the sky to live free in?

  And Malcolm, poor Malcolm. He was given no funeral, interred in an unmarked grave by unfriendly men. Lydia had wept over that. Revenge was due for his death. Her nails dug marks into her skin as she thought upon Dylon and his mercenaries. Their cart made grinding sounds against stone as the horses clomped their way through the streets. Dragon’s Throne was a long way from here. It would be faster by boat, but none was heading to the capital, not after the dangers at the docks. Lydia had made the journey before. She had been across Artaghan many times prior. She never felt alive unless she was on the road or making trouble. She smiled, for she would be on the road, heading to make trouble.

  Her promise to Judge was void. Humans never kept their bargains. Her ancestors' history was proof of that. Arrietty may have meant well when she made her promises, vowed to improve the relationship between man and elf. Where had that ended up? The instant Kaladhen died, she bargained with that monster Centurion, selling her soul to survive. The elves had been cast aside, Lydia had been cast aside, all for the sake of helping scant few. So turned the wheel of repetition. Steps forward were made in one place, while things got worse in another. A perpetual state of unimprovement. Only the wealthy, and the powerful gained.

  Arrietty gained much in her time. That was what Lydia intended. She would not have a trial, she would put Arrietty on trial. Demand before the world action, or she would spark revolution. Once more, though, it would fall into Arrietty’s hands. Her choice: friendship, or fire.

  *

  “So, despite the utter defeat at the hands of the Wyvern Guard, there is still much anger amongst the population, so much so that the remaining Red Wraiths are being given a surreptitious honor guard to protect them from retribution?” Atilan asked.

  Theothere nodded. He was an unremarkable looking fellow of medium height, brown hair, brown eyes, brown shirt, black pants. “Aye, that’s right. The soldiers thought they had em beat good and down, then that Judge went an released the whole lot o’em. Now words’is they’s itching for another fight. Angered theys are with how it all went down.”

  Judge bit his lip, thinking. Judge and Lydia both were under the impression that the Red Wraiths were done with after their failed protest. Perhaps that was not the case. It would complicate matters here. But what assistance could Atilan lend? He was so tired, and still had more to get done. He hadn’t even started looking over Hadian’s journal, let alone considered what Caistlin had to do with all this or how he got the cursed thing. And he still needed to leave, go to Absolution and investigate Lacian’s lead. And he had to help Gwynfor too. High Father above, why could he not forgo sleep? Was he not a perfect human specimen? Why did sleep still strike him with weariness?

  “Thank you Theothere, this was most helpful. Any other news in the city?”

  “Not much, you seemed to know more than me. Makes a fellow feel unneeded.”

  Atilan tossed him a scale. “Never unneeded. I just had a long day and learned a lot. Keep your eyes and ears opened. I feel I will have a need of them.”

  Theothere disappeared back into the alley, as Atilan vanished. He had helped the man escape Banishment when he was just a boy. Blinking constantly just to stay awake, Atilan made his way back to the church. Normally, he would not stay there in town, as a general rule of thumb, Atilan did not want to associate himself with the church, not after his soft banishment and disagreement with the Elders. But, with him working with Lacian, Atilan could agree some unity, if only as a veneer, would be beneficial in this time. Besides, he needed a soft bed.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He nodded to some of the Pastors he passed, and noticed how many soldiers dotted the courtyard. He felt he could still smell the blood, even over the perfumed scent of flowers blooming from his earlier miracle. Inside, he found an unused room and took it for himself. He sat onto a chair, and forced opened Hadian’s journal. His eyes swam as he tried to learn what they said.

  Atilan fell asleep.

  *

  Willow saw Gwynfor turn away from him, as he was pushed the final step onto the ship. It was like passing from life into death. He blinked, and everything seemed more gray. She had abandoned him. No, she had chosen to save a kid first. He would have done the same, so would Lydia.

  It still hurt.

  Willow jolted up, and hit his head on the wooden plank right above him. “Ow,” he grumbled, blinking away the dream. He still saw Gwynfor turning away from him. He shook his head, and his mind was drawn to other thoughts as his belly rumbled. He was hungry, even more than normal. He had thought once he understood what starving felt like. He had been wrong. Hunger and starvation were as different as a garden and a forest. Alike at first glance, but two entirely separate things. His belly felt like it was collapsing into itself, and clawed at his interiors. His body begged for food.

