Chapter 1 #2
I kept my eyes downcast as tightness squeezed between my shoulder blades. Miasma was a horrible way to die. One of countless unfortunate daily risks for Voyagers, who had to venture across the corrosive acid ocean surrounding Mesmoria to obtain precious Starshells from the outer isles.
Shredders were the smallest creatures in the miasma, black fish with bladed teeth perilous enough that anytime they washed ashore it was an emergency for the outer perimeter patrol.
The full gamut of lethal living nightmares thrived in the miasma, everything from leech-like larva to Leviathans and Krakens.
And the largest creature that lived in it, the Devourer, was so massive that legend told its mere presence could create waves tall enough to drown all of Mesmoria.
I downed the rest of the contents in my cup in one gulp.
“Carelessness claims another life,” Yeshar said without sympathy. “Turning Apostates into Voyagers is a convenient way to execute us under the guise of honor,” Yeshar tapped idly on the table. Diego looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
“It’s the most honorable service,” Diego argued. “No one here could survive without Starshells.”
“Honorable for those who choose it, perhaps,” Yeshar said.
He made a valid point. We, as Apostates, had no say in our service.
My last two years had been spent completing the manual labor required of a prisoner.
Mining out rocks to shore up the perimeter was back-breaking, soul-crushing work, but it did have a tendency to make you stronger.
I could lift hundreds of rocks in a single day, not that it would guarantee my survival.
I had to hope it would help my odds to at least qualify as a Voyager during the Mistrun.
Whether anyone could ever be fully prepared to be a Voyager was another case entirely.
Death by Voyager service, or death by Nikolach’s hand. Hmm.
Potential death by miasma, I amended. At least as a Voyager, my demise wasn’t guaranteed. With Nikolach, it was a certainty.
Thinking about him reminded me why I was at Docksiders in the first place. My gut gave a sick lurch. Too much sweetstalk nectar on an empty stomach, probably.
Or my gut was right, about how dangerous a position I was in.
This was a half-crazy gambit, but if it worked it would be the ultimate ploy. Using one beast as a defense against another was risky, but turning Yeshar and Nikolach against each other would keep them both distracted, leaving neither focused on me.
I set my empty cup down, facing Yeshar. “Speaking of choices, I came here to give you a friendly heads-up. It's been brought to my attention that some sensitive information about your dust operation has ended up in the wrong hands.”
Beady eyes narrowed on me. “You're lying.”
Time to double down on your performance.
“No, I’m doing you a favor. But if I’m going to share with you what I’ve heard from the inside, I need certain assurances that it’s not going to get back to the source.”
“Alright, you have them. Let’s hear it.”
“Your word isn’t enough.”
His word was worth about as much as a grain of sand on the beach. He’d lie out one side of his mouth while promising you the moon with the other.
“But I’m supposed to take you at your word, with no assurances of my own?” Yeshar scoffed. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “How about we make it a game?”
Apprehension lurched to life in my stomach. “What kind of game?”
Yeshar jostled the pitcher back and forth. “A game for truth. Nothing brings out honesty better than nectar. We both drink four shots.”
Getting drunk the day before Mistrun to earn Yeshar’s trust was horrendously stupid. But I’d risk any level of stupid to keep breathing.
“Deal,” I said, reaching for the flagon and refilling my cup.
He poured himself a glass, knocking it back. Then another, and another. I followed his example, the room taking on a warmer hue. My head felt lighter, my skin hotter.
Yeshar looked far too collected for having just taken four shots. He made the holy circle of the Devourer with his hand, a sworn oath, and gestured for me to continue.
I frowned, considering making Diego join our game but Yeshar noticed my gaze and cut me off. “He works for me. He won’t repeat anything I won’t.”
It would have to suffice. “Nikolaah,” I paused, clearing my throat to try to keep from slurring. It would help if the walls would stop swaying. “Nikolach is talking. About your warehouse. If I were you, I would take care of that problem. Soon.”
I didn’t know much about Yeshar’s dust ring, but what little I did know had already been bartered away as part of my earlier-than-planned release. If he thought Nikolach had been the one to talk, it would protect me against Yeshar’s retribution when his product’s warehouse was inevitably raided.
It would be even better if he saw Nikolach as a liability.
Yeshar leaned back in his seat, perpetual scowl fixed firmly in place. “Why tell me this?”
I shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It never hurts to be owed a favor.” The further he was from knowing my actual reasons the better. “I came straight here from the Reformatory to let you know, as a courtesy.”
“Nikolach is a brainless thug. It would never occur to him, without outside influence,” Yeshar’s eyes narrowed, “to use what he knows about me to his advantage.”
My stomach sank. “People change. The Reformatory changes everyone.”
“Swear it,” Yeshar said, picking his dagger up from beside the mayapa core and extending the handle to me.
This was another test, and one I couldn’t fail.
Without hesitating, I took the dagger and sliced along the tip of my forefinger.
Emotions weren’t the only thing duller with nectar coursing through me, pain’s bite was weaker.
Blood slid down my finger, my engagement ring glinting in the dull light, mocking me as I held the hand up.
“Devourer return me to the Great Tide if I’m lying. ”
Devourer, forgive me. I’m lying.
Before I could react, Yeshar grabbed my finger and squeezed it tight in his grip. I winced. “Again,” he ordered.
“I swear it on the Devourer,” I tried not to flinch away from the pain radiating down my knuckle.
Instead of releasing my hand, he pulled it toward him, laying it flat, face up on the table and pinning it with his other wrist.
It took my sweetstalk-addled mind precious seconds to catch up to what was happening. My frantic gaze darted to Diego’s missing fingers. There was a clean cut across them, no welt indicative of miasma burn.
No.