Swords and Salt - the Complete Series Page 15

  “Are you… ah, did you see anything or… irk anything?”

  Irk? Yanko doubted the creatures had been aware of him. Everything in the animal kingdom possessed auras and awareness, but few had the intelligence to comprehend the happenings outside of their bodies.

  “They were busy working on…” Yanko groped for words to explain what he had sensed. That last moment had fled so quickly that he hadn’t had an opportunity to study the beings. “They were carrying salt, so it’s important to them too. It reminded me of bees taking pollen back to their hive. To their queen.”

  Someone in the back groaned. “A hive? That means there’s a lot of them.”

  Falcon rubbed the hilt of his kyzar with his thumb. “How big are they?”

  Yanko shrugged. “I wasn’t seeing them with my eyes, but with my mind, so I couldn’t tell you. Small enough to fit through that hole though.” Speaking of statements of the obvious…

  “But big enough to utterly slay four strong men with sharp, heavy tools,” Mishnal said, his voice as grim as the death that lingered in the tunnel.

  “So, Yanko,” Falcon said slowly, “you’re the wilderness expert.”

  “Hardly an expert,” Yanko tried to protest.

  “More so than I. But I know that bees don’t get pollen for no reason. They make honey for food for themselves, and their queen, so she can—”

  “—lay eggs,” Mishnal said, his face growing ashen.

  “Eggs!” one of the guards blurted. “You mean there’s going to be heaps more of those things crawling into the tunnels?”

  “Possibly,” Yanko said. “I should like to get closer so I can study them more thoroughly.”

  “No,” Mishnal pointed at the tunnel behind them. “You saw what happens to people who get close.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of getting that close.”

  “I’m sure those men weren’t either,” Falcon muttered.

  Yanko frowned at him. He needed support. If not from his brother, than from who?

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know for sure yet if there are eggs or not. But if I can find out a little more, I can suggest a course of action.”

  “I already have a course of action in mind,” Mishnal said.

  “What?”

  “We block up that hole. With blasting sticks if necessary.”

  “Oh,” Yanko said. “I guess… that could be a solution. If they don’t have mining skills of their own.”

  His uncle gave him a sharp look. “Did you see something that would lead you to believe that?”

  “No, but as I said, I just had a glimpse. It couldn’t hurt to let me go in and learn a little more before closing off the possibility of ever interacting with them again.”

  “We don’t want to interact with them again,” Mishnal said.

  Yanko could understand his position, and those dead men chilled him as well, but he couldn’t help but be intrigued by the discovery of a new creature. Insect? Mammal? He couldn’t know for sure without further study. He wished he had access to his books. It was possible there was an entry about them in some encyclopedia. But it was possible, too, that they had encountered something humans had never seen before. The notion sent a tendril of excitement through him. He had never dreamed of being some world-exploring zoologist, but his brother was right in that nature had always been his first love. The idea of potentially finding a new species and then shutting off access to it for all eternity depressed him. What if these were the only ones in the world? Somehow adapted for this particular subterranean environment, only able to live in rare places where natural tunnels touched salt buried millions of years before? And what if, in hurling blasting sticks about, those natural tunnels collapsed and Uncle Mishnal was inadvertently responsible for crushing a colony? Or the only remnants of an entire species?

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  Yanko hunched over, grabbing his knees. He didn’t throw up, but his brother touched his shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” Falcon asked. “Was your probing that taxing?”

  “It was…” Yanko stared at the floor, at a speck of blood that had been trailed back to the hole.

  Those creatures, whatever they are, killed without provocation. Don’t make this into some great crime against nature.

  You don’t know that they weren’t provoked. They may have been defending their food source or their hive or their young.

  Yanko straightened and met his brother’s eyes. “Do you think Father would be terribly disappointed if I envied you for your life’s passion?” All Falcon had ever wanted was to be a marine; how simple it would be to follow orders and march along, keeping in step with the fellow in front.

