Chapter 8 Galwell
Galwell
Vestriya.
Galwell slipped down to the docks, eager for his first glimpse of sunlight in days. He’d received next to none the entire
voyage, only venturing out of his cabin when he worked with River in the dead of night to heft Captain Norcross—Dougal—overboard
on a wooden dinghy loaded with a week’s provisions. They’d told the first mate he’d tumbled into the Sweetwater. No rescue
mission was launched, for it turned out he was not well-liked by the crew.
Setting foot onto the creaking, waterlogged dock, Galwell breathed deep. He loathed hiding. He’d felt in danger of losing
his mind, shut up in his concealed cabin.
Now with every step, he felt himself returning.
The Vestriyan dock’s clamor embraced him, sailors’ shoulders rubbing easily with his while accented chatter surrounded him.
He found everything unfamiliar, yet he minded not. Even Mythria felt unfamiliar to him now, since his return into his own
future. Unlike home, foreign shores were supposed to feel foreign.
Vestriya—he could nearly hear the realm’s promises whispered in his ears when he gazed up.
If he was honest, the capital city’s grandeur surpassed Queendom’s.
The streets rose high with columned facades of cream-colored stone.
Stunning sculptures loomed from street corners.
Lively brewshops and bars spilled out into the streets on wide patios.
Galwell had heard of how, past sunset, the Vestriyan sky hued deep purple.
Even now, wisps of lavender and pink were streaking the cloudless sky.
Onto the waterfront the Sapphire Palace poured tourists who shared Galwell’s wonderment. He saw fingers pointed in rapture, heard gasps of excitement, and noticed
many passengers wearing imitation jerseys of professional horseball players.
The latter quickened his heart. Once he’d dealt with his assassin problem, Galwell himself looked forward to the horseball
Realm Chalice championship, which would be held in Vestriya later this week. Posters flapped everywhere advertising the match.
Indeed, he rather wished he’d remembered the jersey Clare had gifted him with the name of Zevan Wintersmith, the young Farmount
Falcons striker whose gameplay exhilarated the realm. On the run from hired killers, Galwell had unfortunately not had much
chance to pack with care.
For now, he fixed his focus on his mission. He could not concentrate on horseball until he’d located Mona Grandhart.
Luckily, harbors oft lent themselves to seedier folk. If he wished to find the local crime lord, he likely needed only ask.
He strode from the sea-slickened street down the first dark alleyway he could find. It was narrow, crookedly leading deeper
into the city. Decidedly villainous, Galwell determined.
He cleared his throat. He straightened. He ventured to look guileless, an easy mark for malcontents and miscreants. Villains
would come to him.
Instead, in a magical jolt of energy, two figures dropped in a heap in front of Galwell.
River was one. Galwell recognized the other, too. Celine . . . Hazelton, he remembered. Compared to other scribes who’d followed
him lately, he’d noticed the questions Miss Hazelton called out to him were uncommonly incisive. Not, respectfully, what Galwell
expected from the Mythria Spectator.
Celine was presently splayed out on top of River, looking startled.
Not just startled. The women’s cheeks reddened. Their locked eyes said this was the last place they wanted to find themselves.
“Wonderful,” Galwell stated dryly. “Romance.”
Celine scrambled off River instantly. River spoke first, flustered. “There’s no—romance,” she protested.
“We’re just friends,” Celine corroborated.
“Childhood friends,” River concurred. “We hardly know each other now.”
Galwell glared. He was wasting valuable moments for heroism here. “I may have been recently dead, but I’m not daft,” he declared.
“Why are you here?”
Celine smoothed her skirt. “You’re in danger, Galwell,” she stated, matching him for heroic solemnity. “River is here to protect
you until we may determine why.”
Galwell commended her valiance. However, he couldn’t welcome her intrusion. He turned skeptically to River. “I do not need
protecting.”
“Too bad,” River replied. The dark-haired woman’s voice held no emotion.
Galwell frowned. “And you?” he inquired wearily of Celine. “What will you do?”
“I,” Celine returned proudly, “am going to find out who is behind the plot to kill you.”
Galwell opened his mouth to speak, but River interjected. “You should accept our help,” she said, and Galwell realized he’d
overlooked the quiet conviction under her detached demeanor. “Celine is an excellent investigative scribe.”
Celine went Vestriyan-dusk pink. “Thank you. You’re an excellent, um, killer.”
“That’s very kind,” River replied quickly.
Neither would meet the other’s eyes. Galwell narrowed his.
“I can teleport anywhere,” River reminded him, ushering the moment on. “You can’t get rid of us.”
