With a large suction pop, the top came off in his hands, almost causing Marcius to lose his balance. Gingerly, he let go of the lid, his fingers white and throbbing, protesting every movement. But he didn't have time to complain, instead reaching in to grab the pieces of salted pork, which he threw in a large kettle.
The work after was monotonous, but not too physically demanding compared to the early part of the day. Eventually it was time for dinner and the three of them (Alicia hadn't shown up,) along with the rest of the crew, sat to a quiet meal. It had the stillness that only working men, weary with a tiring day of labor, could manage. Marcius was glad for it, and he mentally counted down the days until they were supposed to have landfall.
I am enjoying myself! You just need to sun yourself more! Faerill interjected the thought, no doubt trying to comfort, in his own weird way.
Marcius didn't bother trying to correct the familiar, instead turning in his dishes to Jared, since it was the swordsman's turn to wash today, and wearily plodding his way to his bunk, which was shared with Simon. The bard wasn't in, which was a blessing because Marcius wasn't in the mood to deal with the talkative man tonight. With a sigh, he flopped himself on the hay filled mattress. It was the most blissfully pleasant moment of the day, and it didn't take long for sleep to creep up on him.
❧ ❧ ❧
Marcius's eyes snapped open, the still of the night broken only by the gentle slapping of waves against the ship and the snores of his sleeping bunkmate. But something kept him awake, and as his mind cleared the fog of sleep, another shroud took its place; a song began to tap in his head.
There was a pull in the air, something calling him forward, like a siren that silently beckoned with promises of pleasures untold. The noiseless melody grabbed and his feet were powerless to resist. He swung himself out of bed, ignoring the complaints of his sore muscles, following the noiseless beat. The ship was dark, but he followed unerringly, an unwilling passenger within the vehicle of his own body.
The crisp chill of the midnight sea smacked him in the face as he opened the door leading to the deck, but his senses were now thoroughly dulled, barely registering the bite of the wind. Inky blackness greeted him, and it was only the oil lamps, burning and flicking violently against the elements, that allowed him to safely navigate the deck. Not that it would have mattered, safe or not, for he was now as a fish on the end of a hook.
His mind raged at his body, protesting every step and then his heart quailed as he realized the direction his feet were taking him. The edge of the railing, to the foamy ocean below! Something was not right here! Marcius struggled, insisted, pulled with everything he had against his body. Finally his mind grasped at the thinnest of threads, the slightest glimmer of hope as the edge grew closer and larger.
Faerril! His thoughts lanced out and he heard the sleepy questioning reply, I need help! Please!
A drop of stone, the thoughts of the wyvrr coalesced, becoming sharp like a dagger edge.
He was against the railing now and there was perhaps only a scattering of seconds before he took a plunge to the cold depths.
Hurry!
A small whirling ball of fury slammed into his side, and a sharp pain sank into his leg. It shattered the spell and he felt the fragments of his paralysis scatter, falling like a puppet that had its strings cut. The weight attached to his leg was slammed violently into the side of the deck as Marcius stumbled, and the loss of his passenger only caused him to spiral more out of control as gravity took over.
Marcius grasped at the railing, but the wood was crusted with dried ocean salt and gave way as he slipped hard, painfully on his side. Time slowed down for the apprentice as his momentum carried him up and over. Brief images of stars and darkness spun furiously before he smacked first face into the cold water, the icy chill stealing his breath away, filling his mouth. He reflexively clawed for the surface. Something ran into him from the churning murky depths, banging impossibly hard against his head and causing an explosion of lights before his eyes. Marcius was briefly aware of having broken the surface before going unconscious.
❧ ❧ ❧
Darian ran his hands lovingly over the simple wooden box. But the innocent exterior was a ruse to those that didn't know of the treasure housed within. Inside, worth more than double its weight in gold, was the substance known as sweet weed. Capable of only being grown in the soil and climate of the far southern islands, the innocuous looking substance induced an extreme feeling of euphoria that quickly made its users hopelessly addicted, leading eventually into dementia, insanity, and a slow painful death.
