The Water Road: The Water Road Trilogy, #1

By JD Byrne

Two women are about to expose a terrible secret that will turn their world upside down.

For centuries the great river known as the Water Road separated the Altrerians in the north from the Neldathi in the south. When the Neldathi clans united and struck out across the river, the nations of Altreria formed an alliance, the Triumvirate, to drive them back. For more than a hundred years after, the Triumvirate kept the Neldathi barbarians at bay, fighting amongst themselves across the Water Road.

Antrey is a woman without a country, the daughter of a Neldathi mother and an Altrerian father. She’s found a role for herself in Tolenor, the headquarters of the Triumvirate, that's given her access to a secret the alliance has kept for generations. When she finds it, she explodes with rage and embarks on a quest to find justice for the Neldathi people.

Strefer is a reporter without a story, desperately working the streets of Tolenor for any kind of lead. When Antrey flees the city, Strefer slips in and discovers her uncovered secret, stained with blood and fury. It’s the story of a lifetime, one powerful forces want to keep her from telling. With the help of a renegade Sentinel, Strefer sets out for a mythical city in hopes she can make the world listen to the truth.

Together, they’ll inflame the passions of a people and set the world alight. The Water Road - first book of The Water Road trilogy

• Language: English
• Publisher: JD Byrne
• Release date: Jun 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386206644

JD Byrne

JD Byrne was born and raised around Charleston, West Virginia, before spending seven years in Morgantown getting degrees in history and law from West Virginia University. He's practiced law for nearly 20 years, writing briefs where he has to stick to real facts and real law. In his fiction, he gets to make up the facts, take or leave the law, and let his imagination run wild. He lives outside Charleston with his wife and the two cutest Chihuahuas the world has ever seen.

Book preview

Prologue

It had been ten years since Gaven had been confronted by an angry Neldathi with a gun. Had it been longer? It had been at least ten years, he was certain of that. Given the current situation, he did not waste time recalling the details.

His mind was focused on other things, most notably the Neldathi warrior standing in front of him, weapon in hand. He was tall, even by Neldathi standards, and towered over Gaven. He wore thick animal skins over some sort of leather, the typical dress of a warrior any time except the height of summer. Only his hands, wrists, and face were uncovered. His skin was the palest shade of blue Gaven had seen in these parts. Down his back hung a long clump of black hair, twisted and knotted into a neat and orderly braid. In the midsection there were a series of dyed stripes, alternating in bold orange and dark blue. The colors indicated he was a member of the Dost clan.

The gun in the Neldathi’s hand was a long weapon, but it did not look like one of the finely crafted long rifles for which these people were known. He had a determined look on his face.

Yes, sir. How may I be of service? Gaven asked, in his best practiced Neldathi. As he asked the question, he was wondering where his pikti, his fighting staff, was. It was not within immediate reach, that was for certain. And where was Klaron, anyway?

The Neldathi held out the gun in two hands for Gaven to inspect. In the confusing mélange of word, pitch, and tone that made up their language, he said something. Gaven did his best to translate it in his mind.

Trade? This provoked a nod. Trade that, he said, pointing to the gun, for something else? He gestured around at the interior of the tent, pitched against the side of a wagon, that passed for his store.

The Neldathi nodded vigorously.

Gaven held out his hands for the gun. Look? He pointed first to his right eye and then the gun.

Here, the Neldathi grunted in low Altrerian. He handed the gun to Gaven. Trade. He then held his own finger to one of his eyes, then pointed around the tent.

Yes, yes, Gaven said, nodding. Look.

The Neldathi backed away and began to examine Gaven’s wares. Gaven, meanwhile, turned the long gun over in his hands. His initial impression was correct. This wasn’t one of the finely crafted Neldathi weapons. Still, it was too large for an Altrerian like himself to use more than once. It would pack a kick that would knock Gaven on his backside. He placed the gun down on the counter and stooped behind it, looking into the barrel. It was smooth. Standing back up and examining its entirety one more time, Gaven concluded that it was a mass-produced musket.

Gaven stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to the Neldathi, who was examining a leather travel bag. Sir? he asked, getting the warrior’s attention. He pointed to the gun. Why do you wish to trade?

It does not work, the Neldathi said, his rising pitch suggesting he was upset about that fact. Does not shoot straight. Is not good for hunting.

Gaven shrugged as they walked back to the counter. It was certainly true that the musket would be far inferior to a rifle when it came to the hunt. He paused for a moment to consider his words. Gaven’s brain had never adjusted to thinking in Neldathi. Where it come from?

A gift from my thek, the Neldathi said.

