11. Drowned Rats
Drowned Rats
Like a mirage rising from the desert sands, something shifted on the horizon in the late afternoon on the second day.
A trick of the mind. Misery conjured land the same way thirst could make an oasis appear.
Shivering in the clothes that clung to me like soggy rags, I squinted through the salty air.
Hope sliced through my fog of exhaustion.
The island of Inframare.
The journey had been relentless. Cold rain soaked through our clothes, leaving us perpetually damp. I never wanted that little bed at the Citadel, with its threadbare wool blanket, more in my life. I was miserable.
And so was Griffon. With his hood over his head and his stony expression, he loomed on the other side of the boat like a dark storm cloud. Since our conversation yesterday, he had been quiet and lost in thought. More than once, I caught him watching me, though he said little.
The quiet seemed to carry more than the words would have.
And that was okay. I was used to the solitude, considering I rarely interacted with anyone at the Citadel.
But my curiosity was growing, swelling with each passing hour.
I wanted answers to the questions that were piling up in my mind.
He was still such a mystery. What caused him to run?
What was his assignment for the queen? And most of all, what was his ember?
Cold, damp, and hungry, my exhaustion won out over my curiosity. I was just too drained to argue with him.
As we drew closer, my mind grappled with the sheer richness of color.
The city unfolded like a watercolor painting, with sloped clay tile roofs and weathered facades in shades of light blue, pink, sun-warmed yellow, and terracotta.
After a lifetime in a world of cold, grey stone walls, Inframare was a feast for the eyes. And I wanted to consume every hue.
Even more curious—it was as if there were no island at all. Instead of streets, canals wove between clusters of buildings that seemed to rise directly from the water.
The fishermen and merchants bustled along the docks as we found a slip to moor the boat.
Determined not to make a scene, like I did getting into the vessel, I stepped onto the weathered wooden planks while the boat bobbed.
I shifted my weight off the boat and staggered, my eyes going wide.
Dry land rocked with the ocean waves. My body told me I still moved, but I was sure I now stood on solid ground.
It was a strange sensation. I stood with my knees bent and my arms out, balancing myself like some sort of deranged flamingo.
“You’ve got sea legs.” Griffon turned, pulled his hood up, and walked down the gangway, scattering the gulls as he went.
Seagulls! They were chaotic, and so close, squawking at us and taking flight with an abrupt flurry of white-feathered wings as they scrambled into the air.
They were bigger than illustrations would suggest—and significantly more aggressive.
One of them fixed on my hair with what I could only describe as predatory focus, its beady eyes tracking my every step.
Another dive-bombed, mere inches from my head, feathers whipping my face with a hiss of wind.
Hurrying after Griffon, teetering on wobbly legs, I took in the bird's excitement as I passed and tried not to think about whether I smelled like fish.
We moved through the teeming waterfront. The first inn we found had no vacancies. And the second. And the third. By the fourth inn, we realized that Inframare’s annual marlin fishing tournament was to be held the next day. We’d be hard-pressed to find any rooms available tonight.
“What do we do now?” The last thing I wanted to do was spend another night on that boat. I'd rather sleep standing up in a broom closet. Or share a room with the seagulls.
Griffon pursed his lips and took in my water-logged appearance. “You need a place to get warm.” He turned back to the inn and deliberately placed his hand on the doorframe before turning to walk away. “Come on. We have one more option.”
Leading us back to a cluster of docked fishing boats, he surveyed the buildings along the pier. He steered us toward a rickety, unassuming wooden door tucked into the side of a small warehouse.
“I don’t want this to be tracked. Can you get the door?”
“Oh, so now you need me,” I muttered, but reached for the handle anyway.
The door was deceptively well-maintained as it swung smoothly on oiled hinges. The hum of conversation and clinking glasses welcomed us into a dark interior reeking of sweat, brine, and spilled ale. A windowless, smoky tavern appeared before us as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.
He scanned the room. Groups of men with cracked skin and faded clothing sat with pint glasses around wooden tables, chipped and worn from years of use.
He walked past the bar and toward a table in the back corner, crowded by aging wooden barrels stacked against the wall.
He didn’t approach the table but stood a few meters away staring at a dark-skinned, balding man with a wiry gray beard.