  “TO YOUR FEET AND TO WORK!” A voice, already too familiar to Willow, shouted. Sighing, Willow rolled to get out of his bed. Well, perhaps his shelf would be a better word. There were five of them stacked atop one another, with maybe a foot of space between them. They were wood and they had only a thin blanket to rest on. Willow put his beneath him, he would rather be comfortable than cold. Careful so as to not hit any of his bunk mates, he swung off the bed and stood at attention in line.

  A grungy looking man wearing a worn leather coat that looked like the rats had gotten to it–in fact the man looked like rats had gotten him as well–strode down the center of whatever the lower part of the ship they were in was called. Malcolm had explained boats to him before, but it was a lot of big confusing words, and Willow hadn’t known why alls of them were needed. He frowned, thinking about Malcolm. He missed the old man. Would he ever see him again? Would he see anyone he knew again? Yes, he would. Of course he would. Even if Gwynfor or Lydia, or Malcolm, or the Wraiths, or anyone he knew couldn’t get him, Willow was the best sneaking in all of Redport. He could stow away–that was a term he did know–and never be caught. Count on it.

  But Ghost might be a bit of fun. All those stories couldn’t be true, and half of them did seem fun anyways.

  A sharp pain lashed atop his head. “OW!” Willow complained, glaring at the uh, he couldn’t remember the title or role, or position, or whatever the man had. He was holding a wooden club, which he was slapping against his hand as he glared down at Willow.

  “No smiling here rat,” the rat-coat man said, and quite bold it was.

  “Sorry, couldn’t help it!” Willow said. He ducked away as another swing was aimed at his face this time.

  “WHY YOU LITTLE!” the man bellowed.

  Willow darted to his bed, as the, uh, person followed him. Behind him, Willow heard a couple of muffled laughs. He smirked. It was way too dreary here, Willow couldn’t help having a good time, so he figured it wouldn’t hurt making a few smiles in turn for his beating. He didn’t make it far before his pursuer caught up to him.

  Later that day, his backside still stung as he was stuck elbows deep in the dishpit, soaked to the bone and smelling of rotted food and fish. He was humming along to an old tune Lydia had always used to sing, though he knew none of the words. They were all in gala–something, one of the elven languages. His companion was a silent block of nothing, more muscle than mind, and Willow wasn’t sure if he knew how to speak. Willow had tried engaging him in conversation, but the way he held the pan up made Willow think he would find better prospects in a graveyard. At least there he might find a friendly ghost or a benevolent gravetender.

  So he scrubbed in solitude, his hands dried out from the water. They had been out at sea for three days, and somehow they were already nearly out of provisions, and it ain’t a lie. Willow had snuck into the storage himself, scrounging for a snack or three, yet he left with none. Oh well, theys were supposed to arrive to Ghost soon. Not that Willow expected food of good quality there. But, you never know, Gwynfor used to make fun of the odd things he liked to eat, so maybe he would find their stuff appetizing.

  A bugle sounded, and Willow looked up at the sharp noise. He rushed away from the pit, water dripping from his arms as he sprinted up the stairs, nearly barreling into another of the prisoners. He tried to avoid looking too closely at their faces, there were too many dead looking eyes and blank expressions. No matter how hard he worked, few of them seemed willing to laugh. Atop the deck, rain thundered down, and instantly Willow discovered he had not been soaked. Hand over his eyes to stop the rain, he stared hard as he could out into the distance. He saw it, a black mass on the horizon, slowly approaching. Even cooler was the silhouette of the Reef. It was the entire horizon, a wall stretching far as the eyes could see. Feared, yet respected, Willow had grown up hearing of it, and yet now he could see it. He ran back down to the pit though, much as he wanted to watch the arrival. He would drown or freeze first, if they didn’t get him for ignoring his tasks.

  The big lump of nothing though said nothing to him when he returned, nor did it seem he had told anyone of his absence. Maybe he was nicer than Willow gave him credit. Or he didn’t care. Either way, fine by him.

