“Aye,” said Chester. “The lad’s been sick for a while now, but he still goin’ too. These political types, they really take the ‘till death’ part seriously.”
Another round of drinks was poured, and Chester began spilling his heart out to Farris, telling him all about the family he had left behind in Penance. His daughter, it seemed, would be heading off to work as a servant in a manor out by Ard Sidhe.
“It’ll be hard work, but she’ll live a comfortable and honest life over there.” Farris felt twinge of sympathy for Chester, who was bellowing with pride for a daughter who aspired to change the chamber pots of high-born men and women. “I’ll get to see her one more time before she leaves. I can’t face the thought of having to say goodbye to her.”
Chester paid for the next round of drinks again. He was growing visibly drunk now, slurring and ranting about the Humans on the ship.
“Rats… rats is what they call us. We let them work with our technology, in our skies, and they have the nerve to call us vermin.” He paused and looked over at Farris.
“Do you think I look like a rat? Do you think I look like a creature of disease an’ filth?”
Farris thought it best not to answer.
“When I look in the mirror, I don’t see whiskers. I don’t see a tail, or a muzzle, or beady black eyes. I see something that looks like a Human, but bigger, an’ stronger. As a race, we’re far more intelligent than they are, that’s a fact! We’ve forged our own brand of magic through fire and steam, and now we’ve conquered the skies. In their superstitions, the Humans will never leave this land. But there is more out there, Jacob. I’ve seen it. Humans may have taken Alabach with their magic, but someday we’ll conquer the world.”
Farris couldn’t help but grin. The Silverback often spoke about the lands outside the reach of the Crown.
“But hasn’t the Grey Plague claimed these lands?”
Chester guffawed. “Don’t believe the lies of the Church. They would have us think that the rest of the world is uninhabitable. There are some Simian scholars who believe that the first Humans were not fleeing from a mysterious plague but were the ones who brought it. Many accounts, from both sides, describe how more Simians died from the foreign diseases of Humans than in combat with the invaders. I have seen the hills beyond the sea to the east, and they are just as green and beautiful as these.”
Farris gestured for another round but was refused—perhaps for the best. The two Simians stumbled out from the bar as if the earth itself were spinning.
The air of the waterfront was cold and damp, and a chilling breeze cut right through Farris’s chest. The two made their way along the docks in drunken silence, as water trickled and slushed below their feet. The sea was dark as the sky, and the boats and ships tied to the pier appeared to sway mysteriously in mid-air.
St. Ruadh’s Canal sat eerie and still at the end of the road. It rose overhead and tore through the city in a straight line, like a ship’s contrails across a clear sky. Chester started hiccupping, punctuating the silence with arrhythmic outbursts.
Farris considered the work ahead of him. There were agents on board the ship, and he’d need to find them and silence them. That much was obvious. If he failed, he could still go straight to the Silverback and have the king’s druid he was supposed to meet apprehended instead.
But what if the others beat me to it?What if they succeed and we’re plunged into a civil war before we’re even prepared?
Chester continued to hiccup as another wave of anxiety washed over Farris. It was stronger than before. Fire raged through his skull. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.
It’ll pass, it’ll pass. Like all the other times before, it’ll pass.
Chester had paused, too, and let out another audible hic.
“Jacob, are you well?”
A thousand fears began to surface in Farris’s mind, but he tried to keep them at bay.
It’ll work, don’t worry. It’ll work. I’ll tell the Silverback about the king’s lies and then I’ll be home.
Through a half-open eye, Farris saw the only person that could stand in his way.
No. He is not a problem. He’s a drunk and doesn’t even know when the ship leaves. I’ll be gone before he wakes, and I’ll be home before he’s sober.
The ground rolled beneath his feet, and Farris fell to one knee. He held his head in his hands.
But what if he does wake? What if he gets to the ship and warns the others?
The risk was minimal, but it was there, eating away at Farris’s peace of mind.
The future of the Simian race and the peace of the kingdom lay upon one the shoulders of the drunkard who bent down to help Farris to his feet. The fear began to subside as he stood, but Farris realised that he no longer had a choice.
“Are you alright, J-Jacob? Do you want me to walk—”
With a flick of his wrist, a tiny blade concealed in Farris’s sleeve slid into the palm of his hand. He had plenty of practice with this manoeuvre, but half a dozen glasses of thainol had taken their toll on his agility. He leapt up and sliced the blade across Chester’s throat, but his aim was off, and the blade only grazed the skin of Chester’s neck.
The drunken Simian spluttered with fright, raising both hands up to cover the wound. Farris plunged forwards again, this time shoving the dagger into the Simian’s chest. For a moment, Chester attempted to push Farris away, but a twist of the dagger rendered the navigator’s body limp.
Farris caught Chester’s weight with bent knees, then slowly dragged it towards the canal’s bank. With a gentle splash, the body went floating down along the dark stream of water.
Feeling a little more relaxed, Farris stumbled on home. He won’t be missed. Even if he’s found, nobody will care. He’s a lowly Simian, a second-class citizen. He took a turn and made his way uphill to a row of hovels looking out over the sea. Another dead rat in the gutter.
Chapter 8:
Poppy for the Pain
Water trickled and dripped overhead as Morrígan skulked deeper into the catacombs. Even after weeks of exploration, feelings of overwhelming pride and excitement still struck her every time she discovered a new chamber. Yarlaith had said that scholars have been searching for the Lost Catacombs of Móráin’s Conquest for many years, but it seemed that none had thought to check under the tiny village of Roseán.
Morrígan glazed her torch over the tunnel walls, looking for any irregularities in the stone. The rocks jutted out at awkward, chaotic angles, but every so often they formed a neat and ordered cleft, and Morrígan paused to record what was inside. This one held a skeleton shrouded by a thin, grey veil—a sign that it was once a battlemage. She noted the pair of rings on its fingers and began scribbling away in one of Yarlaith’s old notebooks.
One Pyromancer: bones without flesh, no ornaments other than flint-rings.
There was word that winter was slowly melting into spring outside, for daffodil shoots had been spotted along the Sandy Road. All Morrígan cared about, however, were the caps and stalks of fungi that grew along the underground rivers, vital for her salves and potions. Between her work in the clinic and the caves, she rarely saw the sky, even if the other villagers visiting the clinic told her that the clouds had finally cleared.
Delving deeper into the caverns, Morrígan reached another fork in the path and paused to record its location, scribbling on a separate roll of parchment with a Simian inkpen. As the mole burrows, she wasn’t far from the workshop, but the path back to it was erratic and winding. She took a new route that she figured would bring her back in that direction and pressed onwards, keeping a careful eye out for more burial cairns along the walls.
