From up here, Blueport looked like a painter had knifed some squares out of the haze where the land fell into the ocean. At least it was all downhill under the scorching sun. The wind was a mixed blessing as it lifted dust from the empty fields along the road.
Still, farmers were out preparing for the wet season. Were their lives much affected by a lack of paper and glass? Did they miss vanilla and camellia? Able should ask them. If he'd learned anything, it was that trade disruption reached deeper into the strata of society than those in power cared to notice—no, Method had said he couldn't write about the embargoes now.
Able shook his head and pulled out the book, a compilation by five astronomers from the University of Godmount in Dagbruir discussing their observations of a new light they'd discovered in their telescopes and theorizing that it was, in fact, a planet. This. This is what he'd gone to school for. This was what he'd thought he'd become a part of. What he'd belong to. The Byways, Claimers, and Lord Oranges of the world vanished from this side of the text, so Able hid inside it as he walked the afternoon away.
Blueport was in its last burst of energy as its citizens hurried through the final tasks between them and whatever meal they might be concocting of the steady inbound stream of foodstuffs from all four reaches of the seas. Able stopped and stood like a stone in the surge of the streets as he stared up the artisan's way.
It would take him past Wells Press and Printing, just two blocks before he'd turn into the residences where his uncle Noble Well's two-story townhome was packed in just a span of feet from houses just like it. They'd be eating supper. They'd be so glad he'd joined them, or at least Ma and Auntie Charity would say several times. His brother Practical would chastise him about the pamphlet, but Uncle Noble would find the bright side in getting Lord Orange's attention.
Able's shoulders felt heavier with each breath. His tongue became lead in his mouth. He turned to continue down the broadway and into the breeze flowing off the harbor. Either that or his decision to keep walking alleviated his symptoms.
He slipped between a yoke of oxen contently chewing their cud and the wagon stopped at an awkward angle in front of them, as their driver colorfully pointed out to all in earshot, and up onto a boulevard lined with restaurants, many of them famous in both empires for enticing the wealthy to come on food tours. The sort of establishments that would readily buy any shark someone had netted. Their kitchen windows were wide open, assailing the dust and stink of the streets with citron and cinnamon. As if they could convince Able he was hungry after all.
He was, just not enough to eat. Or rather, he was hungry for something that wasn't food. Recognition, as Method had suggested? Justice? Maybe just some damned rest?
At last, he'd reached sight of the Midnorth Wharf, just as crowded with towering masts as the street was with people. Mostly the Larbant red and white fluttered from the tall ships, but just as many flew either the indigo of Myratan and the saffron of Heldun. No Dagbrui green, of course, though certainly some of these ships were owned by Dagbrui members of the Merchant Court or manned by sailors from the other continent. All the world in one harbor.
These sailors and, as the day ended, local dockworkers flocked to Gull's Alehouse, bringing their stories with them, making this place a library of its own kind. An even more sweltering one. Able slid his tunic off again and folded it before slipping it into his bag. The hooks on the wall by the door were already stuffed full of similar personal effects, but he found a spot just outside the entryway.
The main room reverberated with salt-weathered voices vying to be heard above one another, above the laughter, above the scrapes of chairs and clinks of mugs. Able patiently maneuvered himself between tar-scented, sweaty bodies to the bar, where Gull Linefield proudly stocked at least a barrel of everything imaginable, intent on being more diverse than his clientele. Which is why he gave Able a doleful look as he passed him a mug of his usual: the least expensive domestic ale.
Able smiled in apology before wading back into the crowd. He found himself smiling a different way as he sidled towards the dark corner where he could listen to the tales, and complaints, and perhaps even news—
"You Careful Houser's boy?" croaked an older fellow's voice just behind him.
Able swallowed a groan as his guts tumbled. So much for avoiding his family this evening. Could he pretend he hadn't heard and carry on? The hairy mass of a man in front of him wasn't budging.
"Houser?"
Able sighed before turning to an old man leaning back in his chair with a nearly empty mug in one hand and an unlit pipe in the other. The orange sunlight from the windows was too similar to the lantern light hanging from the ceiling, but by squinting Able found the man's face familiar. "Yes, Able Houser."