Yes—she had him there. The hero of Mythria ground his jaw, permitting himself one flash of very unheroic exasperation. “Fine,”
he conceded, throwing his hands up. “But just once,” he went on, starting off past them, “I would like to lead a party of
people who aren’t sorting out any sexual tension or unspoken longing.”
“Not sure I agreed to you being the leader of—ow!” River exclaimed.
Galwell glanced over his shoulder and determined Celine had elbowed her companion.
He strode on. Sexual tension or not, he liked the feeling of leading. If Vestriya was welcomely unfamiliar, leadership felt
like home for Galwell the Great.
“Clare has arranged a meeting with someone who can help us,” he informed them. Well-established objectives were essential
for successful questing. “Someone I believe can introduce us to parties with information about this dastardly plot. You may
come with, on one condition,” he declared. “No romance.”
His new cohort replied in unison.
“None.”
Very well, then. Leadership felt good indeed.
Galwell continued forth, grinning to himself. The dark passageway widened, the stonework overhead playing host to domestic
flourishes—clotheslines strung from narrow windows, horseball mascot flags hung from rooftops.
“Who exactly is it we’re meeting?” River inquired.
“She is called Mona. Mona the Merciless,” Galwell replied. He felt somewhat silly using Clare’s sister’s ominous moniker.
“Interesting,” Celine interjected eagerly.
Galwell was quickly coming to understand that earnest, insatiable curiosity drove her journalistic pursuits.
“Mona the Merciless is well-known in underground circles,” she explained.
“Young, though reports vary whether she is twenty-five or thirty. Princess of her own criminal empire, focused on stealing luxury goods from royal ports, with some intimidation and protection racketeering thrown in.”
“Celine has head magic of everlasting memory,” River informed Galwell, who was listening with interest while Celine divulged
this dossier fit for the queen’s spymasters.
“Mona often leaves roselia flowers where she strikes—” Celine went on contentedly.
Eyes fixed forward, Galwell slowed. He quite regretted interrupting Celine, but unfortunately—“We’re being followed,” he murmured.
River did not hesitate. In a warping jolt of magic, she disappeared.
Moments later, she reemerged, holding their pursuer—
“Thessia,” Galwell observed, dismayed. What did a hero need to do to get followed by real bad guys in this realm?
Neither her seizure by River nor the perplexing uneven goldenness he’d noticed in her hair could quell Thessia’s regal confidence.
“I listened to your entire conversation and I’m joining the party, too,” she informed him. “My body double will pose as me
on the gondola tour Hugh and I are supposed to be on—no one will notice I’m gone.”
“Not even your husband?” River asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Thessia said. She continued, offering no opportunity for the others to interrogate this intriguing response.
“You cannot kick me out, because I’m your queen.”
“But your honeymoon,” Galwell insisted.
“I can honeymoon and foil evil plans at the same time, Galwell. In fact, I would prefer it,” Thessia retorted. She drew herself
up, rising nearly to Galwell’s eyes. “I’m not the teenager you used to know.”
Galwell’s shoulders slumped. No, she was not. Thessia of Mythria had found her stubbornness while Galwell was dead. “Is there anyone else wishing to join my party?” he queried, unamused. “Perhaps the captain we heaved overboard? Oh, or the entire visiting Farmount horseball team?”
River snorted. “I’d like to see them keep up, the way they’ve been moving the ball this season . . .”
Galwell did not indulge this remark. Relenting, he continued on, his entire new questing party with him.
Unconventional, unnecessary questmates or not, Galwell needed to find some vagabonds. Well-established objectives, he reminded himself.
“Hello. You look of ill repute,” he greeted the first Vestriyan he found who fit the parameters. “Could you point me to Mona
the Merciless?”
The man, his features grease-streaked, was picking his teeth with whittled volshark ribs. His eyes shot up when Galwell uttered
Mona’s name. Without reply, he skittered off.
“Might not be wise to speak so openly,” River suggested.
“I’m not afraid,” Galwell replied. “This is more efficient.” He elevated his voice, catapulting his words down a dark alleyway.
“I’m seeking the notorious crime lord Mona the Merciless!”
Galwell congratulated himself when a limber, skeletal wraith of a man vestmented in night-shade leather slunk up to them.
He was, frankly, scary. Galwell’s companions stepped back instinctively.
Not Galwell.
“You want to be careful shouting a name like that in a place like this,” the skeleton man hissed.
“He meant no harm,” River interceded, urgency in the forced calm of her voice. “He died recently, so he doesn’t always know
how to behave.”