  By the time Willow was done with the cursed dishes, he knew they were close to docking. The crew were out and about, and there was a lot of yelling and cursing going on. His fellow prisoners had also begun to gather, all lined up and proper, and all too dead looking, waiting for their fates. Willow tried to dry off his hands, but all the towels left were soaked through so he just waved them around for a bit and called it good. He took his place in line, and waited.

  And waited.

  The ship stopped moving, but the cursing and yelling continued. He had grown up around sailors, working at the Siren. They loved swearing, probably more than they loved women, at least best as Willow could tell. It was comforting, in a way, it felt like home. He kept smiling.

  Everyone else was not.

  Maybe he should sing, that might get them happy.

  A mountain of a man grumbled behind Willow, taking his spot in line, with a face that looked like it had been molded from clay. Maybe singing wasn’t a good idea.

  Finally, shouting was directed at them, explaining and yelling what they were to do, go one by one, meet with some important people or another. Willow yawned, only kinda listening. He had the gist of it. As they started moving, Willow took to watching the docks once he was out of the below-deck or something. It was still raining, and quite windy, to the point rain sleeted nearly sideways. Apparently, it never stopped raining in Ghost, not once. Some punishment by scary creatures in the sea, annoyed at their Reef. Well, Willow would soon see if that was true or not. The docks were devoid of much life, outside their boat. A couple other ships were moored, but there was little activity. Everything was bobbing up and down, and Willow saw a few others looking green. He hadn’t been out on the water much, but some of the docks were floaty, and he knew the feeling of water beneath him.

  Onwards the line moved, and he snaked his way down the gangplank and onto the docks. It was freezing, and he wished he had a coat. He could no longer feel his feet or hands, and his teeth chattered like it was winter. Why was it not going faster? Each person had to stop and talk with one of three men, dressed in weird looking coats that rain seemed to fall off of. Watchers of the Reef, Willow figured. Their coats were gray, as were their pants, and their undercoats. Gray, gray, gray. Not even a cool dark gray, but the dullest gray Willow could picture. Finally, Willow’s turn came.

  He saw a darkened face, little happier than the others he had met, missing an eye, and lips turned into a scowl. He had an athletic looking build, and Willow would not bet on beating him in an arm wrestle, even were he full. “Hiya,” Willow said, offering his hand to the man.

  To his surprise, the man took it. “Hiya,” he responded in kind, and the moment he spoke, Willow changed his estimation of the man. His voice was warm, and while there was still a deadness behind his gaze, Willow saw a flash of life as well. “You look cold my boy, did those Morterran cursed sailors not give you a coat?”

  “Nope, I even asked for one. Tried pilching one too, but none to be found.”

  The Reef man narrowed his eyes. “I’d not admit to stealing so brazenly, were I you.”

  “Ain’t this place prisoner everything, no laws and such?”

  The man laughed. “There are no real laws here, but there are guardians and expectations. The Reef keeps its eyes out and keeps the peace, and I suppose there be the vessel and his priests at Mellowhaven who do good work too. But don’t get it in your head to go about stealing, or harming. It won’t end well for you, as a rule of thumb.”

  Willow held out his hands, and gave two thumbs up. “Got two of them still, best avoid losing them.”

  The man smirked. “You ain’t much like our normal visitors. Got a name kid?”

  “Willow, no last name.”

  “Last names are curses if you ask me. I left mine long ago.”

  Willow nodded, some sage advice, that was. “What’s your name?”

  “I am called Wendellhaid.”

  “Wendellhaid, nice to meet ya. What am I to do here?”

  “Well, if you want my advice,” Wendellhaid said, turning and holding a hand out. “I would wait right over there.” He took off his coat. Beneath it, he wore a weird shirt of a material similar to the coat–also gray. He held it out to Willow, who took it.

  “Thank you!” Willow interrupted, putting it on. It instantly shielded him from the sleeting droplets.

  “You’re welcome. If you wait there, I can take you to the Reef, introduce you. You have other options, but the Reef is the best in all o’Ghost–if you ask me.”

  “I won’t make any promises, but I did always want to see that place. I just might take you up on the offer.” And Willow went to wait at the pointed spot. Perhaps Ghost would not be as bad a time as he had worried.