Next to us, a crowded booth caught my attention as their laughter pierced through the chatter. The youngest among them, with a mop of blonde hair and flushed red from drink, slapped his tankard down, sending a wave of frothy ale onto the table.
He leaned forward, slurring his words. “By the depths of the abyss, I ain’t lying!”
Next to him, an older man with a braided beard crossed his arms over his barrel chest and shook his head.
The man gestured broadly with what little ale was left in his mug, “They say now’s the time! The Skybreaker’s coming.”
The response was immediate. A chorus of mocking laughter and dismissive remarks.
“Here we go again.”
“Ain’t no such thing.”
“You joining the Seekers now?”
“A sect for the gullible!”
“Ha!” The older man with the braided beard chuckled. “And next week, their galaxy rock thing will turn up gift-wrapped in malachite.”
A smile tugged at my lips. Skybreaker, Seekers, galaxy rock thing…ale was clearly a powerful creative stimulant.
Griffon shifted next to me, pulling my attention from the commotion.
It was then that the man he had been staring at glanced up and noticed him.
The man’s eyes grew wide with alarm before he controlled his expression, folded his cards and excused himself from the game.
Griffon led me back outside and along the side of the building.
“Don’t say a word.” Not waiting for my reply, he turned, blocking me from view as the man warily approached.
Well, that’s not ominous at all.
“Charis,” Griffon greeted the man, his voice edged with intimidation.
There was fear and hesitation in the man’s squinty eyes.
Then he seemed to push the feeling away as his weathered face hardened and his lips flattened into a thin line.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t happy to see my traveling companion.
Which, based on my limited experience, I couldn’t really blame the man.
“What do you want?” Charis growled in a hushed tone.
“I’m collecting on that favor you owe me.”
Charis hesitated for a moment, then snapped, “How dare you think you can just come here again, wreak havoc, and leave death in your wake. I want nothing to do with your messes.”
I blinked. Death in your wake?
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
Charis took a menacing step forward. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”
Griffon remained unnervingly calm. “No, but I’m going to call your intelligence into question if you don’t start watching your tone.”
Charis shrunk back, his ruddy brown cheeks tinged pink with anger. “Who is it? Who are you after?”
“No one.”
I glanced at Griffon in question, but he didn’t pull his eyes from Charis.
Charis’ eyes slid toward mine, his brows scrunching in confusion. The glare reappeared on his face as his eyes landed back on Griffon.
Seconds ticked by. Charis' jaw worked, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. He looked away, then back again, as if wrestling with something he didn't want to face. Finally, he seemed to deflate. “Alright. Let’s have it,” he groaned with a resigned sigh.
“Put us up for the night, and we’ll be gone in the morning.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
Charis studied Griffon’s face. “I know I owe you for what you did for Gannet, but I also know better than to trust you.”
“I’m…” Griffon hesitated, “no longer of my usual employment.”
Charis’ bushy gray brows rose in surprise.
“Just one night,” Griffon repeated. “And I also need you to sink a small sailboat.”
He said it so casually, as if boat destruction was just a friendly favor.
“So you’re running.” Charis’ face hardened again as he thought through the implications. “And what about when they come here looking?”
“I’m taking precautions. I’ll make sure we can’t be traced back to you.” The image of Griffon placing his hand on the door of the last inn came to mind.
“As if I believe that,” Charis scoffed.
“You have my word.” Griffon paused. “If nothing else, you know I’ll keep that.”
Charis nodded, but he didn’t look happy about it. “If this puts Gannet in danger, Griffon, I’ll gut you myself,” he growled.
“It won’t.”
“Hmmph.” The sound came out of Charis’ nose more than his mouth. “Knew one day you’d be back to collect on that debt.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I had another way.”
“I doubt that. And what about her?” Charis nodded toward me.
“She’ll be no trouble,” Griffon answered dismissively.
I resisted the urge to point out that I'd been nothing but trouble since we met. Panic attacks on cliff faces, falling out of windows, general seasickness—I was a walking disaster. But sure, “no trouble.”
With sharp eyes, Charis looked me over. I was far from impressive with my damp, oversized clothing and stringy brown hair lying in tangles over my shoulders.
“What’s your name, girl?”
I looked at Griffon in question, and he nodded.
“My name’s Wren.”