  Please, if your life has any difficulty, it’s only because you choose to make it so.

  Probably true.

  Yanko had meant his question as a joke, not that he had expected anyone to get it. Falcon frowned, though, and said, “I’d be disappointed.”

  Yanko stirred at another touch, this time to his arm.

  “We will leave and make preparations elsewhere,” Mishnal said. “While I do not doubt Falcon’s prowess with those blades, if there are as many in there as you believe…” He glowered at the hole. “I’ll not lose any more men to them, and certainly not my nephews.”

  “Wait,” Yanko said, reluctant to walk away and give into the blasting-stick method of dealing with problems. He didn’t have another solution though and waffled beneath his uncle’s frank gaze. “What if… what if simply walling off the hole doesn’t work?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?” Mishnal asked. “They weren’t a problem until that hole opened up. We can close this area and redirect the routing of this level, have the miners veer off in the other direction from the lift.”

  “There may be more colonies down here. Perhaps they’re common at this depth.”

  Mishnal’s glower turned from the hole to him. “Do you have reason to believe that’s the case?”

  “I don’t know it’s not the case.” Way to impress him with unassailable logic, boy.

  Mishnal’s eyes narrowed again, and Yanko struggled to hold his gaze. He had a feeling his uncle knew exactly what he was trying to do.

  “If we run into the problem again, we’ll deal with it again. In the meantime, we’ll return to my office and discuss this with our explosives expert and the other senior overseers.” Mishnal pointed at the two guards. “Until we come up with a plan, I don’t want anyone on this level. Understood?”

  The guards’ relieved exhales were audible. “Understood.”

  “Understood?” Mishnal asked again, this time staring into Yanko’s eyes when he spoke.

  Yanko didn’t bother with an innocent who-me protest—he had failed to obey his uncle’s orders on previous occasions and had been caught. By now, Mishnal knew him too well. Yanko wouldn’t be surprised if he found a guard standing by his door that night.

  “Yes, honored Uncle,” he said.

  He was glad when his brother took the rear as the group headed back for the lift, relieved to have that kyzar at his back. Falcon remained alert as well, walking backward, ready for an attack from behind. Only once did he speak to Yanko, softly saying, “I intend to return with the team that does the blasting.”

  “Be careful,” Yanko said, though he sensed the comment had significance he hadn’t grasped.

  “I could ask for you and your skills to be allowed to join us—the ability to sense those creatures coming would be useful.”

  And Yanko might get his chance to try and learn more about them at the time? Right before he helped blow them up?

  “Thank you,” Yanko murmured, though he was already making other plans.

  Part 3

  Yanko lay in the top bunk, listening to the shifts and sighs of the other men in the room, waiting for the deep, even breathing—and deep, even snores—that would mean everyone had fallen asleep. He wondered if the meeting about the tunnel collapsing had finished yet. He hadn’t been invi
ted. Since the area had been cleared of men, he doubted anything would be done down there until morning. Meaning he had one night to find out more about those creatures. The only way he could do that was to go back down there.

  But not alone. He intended to seek out Lakeo. He would rather have his brother’s blade at his back, but his brother would side with Uncle Mishnal and want to keep him safe. To keep everyone safe. Lakeo was decent with a weapon; at the least, she would have no problem punching him in the shoulder to knock him out of a trance and warn him something was coming.

  Snores started up below him. They already reverberated from the other side of the room. Yanko slid off his bunk, his boots landing lightly on the floor. He hadn’t bothered to take them off before climbing into bed, and he slid out a bag packed with food and water. He also grabbed his saber, the real one, not the practice blade he used when he sparred. Once he had donned the gear, he slipped out of the room, shutting the door softly. Lanterns burned low in the tunnel outside, and he didn’t expect to find anyone, so he turned and took a step before halting abruptly.

  His brother stood in front of him, his fist dangling in the air, as if he had been about to step forward and knock. His hair hung around his shoulders instead of up in the traditional knot, and he wore rumpled bed silks over his combat boots.

