Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The Renstown commissioner’s office was a bust. At least with regard to the amended shipping schedule and a box of errant wards, but Calya’s trip to the port proved useful in other ways.
Perhaps the deity Jin, the Everflow, She of the Golden Waters, smiled upon Calya’s mission, for, late the evening before, a small but costly accident had occurred between some drunken Winterfest tourists up from Central District and one of the docked cargo ships.
The port commissioner found himself with a number of time-sensitive shipments in need of new carriers, and Calya was happy to oblige.
By late morning, she’d negotiated an extended berth for one of Helm Naval’s smaller windrunners on the condition that the ship depart in the next two days with cargo destined for the Landing.
As she left the office, Calya spied the black-and-gold livery of Avenor Guard on the dock. It was a small unit of a dozen, and though Calya didn’t recognize all of them, the last man off the ship noticed her and raised a hand in greeting.
“Lieutenant,” Calya called out in greeting.
The brown-haired man dismissed his unit with a casual wave before turning to Calya. “Miss Helm. I didn’t expect to see you here.” His gaze flickered skyward to the heavy clouds and their promise of inevitable rain.
It was standard weather for the Valley of Sylveren, but the Valley and the lingering spirit of the Child embodied by the land had a way of making the environment feel welcoming—or not.
It had never cared for her, never claimed Calya, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit that the feeling was mutual.
Renstown was a Valley town, but its size and location at the head of the river serving as the main route between the Valley and Graelynd made for a slightly less insular air.
“Seeing my sister,” Calya said. “A bit of business, that sort of thing.”
She’d known Orren Garr for most of their lives, he being only a few years her senior.
They’d met several times over the years when he’d worked on joint contracts between their companies, though they’d never worked closely together.
He came from humble means in Graelynd’s North District but had gotten an offer after being noticed by Brint on a small job.
Orren had worked his way up from the dregs of Avenor Guard, earning his rank and a small team before the age of thirty.
He might’ve worked for another company, but Calya could appreciate his drive.
“I thought you were doing coastal work?” she said as they slowly made their way up the dock and toward the town proper.
“Been some smuggling activity out on the Hook,” he said, referring to the tip of eastern Graelynd. “Got called in while we were working through the Bay. On leave until after Winterfest, then we’ll probably have river duty on our way back to the capital.”
They reached the head of the town square. Orren paused, glancing in the direction of the tavern before returning to Calya. “Would you care to join us, Miss Helm?”
He was good looking, in a very northern Graelynd sort of way. A little blockish, yet soft, with a big nose and brown hair that had a floppy quality for all that it was shorn short enough to curl around his ears. He had boyish charm. Not the type to hold her interest long-term, but perhaps…
Lowe’s gray eyes flashed through her mind.
Calya kept her sigh internal. She gave Orren an apologetic smile, her tone regretful as she said, “I’m afraid I have a meeting. Enjoy your leave.”
Orren nodded to her and they parted, him following his unit and Calya back toward the merchant offices.
But the thought of verbally sparring with Wembly over her father’s complaints—which would only be worsened by her forging ahead with her deal to secure a ship for the Sentinels—had her detouring into the dockside market instead.
She meandered down the row, idly looking over the vendors’ wares.
A windrunner had arrived while she and Orren spoke.
As its passengers dispersed, some filtered through the market while others hurried down various streets.
Burrowed into her fur-trimmed cloak as defense against the rising breeze, Calya’s vision was narrowed to the stall in front of her.
A man passing by bumped into her hard enough to knock her into the table.
He didn’t apologize, one hand fluttering in half-hearted acknowledgment as he strode on.
With a disgusted noise, Calya glared at his retreating back. She stamped after him. “Hey—”
His voice cut over her as he gestured to get the attention of another man lurking at the end of the market row.
The newcomer had his cloak hood pulled up against the weather, but Calya thought she glimpsed hair that was the near-white blond common in Rhell.
Not an uncommon sight, given that the kingdom of Rhell neighbored the Valley and many of its mages had studied at Sylveren.
“…we were meeting on the ship?”
Calya stilled. She knew that voice. Recognized its ability to carry, to cut through all manner of external noise. A quality that would’ve been fitting for a commander, or someone worth addressing a crowd.