"That's a relief! You're pale enough you could've been his ghost."
Able forced a smile. The fisherfolk of Blueport were proudly as dark as their teak boats when freshly oiled, but after a decade of indoor life, Able appeared more like a long-neglected deck. "Brave Salter, if I remember right?"
"That I am. You must be the younger one—saw your brother not two weeks back at the Eastone Wharf. Said your mum's in good health, bless her soul. It's lucky she's still got the two of you to look after her now." Not as lucky as they were that the neighbors hadn't loudly wondered how Pa had managed to vanish the one time he left his sons ashore.
"We're doing all right," Able steered the conversation back into safer waters. "Hope you can say the same."
"Oh, I got complaints aplenty! Join an old man for a drink?"
The corner still sat, empty and inviting. "Oh, I'm just—I'm really tired from work."
"At the university, your brother said?" Salter raised one straggly eyebrow and shook his head. "What kind of work is that?"
Able fought his mouth to keep from clenching his teeth. Perhaps Salter didn't mean that like it sounded. "Well, right now we're preparing Professor Woodbrook's empirical to go to press, and it represents over twenty years of botanical research he's conducted himself as well as compiling—"
"You know," Salter interrupted, "Longsight has been having a hard time with his back and could use an extra set of hands on his ketch."
Able didn't even try to stop his teeth from grinding this time. "I'm sorry about his back. I'll mention it if I meet someone looking for a job."
"Why aren't you?" Salter looked honestly perplexed. "Yeah, your ma didn't want you to get drafted, and mind, I don't judge any boy who managed to avoid it. Ugly business, the whole thing. But that time's over now. Even the soldiers have come home."
No, hardly any of them had come home. Not alive. Which was upsetting enough without Salter's fresh invasion.
Fortunately, before Able could compose an ill-advised retort that would surely get back to his family, an outburst rolled over the sea of voices. "Wait, the Bors' Rebellion? No, no—you're telling it wrong!"
Able whipped around. What rebellion? Was something happening in Borealund? Since the end of the war, not much news had come out of the woodland territory where it had been fought. And no news of Pa since he'd set sail for it.
Near the center of the room, several people rescued their mugs as a wiry man clambered up to commandeer their table, which wobbled as he found his feet. This was no fault of the table's, no, the man already had two sheets to the wind and was working on loosening his third by the looks of the mug in his hand. He was also the sort commonly described as a salt-encrusted barnacle, pulled off a ship in from the North with any luck.
"Now, then. I'll tell you how it all started." His voice was suited to contending with squalls, so the hubbub didn't stand a chance. "The Larbant enforcers had built this prison, see, the most fortified they could muster in a savage land. There they locked up all—all the strongest, toughest, meanest Bors. It were the captain's first mistake."
Why, because in close quarters they could conspire together? What were their transgressions? Able sidled a little closer and into an empty seat with a good view.
"His second mistake were he chose his most veteran guards. He posted ten inside the prison, aye, and ten more outside. Ex-soldiers, these were, weathered and tried. They could handle their prisoners, easy. Yet they shifted uneasy at their posts while midnight drew close in the midst of the dark moon, for they could see naught twixt the towering pines."
"Why not throw some thunder and lightning in there too?" called a burly fellow from the floor, who then turned about to grin at those that laughed. Able only blew impatient air through his nose. Then again, such a carefree environment could make for looser tongues.
"Aye, good call," agreed the storyteller with a sloppy grin. "A thunder rolled in the distance, but the captain thought himself too wise to trust the hair rising on the back of his neck and too important to show unease like his men, so he ignored the urge to draw his sword. And that were his final mistake."
He raked his finger across his throat, flung his hand wide, and teetered from the effort. The now red sky shining through the row of windows facing out to sea assisted his dramatic gestures. More conversations had trickled off, and he took advantage of the hush to lower his tone into more of a growl.
"Blood splashed across the faces of his men, and they turned to see a demon of a man materialize out of the shadows—a shadow himself. He flourished his sword and asked them who would be next. These were brave men, the whole lot, and they drew their swords, but it were for nothing. The Shadow cut them down one by one. A neck here, a heart there, until finally the last man was run through and pinned to the door whilst he tried in vain to alert the rest of the guard within."