  “Uhm, good evening,” Yanko said.

  “Going somewhere?” Falcon asked.

  “For a snack in the kitchen.”

  Falcon’s eyebrows lifted. “With your sword?”

  “Of course. I’m surprised you’re walking around without yours after what we saw. Who knows where those creatures might show up next?” Yanko peered at the ceiling and into the floor cracks.

  Falcon snorted. “I might have been gone for a while, but I did see you every day for fifteen years. I know when you’re up to something.”

  “Is that why you’re standing outside my door?”

  “I had a hunch. Listen, Yanko, I’m not letting you hare off on some quest to satisfy your curiosity, one that could get you killed. The family has a lot vested in you staying alive and—”

  “—passing the tests and getting into Stargrind. I know. I didn’t think you cared one way or another about that though. I thought… it’s bad enough with Father always watching me. Judging me. Even here I feel him.” That speech had been meant to distract Falcon from his purpose in leaving his room, but Yanko found his throat tightening at the end. Somehow he never could manage to discuss this subject without it becoming raw and real.

  “I know. I didn’t. I mean I never wanted for that to matter.” Falcon looked away.

  A miner getting off shift late walked down the tunnel. He didn’t pay attention to either brother, except to grunt a thanks when they stepped aside to let him pass, and he soon disappeared into a room.

  “Can we go somewhere to talk for a minute?” Falcon asked.

  Suggesting the lift leading down to the bottom level probably wouldn’t amuse him. “Sure.”

  “The kitchen perhaps?” Falcon’s lips quirked.

  “Appropriate, since I was going there anyway.”

  “Uh huh.”

  They walked in silence to the large eating hall that doubled as an assembly area and a gaming room for off-shift workers to gather for drinks and to play games of Manifesto or Charcoal and Diamonds. The hour had grown late enough that the hall was empty. Yanko started for the closest table.

  “How about something to drink?” Falcon asked. “And I thought you were hungry, eh?”

  “All right. I just didn’t want to waste your time.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  I am…

  Yanko kept from jogging into the kitchen, but he did stride swiftly. He grabbed the first thing he spotted—the dregs of mulled wine in a pot—and poured two tepid cups. He also picked up a pan with the crumbled remains of baked honey oat bars and took it with him.

  His brother sat in a corner, his chin on his fist as he tapped a finger against the top of the table. Yanko wondered if he was about to find out what had brought Falcon to this remote outpost during his limited days of leave. He placed the cups and pan on the table and slid into the opposite chair.

  “Something wrong?” Yanko asked.

  “Hm.” Falcon fished in the pan for a large chunk of glazed oats. “Have you heard about my current duty assignment? Where I’m stationed?”

  “You’ve been at Frost Mountain Camp up north, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Training to be a good infantryman. Out before dawn every day, exercising, marching, and practicing with weapons. Then the afternoons are for mindless grunt work, not unlike this.” His wave encompassed the mine tunnels below them. “Except that the weather is abysmal. Every day, it’s either storming or getting reading to storm. Winter lasts nine months, and then there’s the rainy season. That’s supposed to be the equivalent of summer. You’re always cold and wet. The only time you’re warm is when you’re sparring or humping up the mountain with a hundred pounds on your back. And even then, you’re still wet. It’s miserable. I knew the marines wouldn’t be for weaklings, but this is…” Falcon picked up his wine and took a swig—a long swig.

  This venting surprised Yanko. Had his father lied about the content of Falcon’s letters? No, Yanko had read most of them himself. They had always been stoic and brief. In reflection, perhaps he could see where details might have been left out, but his brother had never been one to write a page when a paragraph might suffice.

  “You’re not doing a good job at making me eager to take those tests and enlist,” Yanko said, trying to lighten the moment.