  *

  “Is he still out there?” Marion asked. Allan swallowed, and very carefully, peeked through the closed blinds. It was midnight, and not a soul was wandering the streets. Ever since the Banishment, five nights prior, few dared wander the streets after dark. It was too dangerous, what with the Red Wraith and the soldiers, and everything else going on. But, as had been the case last night, and now tonight, a man was out, subtly eyeing their bakery. He had not been the only one, there had been the long haired one too. Sometimes it had been both, other times just one, but for over a day, they had stood there, watching them. They both carried weapons, and would wear dark expressions when they thought no one was watching them.

  “Yes,” Allan whispered, closing the blinds. He was breathing hard. He was not cut out for this. He had joined a militia in his youth. During the succession war, he had served as a cook for the city militia as well, though he had never seen a battle from more than a mile away. He could barely run a mile. Yet, he feared these people meant him and his wife harm, or even worse, maybe they meant his little girl harm. He did not know where she was, all they had been told was she was a prisoner, and was performing a service instead of a sentence. He did not know when Gwynfor would be back, if she ever did. No, she would be back, he had to believe.

  Fighting back tears, Allan said, “I don’t know what they want, but maybe I can go reason with them. We have money to offer. He looks like–”

  “No, Allvan,” Marion said, using his elven name. He glanced at her, eyes questioning. She met them with that same old expression, the one she had used to steal his heart. He gulped. “Then what do we do?”

  Outside, Allan heard footsteps. His face blanched, they were coming closer. There was a knock at the door. “Go,” he whispered. Marion stayed put. He knew she would. He went to the door. The knock came again. He opened it.

  Outside, the tough had vanished, and instead, Allan saw a man he had met a few times before, but would have never expected here. Peytiel Greenwood, garbed in a simple black coat over a white ruffled shirt. He had sharp eyes, an ovular face with a very long forehead, and prominent ears. He was, perhaps, the richest man in all of Redport, even counting the nobility who lived here.

  “Mr. Greenwood,” Allan began, trying to shake himself out of his terrified stupor. “Please, come in, I was–”

  “No need for formality Allan, this will be but a quick and simple meeting,” Peytiel said, holding out a hand.

  Allan swallowed. “Oh, what can I do for you. We have the cakes you requested, they should be ready for the feastday tomo–”

  “I am canceling the order.”

  “--rrow, they are perhaps…Canceling?” Allan asked, his brain finally putting together the words stated. “You…you cannot do that. I spent a fortune on the ingredients Mr. Greenwood. We had a deal.”

  Peytiel sighed. “Allan, Allan, Allan,” he stepped inside, and put on a morose expression. “I am truly sorry, but your name has become a liability to me. Father of convicted agitator, husband to Lydia Thyshar’s sister? You, my friend, are bad for business.”

  “But…the order, you cannot have cakes ready for the feast tomorrow. Stop working with me after this, you don’t want to ruin everything when things are already so tense.”

  Peytiel smiled, and it chilled Allan to the bone. “I have already put in an overtime order at a new bakery across town. They were all too happy to comply. Word is already spreading through town about their speed and efficiency. Once more I am sorry–”

  “Get the hell out of our house,” Marion suddenly said.

  Peytiel slowly turned to glance at her. “The sister speaks. I thought you were mute for a moment there.”

  “Since you were so worried,” Allan began, speaking up himself to draw Peytiel’s focus back to himself, “about how sorry you were. Don’t be. I don’t want to work with scum like yourself anyways. Now, in the words of my wife, get the hell out of our house.”

  Peytiel bowed, stepping past their threshold, an arrogant smile besmirching his features. “Very well. I shall take my leave.” He turned, his feet loud against the cobbles. “I do hope you see your daughter again, though it may be after your complete and utter collapse. Goodbye Allan.”

  He was gone a moment after. Allan shut the door, and sank slowly to the ground. He felt Marion’s eyes on him. “Allvan,” she whispered.

  He shook his head, wiping away his tears. He could not let her see him cry. “We’ll be fine. Gwynfor will be back soon, and everything will go back to normal, I promise.”

  He glanced out the door. The thug was back.

  And Allan knew, there would be no more normal after this night.