Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(53)

Lyrisa doesn’t move, neither retreating nor meeting my challenge.

“None. I was journeying north into the Lakelands with a convoy when we were attacked by rebels.” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the bank. A breeze stirs her hair, blowing a gleaming, thick curtain of black over one shoulder. “I am the only survivor.”

Ah. It clicks in my head. “I suppose you want your uncle to think you died with the rest?”

She nods, her face betraying no emotion. “I do.”

A Silver princess abandoning her kingdom, dead to all who knew her. And wanting to stay that way. I’m intrigued, to say the very least.

Perhaps not all rat days are the same.

The choice is already made in me. The offered gold, ten times the usual rate, will go far on the river and among my crew. I can’t speak for the others, but most of my share will go back to my mother, for safekeeping. I angle my shoulders away from the princess, opening the deck to her. I trail a hand, waving her toward the shallow benches backed by the stocked cargo hold.

“Find a seat and stay out of the way,” I tell her, shifting my focus back to my scurrier still in the river. “Ean, the family in blue cloaks. See what they’re offering.”

Lyrisa doesn’t move, her manner calm. She’s used to getting what she asks for, or demands. “Captain, I’m paying you to take me and me alone downriver. I have need of speed.”

“Very well, Silver,” I reply, turning to lean over the side of the keel. Below me, Ean has one hand on the rope ladder, ready to climb back aboard. I wave him off as Lyrisa takes a seat, arms crossed.

I speak louder than I must.

“Ean, the blue cloaks.”

There is only one captain aboard my keel.





TWO

Ashe

She tosses her rancid coat into the river once we’re moving, not bothering to watch as it floats in the current and tangles in the roots along the bank. It stains the water as it goes, swirling with dirt and worse. I suppose it must be blood or excrement or both. Not that I’ll bother asking. I’ve ferried Silvers before, and the river runs easy when we keep our distance from them.

The Red family we took on knows that too. They’re a pair of mothers, one dark-skinned and one light, who keep their two children angled away from the Piedmont princess, all avoiding her eye line. She doesn’t seem to mind and leans back on her elbows, enjoying the ample room their absence affords her.

Gill throws a glare at her from his place at the side, long pole in hand. He pushes methodically, navigating us around rocks and high riverbed. He has more reason to hate Silvers than most, but he keeps his temper in check. I pass by him on my way to the prow of the keel, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Just to the Gates,” I mutter, reminding him of our goal. Two weeks only, if we’re lucky in the current and the patrols. I’ve run the Gates in less time, but I’d rather not push the keel or the crew. Besides, it looks to be an easy river. No use making things more complicated than they need be.

“To the Gates,” he echoes. It isn’t difficult to hear the words unspoken. And not one second longer.

I nod to him. The Piedmont princess will be gone soon enough.

We know the path to the Gates like the back of our scarred hands, like the deck of the keel. Down the Ohius to the confluence, that’s the worst stretch. To our right, north, is the Lakelander bank, the borderline of the Crownlands drawn right up to the water’s edge. To the left, south, stretches the Freelands. This far northeast, it’s woodland and fields, mostly overgrown. Should a Lakelander patrol decide to try us here, we’d have no choice but to flee overland. Keels are fast but not faster than vehicle transports, and are little use if a powerful nymph decides to turn the river against us. I’ve only felt the water push back once, and that was enough. I don’t intend to face it again.

I check our progress against the other keels and captains. Old Toby is already gone from view, lagging behind. Her Scarlet Guard business must require slow movement, or many stops along the border. I certainly don’t envy her such a job. Nor do I have any desire to throw my lot in with those rebels, no matter how sweet their words may sound. They certainly don’t make for an easy job or an easy river.

Hallow is about a hundred yards ahead, his keel riding low in the water. He’ll probably stay in sight until we reach the confluence, where the Ohius and Great River meet. Then he’ll spend a day or so dumping cargo to go upriver north. I won’t see him again until the Gates.

At the prow I can see far, the Lakelands stretching in clear-cut fields of wheat and corn. Half-height. Summer is coming on, and by fall these fields will be stripped bare for winter. Every year I pass the workers, watching the Reds sweat and toil for their distant overlords. Sometimes they run to the bank when they see us, begging for passage. We never take them. Patrols are too close and farmworkers have too little coin. A few make the journey on their own, though, building boats on the bank through the summer. We help those along if we can, out of Silver sight.

Quick, light footsteps on the deck shake me out of my thoughts as one of the passenger children scuttles up next to me, her eyes wide in a golden face framed by curly brown hair. She looks afraid. I grin at her, if only to keep the kid settled. The last thing I need is a screaming child. She immediately grins, pointing at my mouth, then to her own tooth.

“You like that?” I murmur, running a tongue over my gold incisor. It replaced a tooth knocked out in a fight in Memphia. A fight I won.