  Falcon snorted. “You won’t have to worry about snow and rain at Stargrind. I won’t pretend I’ve heard it’s luxurious, but it’s a different sort of torture. Mental torture. Survive and you won’t be put in with the grunts. You’ll be an officer and have it better out in the field.”

  “I think being an officer just means you get shot at first.”

  “That’s why you need a good bodyguard.”

  “Volunteering?” Yanko asked.

  “I would in a second if it would get me out of…” Falcon studied the tabletop again, his jaw shifting back and forth as he chewed on his thoughts. “I shouldn’t complain, Yanko. And I didn’t to Father, but… I was the best in my class last year. Swordsmanship, the obstacle course, and even land and sea navigation—the stuff that requires actual mathematical ability.” He smiled ruefully. “I studied hard so I would do well, because it’s understood that the top graduates get their pick of duty assignments.”

  “Frost Mountain wasn’t on your list, I’m guessing.”

  “It’s not on anyone’s list.” Falcon rapped a knuckle on the table. “I wanted to go to sea. I always wanted to go to sea. You know that, Father knows that, and my training instructors knew that. Just in case there was any doubt, I listed bases out on distant islands for all of my choices on that card they had us fill out.”

  First Arayevo, now his brother… Yanko wondered at the appeal of the sea. Nothing except water from horizon to horizon, with any life out there too far beneath the waves to be accessible for study. If one could sail about in one of those underwater boats the Kyattese had, he might be intrigued, but life at sea always sounded unappealing to him. He gave his brother a sympathetic grunt though, knowing Falcon wasn’t exaggerating. As boys, he had forced Yanko to be his first mate as they had sailed about the pond on their raft, hunting for evil Turgonian buccaneers to slay, these appearing by way of lily pads that had to be sunk with rocks hurled from a slingshot “cannon.”

  “When I received my orders for Frost Mountain, I thought it was a mistake. I went to see my superiors, suggesting this in as polite and humble a way as I could manage. No mistake, they said, and with no further explanation they sent me off to the frozen north. It wasn’t until last month when my sub-chief called me into his cabin that I got the truth.”

  “Truth?” Yanko had assumed the military simply did what made sense to the military, not
caring for the comfort or dreams of any young marine over another.

  “He seemed to respect me, so he spoke straight with me.” Falcon’s lips twisted. “I don’t whine in front of him, you see, so he thinks I’m a good marine. As it turns out… I’m never going to be stationed at sea, not as long as Captain “Snake Heart” Pey Lu commands the Midnight Fleet.”

  Yanko sank back in his seat. That was the name—and nickname—of their mother. Their pirate mother. “Why should that have anything to do with—”

  “It shouldn’t. But the lizard brains that decide on people’s duty stations don’t think I can be trusted. If I were put on a ship that came face-to-face with hers… well, someone thinks I’d sabotage our ship or warn her we were coming or some other ridiculous thing. As if I feel allegiance to the woman who left before my fourth birthday, and who scragged everything for our entire family.” He finished off his wine and plunked down the cup, scowling at it as if it were the sourest thing that’d ever touched his lips.

  “That’s not fair,” Yanko said, wishing it didn’t sound so inane. But what better consolation could he offer?

  “No. My sub-chief said I won’t always be at Frost Mountain, but they won’t send me to sea as long as she’s out there. I have a feeling I’m never going to get a choice duty station even on land because of her.”

  “I wonder if that means…” Yanko paused, not wanting to ignore his brother’s misery and focus on himself, but Falcon guessed his thoughts.

  “If your career will take a similar trajectory? I don’t know, but warrior-mages are required to go to sea for their first five years, aren’t they?”

  “That’s my understanding. Nuria has few enemies on its own continent, so the most important battles and patrols have always been at sea.” Yanko shrugged. “But if they believe you’d betray your ship or unit over this, maybe they would have the same concern about me.”

  “There’s eight hundred years of tradition that says warrior-mages go to sea. Whether you want to or not. So much of your training is about manipulating the elements and learning attacks specifically designed to destroy enemies ships.”