And so he found himself in the Ardenine port of Baston Bay in the shrinking days just before Solstice.
The city rose from the ocean’s edge like a fine lady whose skirts drag in the muck at the hem. Up above were the mansions of merchants and sea captains, with their towers and widow’s walks. Farther down, a mingle of modest houses and shops. And finally, down at the waterfront, the clicket-houses and taverns and gritty maritime businesses that served the shipping trade.
As the major deepwater port serving the Ardenine capital and the down-realms, the Bay seethed with commerce of all kinds, licit and illicit. Evan had been in the city a number of times over the past two years—though, more often, he’d lain offshore, waiting for some of that commerce to come his way. The richest cargoes and the prime ships came and went through Baston Bay.
This time, though, Evan wasn’t thinking about cargo. He was thinking of a boy who liked to build things. A boy with a wellspring of pain hidden behind his stony face, his eyes the only window into a dark history.
The meeting was to take place at the Barrister’s Inn, one of those places where the name promises more than the establishment delivers. Evan couldn’t imagine that any self-respecting barrister would be seen in this hangdog little dive on the Heartfang River, just west of the harbor itself. Maybe that was why Destin had suggested it.
And now, here Evan was, dressed in his best leathers and linen, Destin’s amulet resting against his chest, Destin’s dog sprawled like a warm rug over his feet. Evan, as nervous as any untouched groom on his wedding day, was surrounded by an unlikely crew of pierced and tattooed chaperones. The only other people in the taproom were the bartender and a table of seamen deep in their cups.
Evan had been watching all the comings and goings through the front door, so he was surprised when one of the seamen heaved himself out of his chair and strolled over to their table. “Lieutenant Rocheford has asked you to join him in the back room,” he said in Common.
“Lieutenant . . . Rocheford?”
“Aye,” the suddenly sober seaman said. “He says the two of you used to go salmon fishing together when you were young. He’d like to buy you a drink.”
Only Destin would know that, which meant either the meeting was on the level, or Destin had betrayed him in great detail.
He kept secrets when you were together. There’s every reason to think that he’s still at it.
Across the table, Brody Baines scowled and shook his head. The message was clear: Don’t fall for it.
“Ah,” Evan said. “Now I remember.” He stood, and the others pushed back their chairs, too.
“He wants to meet with you alone,” the seaman said, stepping into their path. “He says you’ll understand once you hear what he has to say.”
“No, Captain,” Teza Von said quickly, putting his bulk in the way of the seaman. He made an impressive wall. “If he wants to talk to you, he can do it out here.” The rest of the crew muttered agreement.
That was when Breaker burst out from under the table, charged across the room, and began flinging himself at the back door, bouncing off, and doing it all over again.
Evan’s heart all but stopped, and then it seemed like he couldn’t get his breath. It was true. Destin was—he must be—just on the other side of that door. Evan had to take this chance. He had to.
“Wait here,” he said to his crew. “I’ll call you in if it goes wrong.”
“But what if we’re too late?” Jorani cried. She was the newest addition to the crew, and the youngest.
“Make sure you’re not,” Evan said. He crossed to the door, nudged Breaker to the side with his foot, and opened the door. As soon as it opened wide enough, the dog shot past him and into the back room.
And, there, in a chair by the fire, was Destin Karn, fending off Breaker the demon dog, who was doing his best to lick him in the face. When Destin looked up at Evan, Breaker finally made contact and then, apparently satisfied, curled up in Destin’s lap.
Evan turned, nodded reassurance to his crew, then stepped across the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him. “I brought your dog back,” he said, leaning against the door.
“So I see,” Destin said, stroking Breaker’s head. His face was concealed, then revealed by the light from the flickering flames. He was dressed entirely in black—the colors of the Ardenine King’s Guard. Evan wondered if that was intentional—meant to maintain a distance between them. “It seems that you have acquired the ability to raise the dead.”
“Some of the dead, some of the time,” Evan said. He paused. “Are you with the King’s Guard now?” He gestured toward the uniform.
Destin nodded. “I’m in a . . . particular division of the King’s Guard. Outside of the normal chain of command.”
“Does the fact you came in costume indicate that you’re here in an official capacity?”
Destin laughed. “If I were here in an official capacity, you would be in chains. You’ve become quite notorious, here in the wetlands. I’m proud of you, Pirate.” He pushed a chair out with his booted foot. “Would you like to sit down?”
Feeling a little foolish, Evan crossed the room and sat down in the chair nearest the hearth. Still country to this city boy. If Evan was deadly, Destin was always deadlier.
Evan had grown, but Destin had grown, too, so that the soldier still had a good three inches on him. He was thinner, too, though maybe the proper word was honed. Honed by whatever had happened since they’d been apart. Honed into a sleek and deadly weapon for the wetland king.
The silence between them grew until it was awkward. For two years Evan had dreamed of this meeting, and now he had nothing to say.
“I believe this is your meeting,” he said finally.
Destin lifted a decanter of amber liquid, poured for himself, and then extended it toward Evan. “Would you like any—?”
“No, thank you,” Evan said. He needed a clear head to pick his way through this minefield of a meeting. “I’m—I just had something.”
Destin’s smile was hard-edged, bitter, almost a grimace. “A wise move, Pirate. Never accept a drink from me. I am the midwife who delivers the king’s enemies into hell.” Destin swirled the liquid in his glass and drank it down, his throat jumping. The message seemed clear. I am not for you, and you are not for me.
“Am I one of the king’s enemies, Des?” Evan asked softly.
“Well, there is a heavy price on your head,” Destin said, studying his empty glass, as if deciding whether to refill it. “However, as an official of the king, I’m not allowed to collect.”
“Too bad,” Evan said. He lifted the hammer-and-tongs amulet from around his neck, wadded the chain in his hand, and extended it toward Destin. “Thank you for the loan of your amulet.”
“Keep it,” Destin said, waving it away. “I replaced it a long time ago.”
Evan slipped the chain over his head, pleased to feel the familiar weight of the flash against his skin. He fished a small velvet bag from inside his coat and slid it across the table, feeling like a suitor offering a series of unworthy gifts. “I saved your mother’s ring and locket for you.” He pulled a leather-wrapped bundle from his carry bag and set it next to the rest. “And . . . your father’s dagger. In case you wanted that, too.”
Surprise cleared the bitterness from Destin’s face. “You . . .” He stopped, swallowed hard, and brushed his long fingers across the leather, then met Evan’s gaze for the first time. “Thank you. It’s my mother’s dagger, actually,” he said, a bit of color staining his pale cheeks. “My father took it away from her the first time she tried to defend herself.” He paused, as if steeling himself to go on. “She’s alive, you know. My mother, I mean. If you can call it that.”
Evan sat forward, a spark of hope kindling in his middle. “Frances is alive?”
Destin nodded. “She lives with her family in Tamron.”