He studied the map carefully. He had been roving over this part of the world for nearly thirty years now and knew most of it like the back of his hand. He pointed to a series of trails and streams at the north base of Ebrius Ridge which intersected the road the company had taken to reach the Horn of Lear. “They were sent ahead of us to here. When we passed by, there was no sign of them, so chances are whatever happened to them occurred in the six hours after they left the company and we reached this point.”
There were a few villagers within a half-day’s ride of the road, but little else. Ebrius Ridge itself had mediocre soil and the constant threat of great bears to worry any settlers, so people tended not to farm in the immediate area.
Rendle tapped the map angrily with one finger, then started circling out in a spiral. He traced over the main road, the ridge itself, the edge of Kestrel Bay, back to Chandra… His finger stopped, then retraced to the coast.
“I was told Prince Lynan had been drowned off these cliffs here, but his body was never recovered.”
Eder looked over his shoulder. “Was he by himself?”
“No. He had at least three companions. A cripple, a girl, and Kumul Alarn. None of their bodies was found.”
Eder’s eyes widened. “The Constable of the Royal Guards was in on the king-killing plot?”
Rendle nodded. “According to official proclamations.”
“I saw him once, during the Slaver War. The biggest, ugliest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m not sorry he’s left this world.”
“But what if he and his friends didn’t drown and instead made their way up the ridge? Where would they go? They couldn’t return to Kendra, and they couldn’t stay on the ridge. And it all happened at the same time we were making our way here from the other direction.”
“You don’t think our patrol met them?”
Rendle shrugged. “Impossible to know.” He bent over the map again, his gaze moving north along Chandra’s length and into Hume, then west to the Oceans of Grass. “So where could they be heading?” he asked himself.
“You going to report this to the queen?”
“Report what? That we’ve lost a patrol to unknown attackers? We have no evidence one way or the other about how they met their fate.”
“Except that it was violent and their swords were taken.”
“Another mercenary patrol could have done that. Old Malorca was moving through that area with his archers the day before us; he’s always willing to take a snipe at a competitor.”
“We’ll have to fix him one day,” Eder said gruffly.
“But not this day. The new queen is offering enough contracts for all of us right now.” Rendle was still studying the map. He jabbed at a place marked as Arran Valley. “I don’t suppose Jes Prado is still settled there?”
“Last I heard, and with a good portion of his men settled nearby. They moved there to take care of some minor trouble in the region and stayed. But you never liked the man. What’s on your mind?”
“I think Prado’s a whining excuse for a soldier, but we’ve never had any problems with him and he’s a straight dealer. Send a message to him.”
“I’ll organize a rider—”
“No. I need something faster. Go to Kendra and buy a pigeon carrier.”
“What’s the message?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ll think on it over the next hour, but it will have to mention money, and a lot of it.”
Olio reached the rendezvous at Kendra’s harbor ten minutes before the agreed time. Prelate Edaytor Fanhow had agreed to guide the prince through the city’s worst slum, a tangle of streets behind the docks where sailors’ widows and orphaned children, whores and smugglers, fugitives and the unemployable all congregated like ants around a honey pot. Olio was determined to do something for the poor in the city and Edaytor had reluctantly agreed to show him the worst poverty Kendra had to offer.
The prince found a place to sit in the sun and watched a merchant ship from Lurisia being unloaded. Stevedores manhandled a winch over the ship while the crew set about tying thick rope around the biggest logs Olio had ever seen. It was rain forest wood, as red as flame and as hard as iron, and Lurisia’s main export to the rest of Theare. Three logs were bound together, the winch hook was slipped under the top knot, and the stevedores heaved back on their ballast until the load was raised above the ship’s gunwales. The final maneuver had the stevedores swinging the load across to the dock and slowly releasing the ballast so the logs could be placed gently in a waiting cart. When the first load was dropped, the ballast was released too quickly and the cart lurched, scaring the four oxen tied to it. Only the quick wits of the driver, who pulled back sharply on the horns of the lead ox, stopped the cart from being pulled away before its load could be secured.
There were sharp words between the ship’s captain and the stevedore boss, and then the second load was made ready and attached to the winch. As the winch was swung over the dock, the top knot holding the hook slipped and the load lurched heavily. Stevedores scattered from the winch, but the hook held and two of them hurried forward to release the ballast. As they set hands to the winch, the knot unraveled completely. The logs fell with an awful crash and the winch careened sideways, the ballast slamming heavily into the two stevedores who had tried to rescue the load. Olio heard the dull thump of the collision and then terrible shouts and cries as people ran to help the injured.
Without hesitation, Olio rushed to the scene. He elbowed his way past a gawping bystander and stopped suddenly when he saw the broken and twisted remains of one of the fallen stevedores. Blood pooled around his feet and he stepped back.
“This one’s alive!” a voice said, and Olio looked up to where the second victim was lying, his head supported by the crew boss. The prince stepped over the corpse and knelt down next to the injured stevedore. The man’s breathing was labored and blood flecked his lips.
“He’s dying,” the boss said grimly. “His chest is crushed.”
Olio grasped the stevedore’s hand and squeezed gently. The man’s skin was cool and clammy. His eyelids fluttered and opened, showing dilated pupils.
“Is there n-n-nothing you can do?” Olio asked the boss.
“He’s dying,” the boss repeated dully.
Olio reached inside his coat with his free hand and grasped the Key of the Heart. It felt cold to his touch. He waited for something to happen, not knowing what to expect. He felt nothing, nor sensed any change in the man whose hand he held. He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for some sign in his mind about how to use the Key. He remembered the sheer power he had felt after Usharna had healed the crookback. His hand around the Key started to tingle, but still he felt nothing passing from him to the injured stevedore, felt no surge of whatever it was that the queen had used. The stevedore moaned, then coughed. Blood spattered Olio’s face, but he ignored it.
“He m—m-must n-n—not die,” he stuttered under his breath. He bowed his head and tried praying to God, but the vague faith he held to gave him no sign. And then a hand lay softly on his shoulder and he heard words in a strange tongue spoken above his head. The Key in his hand seemed to come alive with sudden heat so fierce he wanted to let go of it, but he held on as the heat spread from the Key to his hand and then his arm, flowed into his chest, making his heart beat twice as fast, and then on through his other arm and the hand that held the stevedore. He could sense rather than see the aura of light and power that took shape around him and the injured man, and he could physically feel the stevedore’s ribs and lungs bend and warp and reshape into their normal form. The stevedore let out a great cry of pain, but no blood came from his mouth and his eyes were keen and alive.