Demos seemed briefly amused. “If I wished to be rid of you, scribe, I wouldn’t need to kill you. I’d leave you here.”
“Call it a professional courtesy,” Ehren said. “You aren’t a smuggler or a pirate.”
“I am today,” Demos said.
Armed members of the Slives crew rushed past. Behind them, Ehren heard screams as the men began seizing women and children and shackling them.
“And a slaver, too,” Ehren said, trying to keep his tone calm. “Why?”
“This most recent enterprise has ended in a less-than-satisfactory fashion. I’ll sell them when we reach the mainland and defray some of my expenses,” Demos said. He glanced out to the west, as they headed down the quay, his eyes on the rising blackness of the storm there.
After that, Demos fell silent until they boarded the Slive. Then he began to give orders immediately, and Ehren hastened to stand out of the way. The slave patrol brought in a score of chained prisoners, while several other men fought a brief, ugly brawl with inhabitants of Westmiston who objected. A pirate was slain, the townsfolk beaten back with half a dozen dead. The women and children passed within a step of Ehren when the slavers hurried them into the hold, and he felt nauseated at their distress, their sobs, their cries of protest.
Perhaps he could find some way to help them when they returned to Alera. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, and tried not to think on it, while Demos and his crew rigged the ship and headed for the harbor, tacking against the strong wind while men strained at the oars to give the ship all possible speed while the darkness of the storm grew and grew, until it looked like nothing so much as great mountains looming up on the horizon. It was unnerving, as every sailor aboard the Slive threw his strength into driving the ship directly at that glowering, ominous tide of shadow, until they could clear the harbor and round the island.
They had just broken into the open sea when Ehren saw what his instincts had warned him about.
Ships.
Hundreds of ships.
Hundreds of enormous ships, broad and low-beamed, sailing in formation, their vast, black sails stretched tight and full by the gale sweeping along behind them. The horizon, from one end to the other, was filled with black sails.
“The Canim,” Ehren whispered.
The Canim were coming in numbers more enormous than any in Alera’s history.
Ehren felt his legs turn weak, and he leaned against the Slive’s railing for support, staring out at the armada plunging toward them. Distantly, in Westmiston, he could hear the storm chimes ringing in panic. He turned to see the drunken, disorganized crew of the other ship rushing down to the docks-but at the speed the Canim fleet was moving, they would never escape the harbor before they were cut off by black sails.
The Slive rounded the northernmost point of the island of Westmiston, and her crew adjusted the rigging for running before the wind instead of into it. Within minutes, the Aleran vessel’s grey canvas sails boomed and stretched tight before the dark storm’s windy vanguard, and the Slive leapt into the open sea.
Ehren paced slowly aftward, until he stood staring off the Slives stern. Ships detached themselves from the Canim fleet and fell upon Westmiston, wolves to the fold.
Ehren looked up to find Demos standing beside him.
“The women and children,” Ehren said quietly.
“As many as we could carry,” Demos said.
Smoke began to rise from Westmiston.
“Why?” Ehren asked.
Demos regarded the Canim fleet with dispassionate calculation. “Why let them go to waste? They’ll fetch a fair price.”
The man’s lack of expression, whether in word, movement, or deed, was appalling. Ehren folded his arms to hide a shiver. “Will they catch us?”
Demos shook his head. “Not my ship.” He lifted a hand abruptly and pointed out to sea.
Ehren peered. There, between the Slive and the oncoming armada, a sudden wave rose directly up from the sea, against the flow of the others. Ehren could hardly believe what he was seeing, until water began to break around the massive shape that had risen from the sea. He could see few details, from this distance, but the black, enormous shape that stirred the surface would have stood taller than the Slives sails.
“Leviathan,” he breathed. “That’s a leviathan.”
“Little bit shy of medium size,” Demos agreed. “They’re territorial. Those Canim ships have been stirring them up as they passed for the last ten days.”
A deep, booming thrum ran through the water, so powerful that the surface of the tossing sea vibrated with it, tossing up fine spray. The ship shook around them, and Ehren clearly heard a plank give way and snap somewhere below them.
“Damage party, starboard aft!” Demos bellowed.
“What was that?” Ehren breathed. The soles of his feet felt odd, aftershocks of the vibration still buzzing against them.
“Leviathan complaining,” Demos said. He glanced at Ehren, and one corner of his mouth might have twitched for a second. “Relax, scribe. I’ve two witchmen below. They’ll keep us from bothering the leviathans.”
“And the Canim?”
“We’ve seen four ships smashed, but it hasn’t slowed them down. There, look.”
The vast shape in the water moved for a moment, toward the armada, but then descended, water crashing into its wake, swirling in a vortex for a time even after the leviathan dived. By the time the first Canim ship reached the spot, there was nothing but a restless remnant of the enormous beast’s presence, a rough-stirred sea. The Canim ship broached it, spray flying, and held its course.
“Say this much. Those dogs don’t have a yellow bone in them,” Demos murmured, eyes distant. “All but the biggest leviathans get out of the way of that storm coming behind the Canim. They’ll take a few more losses on the way over, but they’ll get through.”
“You were carrying a message to them?” Ehren asked.
“That’s no business of yours,” Demos said.
“It is if you’re complicit with them, Captain. Did they simply let you escape them?”
“Didn’t let me,” Demos said. “But then I didn’t give them much choice in the matter. They weren’t as sneaky as they thought they were. Crows’ll go hungry before I let some mangy dog-priest stick a knife in my spine.”
“Priest?” Ehren asked.
Demos grunted. “Robes, books, scrolls. Talks a lot of nonsense. Name was Sari.”
Sari. Formerly the chamberlain to Ambassador Varg at the capital-and the creature who had plotted with the vord to strike down the First Lord. Sari, who had escaped from Alera, despite all the efforts of the Legions and lords to find and stop him. Sari, who, Ehren was now sure, must have had help inside of Alera.
“Kalarus,” Ehren murmured.
Demos sent Ehren’s earlier words back at him, imitating the scribe’s inflection. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Ehren studied the man for a moment, sure that the overt denial held covert confirmation. If so, then Demos had been hired by Kalarus to take a message to the Canim-who had promptly attempted to kill him before he could escape. Obviously, Demos had no intentions of participating with the authorities by way of retribution-that kind of criminal seldom found others willing to do business with them down the line. But he must have been angered by the betrayal, enough to let Ehren obliquely learn who had hired him and what was happening.
“You know what this means,” Ehren said, shaking his head. “A messenger. This armada. It’s war, Captain. And you are not the only one who has been betrayed.”