Anyone but Calya’s ex-business partner. Her sister’s ex-fiancé.
Brint fucking Avenor. Here, in Renstown. In the Valley. Why? Frankly, Calya was surprised he was allowed to set foot in the Valley of Sylveren after the trouble he’d caused at the region’s hallowed university.
“…had to… in person,” the Rhellian man muttered, jerking his head to indicate they should leave. Calya heard only snippets of their conversation, the words tumbling amidst the ambient noise of the market crowd: “…letters can’t put off… eval forever.”
A Rhellian man in the Valley was nothing out of the ordinary, but one meeting with Brint? Highly suspect.
Keeping a respectful distance, she followed Brint and the other man.
They strolled away from the market, following the stone road that skirted the edge of town.
They climbed a short flight of steps to the main square, but instead of heading into the busy street, they paused at the railing overlooking the port.
Hovering at the bottom of the stairs was too far to hear more than snatches of their hushed conversation, so Calya nonchalantly walked by.
“It’s fine,” Brint grumbled, hands gripping the railing. “I have everything—”
“We’re all fucked. It’s just a question of how…” The other man lowered his voice even more until Calya had passed.
She ducked beneath the portico of a building across from where the men stood, keeping her hood pulled far forward. Tucking herself into the meager cover provided by the stone forming the side walls and open entrance, Calya closed her eyes to better focus on the men’s conversation.
“…out of my hands. I couldn’t lie to Saren’s face!
” The other man dragged a hand through his hair in frustration, knocking his hood back.
Definitely Rhellian, and he lacked the polish Calya was used to seeing in his countrymen.
Rhell culture tended toward staid and very put together.
Nicer people would’ve called it timeless, classical; Calya tended to think of them as fussy and snobbish, where exceptions had more a tendency to prove the rule than flout it.
Given the Rhellian’s tatty workman robes, which bore more than a few stains from dirt and who knew what else, Calya pegged him as a grovetender. One not so wholly loyal to Sylveren University, apparently. Or perhaps a broke grad student yielding to the burden of debts.
“What do you think we’ve been doing?” Brint said, scorn thick in his voice. “You should’ve warned me. I could’ve intercepted—”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you kept your people on a tighter leash,” the other man snapped back.
“Song’s not here to save you,” he hissed. “We can’t fix it—”
“Save me? She got herself caught,” Brint scoffed. “And because you couldn’t stop a godsdamned letter, the fucking Sentinels are sniffing around about the fucking Landing. If she finds out, you can bet she’ll stick her nose in. Anything to do with her precious company and—”
A hand grasped Calya by the forearm. “What are you doing?”
She reacted on instinct. Or rather, tried to.
For several years, Calya had trained under a self-defense instructor, an expatriate from one of the islands far south of Graelynd.
With umber skin and a voice like iron, the grizzled older woman hadn’t minced words or encouraged Calya to form any delusions of attaining martial prowess.
They’d drilled in a few basics—only what a young woman aggressively pursuing her business dreams in the meat grinder that was Graelynd’s Central District should know.
Her instructor would’ve been disappointed to see her now.
Calya did manage to stomp on her assailant’s instep, earning a grunt of pain.
Rammed her elbow into his gut, too, though she scraped across what felt like a buckle and probably hurt herself more than her target.
She knew she was supposed to flee; her instructor hadn’t fooled around on that point.
Make an opening and run. No pausing. A pause was an opportunity for thought to creep in.
For Calya to think, and get mad, and want to win because she was a horribly graceless loser.
But she knew that voice, too. She paused, and instead of fleeing she found herself pressed up against the wall as Nocren Lowe loomed over her.
“Hello, ranger.” Calya planted her hands on Lowe’s chest and tried to move him. “You’re kind of—”
He caught her by the wrists, holding her fast. In a mild tone, he asked, “Miss Helm. Why are you skulking in the temple entrance?”
“Because I didn’t want to draw attention. Obviously,” Calya said. “No thanks to you.”
“I didn’t realize espionage was one of Helm Naval’s services.”
“This is a personal—” Calya peeked under his arm. “Oh, shit.”