Able slumped as he let out the breath he just noticed he'd been holding. A carefree environment could also make for looser facts. At least he was spared any need to feel sorry for men that had survived the war only to be struck down by some imaginary monster man. Greenhorn and saggy cur alike leaned forward to hear what happened next, leaving Able alone to console himself with ale. Well, what had he expected, anyway? After twelve years without a lead?
"But what were ten more men to the Shadow? He strode through them prison halls like he owned them, black cape billowing behind him, death in his wake. Until those dark halls were silent. Then!" The old sailor popped upright from his skulking posture. "He turned to the prisoners and declared, 'I am looking for men with hearts brave enough and backs strong enough to rise up and throw off the shackles of our Larbant masters. This is our land, not theirs!'"
Technically, it was Dagbruir's land until they'd surrendered it four years ago. Not the sort of detail that would rally your uprising or get your drunken audience chuckling and ribbing each other, granted.
"And the Bor prisoners—they cheered and swore their strength to his cause! He freed the convicts and led them through the night-shrouded forest until dawn. There they reached the count's castle, where even more enforcers prepared a tax convoy for its journey south."
Okay, that sounded more like a "rebellion." And a raid on a tax convoy would require the sort of coordination the insurgent group Pa had gotten involved with would have been capable of. After all, they had kidnapped a prince. Perhaps the rebels were intentionally spreading larger-than-life rumors about their founder? Not likely that this tale-teller was one of them. Able would be hard-pressed to find another Larbant getting people to cheer Larbant deaths, no matter how stridently they dissented from imperial policy. He crossed his arms and waited for more clues.
"From where they hid in the black woods, the Shadow pointed to the heavy carriage covered in locks and said, 'They've been taxing our people, taking food out of our children's mouths, saying it belongs to the Larbant king now, that we are his subjects. Well, I say we are not his subjects, and he will not steal our property from us, so let's take it back!' And take it back they did, and they been taking it back ever since!" The storyteller bowed and came his closest to toppling off the table, all to a cacophony of whoops and applause.
"Now that's some swill sense for you," Salter scoffed behind Able.
Able should have turned to make some show of agreeing. Shouldn't have let on that this silly story had piqued his interest in any way. No one should know what he knew. No questions, Pa had said, repeatedly. The less you know, the better off you'll be.
The storyteller had been helped down from the table and was difficult to spot between the bodies from here. So Able was already on his feet and weaving through them like the failure of a son he was.
By the time Able'd squeezed into in speaking range, the storyteller was listing in his seat, though not so much that he couldn't ramble his beer preferences at the hairy man beside him. And that man was listing pretty hard himself. A cursory glance over the adjacent tables tallied up over a dozen more men jawing and guffawing with each other in a familiar way. So the storyteller's crew, probably, who found their colleague's behavior unremarkable.
Well, Able was here, so he might as well make good on his foolishness. "So who was telling that Borealund story wrong?"
"Depends what you'd call 'wrong,'" drawled a man to Able's left. His skin was nearly ink black and quite displayed as his shirt, if it could be called that, lacked both sleeves and a collar. But he seemed comfortable like that, sprawled across his chair with his arm over the back of it.
Now it seemed even hotter in here. Able pried his eyes up from the man's sculpted chest before he threw a thumb over his shoulder at the storyteller. "Whatever he thought required a grand show of correcting."
The fellow snorted half a laugh. "Just the part where I didn't start with the jailbreak." He tilted his chair back to call around Able, "Because that's months and months old now."
"Never skip the good parts!" The old man raised his nearly empty mug aloft and still managed to slosh it over his arm. His crew-mates laughed.
But the man to Able's left just rolled his eyes and shook his head so that his wiry braids danced across his muscular shoulders. This might be perfect. He appeared to be from Heldun, and what stake would the people from the kingdoms under the equator have in the squabbles between the two empires? They'd given one queen to the emperor of Larbantry and another to one of the five families who ruled Dagbruir and called it square.