This obviously made it illegal in most countries. But one thing Darian always appreciated was the price hike that was always linked with making anything that was already hard to find even harder to get, especially when those customers were hooked like fish. It was what made smuggling worth it. All the risks, all the possible dangers, endless nights toiling over routes, days spent wringing one's hands over being discovered, all of it, for the promise of gold.
And he would reap the rewards for this particular treasure. One only had to look into the crazed desperate eyes of one addicted to know that. Sure, he had taken a risk defying the Blackguard and helping out Simon, but it had given him the opportunity to reestablish contact with an old associate from Yaeren who just so happened to have had a fresh shipment of sweet weed. Overall, he had come out on top, managing to pay off a debt and turn a profit. Nothing risked, nothing gained as his father used to say.
The smuggler continued to gaze at the box with undisguised greed, reaching over to gently sip on a glass of red wine. He grimaced a bit; the liquid had lost its slight chill. Ice was hard to get in the town, and he prided himself in being one of the few that was affluent enough to afford it in the trade district. With a sigh, he opened his mouth to call in his servant, when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
The window was wide open, the curtain fluttering gently with the breeze. To most people, it wouldn't have been much, but Darian's eyes widened, he never did such things. There was no way that he would make such an obvious oversight and he was meticulous in everything he did. You had to be observant to stay alive long in this business. That could only mean. . .
He bolted to his feet only for a strong pair of hands to grab his shoulders from behind, slamming him back down to the chair with surprising force. His scream for help was cut short by the razor sharp point of a dagger underneath his chin, promising a grisly end if even so much as a whisper left his lips.
When had the intruder snuck in? Darian had heard nothing. The attacker didn't give him time to dwell on the question, "You know why I am here, Mr. Coisin. Where is he?" The voice, disturbingly close, was calm and collected. It belonged to a dangerous man, one that didn't have to speak loudly to be heard and was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
"Call it the failings of an old man, but I don't know what you are talking about." There was a slight quiver in his voice, and Darian hated himself for it.
"Come now, Mr. Coisin. You are barely over two score and we both know you are lying." The tension on the knife against his throat lessened a bit. "I'll tell you what, since we are both civilized men, I will take this nasty thing away, and we will talk. But if you so much as breathe in a way I don't like, this dagger will be in your chest and I will be out the window before your servant can rouse himself awake to see what you called for. Understand?"
"Not as if I have much of a choice."
Darian could feel the smug smile as the man removed the blade. The merchant smuggler rubbed his neck subconsciously. There was the sound of wood dragging on wood as the man grabbed one of the chairs in the study and brought it around in front of Darian.
As the man sat down, Darian got his first good look at the attacker. He wore simple leathers, well oiled and made as to leave no sound of his passage. They were colored weirdly, to the inexperienced eye. Most people foolishly expected an assassin to be robed in black, but such a color scheme did little to hide someone except in the darkest of areas, in which they weren't needed anyway. No, this outfit was varying patterns of dark gray and green, as to break up the outline. It was a deadly setup of practicality.
His face was shrouded in a similarly patterned cloth mask, though it did not hide the alert green eyes behind it. It was the symbol on the blackened gauntlet over his right hand that caught Darian's attention. An eye with a line jagged diagonally through, giving the impression of a scar, emblazoned on the front of an otherwise standard looking metal gauntlet.
Everyone who was anyone knew that. It was the symbol of the assassin's guild, but what really sent shivers through Darian was the fact that it was on his right hand. The man noticed the attention to the gauntlet and gave a low chuckle. "See something you like, Mr. Coisin?"
"It's on your right hand."
"Indeed. Do you know what that means?"
Darian did, and the realization made his hopes plummet. This man was a rogue assassin and, as such, was no longer bound by the codes of conduct they generally followed. He was wanted, by both the guild and the law, and had nothing to lose. Darian's odds of making it out of this alive were getting slimmer.
"Darian Coisin," the assassin began, leaning forward in his chair, "If there was ever a rags to riches story it would be you. A homeless waif, which through ingenuity, hard work, and a never quit attitude, managed to pull himself into the very best of social standards. A trade prince with impeccable reputation and character, you are the standard in which all Harcourt citizens aim to be."