Able cast about at all the taken seats until he found a free one. "How many months is 'months'?" he asked as he snagged it and brought it over.
The Heldunni arched one eyebrow. "I dunno, six? Oi—" He reached across the table to tap the back of another sailor. "When did we see those wanted posters in Fairbanks?"
Fairbanks, the southern-most port in Borealund. Able wasn't supposed to know where Pa had been headed, but that was the most sensible destination for insurgents who had dragged the king's youngest son all the way to Blueport. Able swallowed down some beer.
The hairier, burlier sailor turned halfway around. "When were we in Fairbanks? Last year?"
"That long?" The Heldunni shrugged at Able. "Something like that. Yeah, folk were all talking about the jailbreak, 'cause the enforcers came around putting up posters about it. And the Bors just ripped them down again."
"The Borealunders ripped them down?" Able had never thought about it, but of course a people who had been Dagbrui citizens before the war wouldn't take readily to Larbant rule. "What did the posters say?"
The Heldunni scrunched up his face thoughtfully, which did not mar his fine cheekbones. "Was offering reward money, don't recall how much. Said there was a masked man dressed in black who committed the most nefarious crime. Guess Bors don't mind a murderer running loose, long as he's killing the other side." He blew air so that his lips bubbled together as he shook his head.
Able couldn't help but chuckle. "That doesn't mean he's a murderer. A 'nefarious' crime is a crime against the law itself, not a person. And 'the most' means the magistrate is taking whatever he did as a crime against his very office."
"What?" The Heldunni squinted and curled one side of his lip up. Why did people hate being corrected so much?
Able tried a reassuring smile. "I know, it's not very, uh, intuitive."
"You Larbants." He shook his head then chuckled deep in his belly and flung a dismissive hand. "What you even doing in a place like Borealund?"
"Oh, well, the official reason was the king's own brother was sunk off the North coast. Not that any faction, let alone Dagbruir, ever claimed responsibility for it. But it was really about the trees. Neither empire can 'allow' the other build a larger fleet, and who knows how many square miles of forest that is?" Able sighed and shook his head.
"Uh, lots?" the Heldunni replied cautiously. He had...not been asking in earnest, had he?
Able fidgeted with his mug and tried to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. "So if the jailbreak is old, what is new? A raid on a tax convoy?"
"Yeah!" The Heldunni's face brightened with a grin, teeth all the whiter against his ebon face. A lovely smile, very much like Able's old girlfriend's. Did he still miss her? "Yeah, we were swapping a load in Pearlshore, and that's all anyone wanted to talk about. This Shadow Warrior fella, he'd really stepped it up. Got a whole crew robbing convoys out on the roads, then passing out the booty. The enforcers are desperate to catch him."
"How is he doing it, though? Official convoys are locked boxes inside a lock-wagon and accompanied by an armed guard who do not have keys."
The Heldunni blinked then shrugged. "No one said. Maybe no one knows."
Able rubbed his chin. "But there were posters again?"
"Oh, huh. No, I didn't see any. Maybe they got tired of replacing them." Or maybe it was all just a story.
Still, taxes didn't simply go missing, no matter how new the territory. If there was any truth to this, the Royal Chapter would have records. Able nodded to his own decision to check first thing in the morning then stood to leave. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."
"Helpful?" The Heldunni chuckled and shook his head with bewilderment. "Who are you?"
"Oh, uh..." Able stalled awkwardly over the chair. "I'm just a local scholar."
The Heldunni arched an eyebrow, though he didn't look much surprised. "What's a scholar doing in a place like this?" He tossed an open hand as if Able might not understand he meant the alehouse full of seamen.
Able gestured out at the bay, still visible under the dusk-warmed sky. "I grew up fishing these waters. Then I'd come here for the stories. People like you bring the wide world in with you."
The Heldunni grinned again, knowingly this time, his dark eyes twinkling. "And it's out there for you to go get it."
Able realized he was staring. "...maybe it is, at that." He drained the rest of his ale and raised the empty mug to the Heldunni sailor. "You have a good evening."
The Heldunni closed his eyes and shrugged. "If you're sure." ...what was that supposed to mean?
Able didn't hang around to find out.