Gaven paused again, trying to find the right words. How did your thek get it?

The big Neldathi shrugged.

Gaven was more confused than ever. Why would a Neldathi chief give one of her warriors a musket like this? And where would she even get one? There would be time to ponder such questions later, after the Neldathi had been sent on his way. He shifted the conversation towards the bag the Neldathi had been admiring. Within minutes, the transaction was complete and the Neldathi disappeared into the snowy expanse outside the tent.

When the warrior was gone, Gaven finally let himself relax, but only for a moment. Klaron!

~~~~~

Klaron poked his head out from the back room of the wagon where he had been hiding. He slunk out into the main room, as if trying to avoid detection.

"Now you materialize, Klaron," Gaven snapped, turning on his heels to face his apprentice.

Yes, master, the young man stumbled in reply. I... I was... I was in the back room when I heard you in conversation with a Neldathi. I thought it better to collect intelligence from a safe distance. He tried to smile as if he was pleased with the answer.

In other words, you were willing to hide in the safety of the wagon while that barbarian was waving a gun in my face. That will go in my report, you know.

No, sir, please, Klaron said, rushing to the older man’s side. I could tell you were capable of handling the situation yourself, master. The sudden presence of another, he paused to choose the next word carefully, "peddler might have aroused the Neldathi’s suspicion. Had the situation become more fraught, I would have come to your aid with the element of surprise."

Is that so? Gaven didn’t believe the young man’s explanation for a second. Still, he had a point, not to mention a knack for conjuring post hoc justifications for his behavior. Neldathi were, in general, emotional, quick to anger, and hard to deal with. One armed with a musket, even if he could only use it as a club, was a real danger. All that being true, it was fantasy for Klaron to suggest that the appearance of a second Altrerian in the shop would have aroused the Neldathi’s suspicion.

Most Neldathi had never even heard of the Sentinels, much less would they be able to recognize one on sight. For over one hundred years the Sentinels had loitered at the fringes of Neldathi society south of the Water Road, posing as peddlers, guides, or wandering entertainers. The entire system depended on the Neldathi not knowing who they really were. That was the only way the Sentinels could stay in position to observe the movements and habits of the clans, as well as the conflicts between them.

At one time after the Great Neldathi Uprising had been crushed, any major event among the Neldathi was known in Tolenor before it reached the ears of other clans. The system worked efficiently and thoroughly. In Gaven’s time, however, he had seen the alliance begin to grow complacent. He and Klaron were responsible for a much larger territory than Gaven and his mentor had covered. They still relayed information quickly and accurately, but they had no hope of being current on all the important news.

It was a role Gaven played well. He had done so for nearly twenty years. When he first arrived here, he was like Klaron, a young apprentice learning his trade in the field. He learned then, and had it confirmed numerous times since, that no matter how well trained new Sentinels were when they came here, there was no substitute for experience. This land, with its rugged mountains and long stretches of winter, was as harsh and unforgiving as the Neldathi who inhabited it. For them, it was enough just to exist. For the Sentinels, however, much more was required. Some Sentinels did their time here and returned north as soon as possible. Gaven was one of the few who took to the work, the land, and the people. He had been here so long, he wasn’t sure he could ever return to the Guildlands. Given his gift, it was unlikely he ever would.

What he lacked in experience, Klaron made up for with his encyclopedic recall of anything he had been taught. Gaven thought he might as well make use of that resource. All right, then, he said, trying to sound pleasant, since you were watching so carefully from back there, tell me what you think it all might mean. Gaven picked the musket up off the counter and handed it to the young man.

It is a rifle, master, the young man said, without giving it a close look.

Gaven shook his head and scowled. Look closer, Klaron. This isn’t a rifle, is it?

Klaron rested the butt of the weapon gently on the ground and peered down the barrel, adjusting it to catch the most light from an overhead lantern. It has a smooth bore, master, he said, looking back up. It is a musket, then.

So what? Why should that arouse our interest?

The Neldathi do not make muskets. At least so far as we know.

Precisely. Why is that?

The first priority of a Neldathi warrior is the hunt, not battle. A smoothbore musket does not have the range and is not accurate enough to be an effective weapon on the hunt. They prefer long rifles, which are more accurate. Altrerian armies have adopted muskets because of how quickly they can be reloaded. Rate of fire means much less on the hunt. Neldathi warriors tend to stick with bows, aside from a few truly elite riflemen. He paused for a moment. If I remember my training correctly, sir.

Correct, Klaron. So how does an average Neldathi warrior, concerned with the hunt, on the north slope of the Vander Range, wind up in possession of such a weapon?

The young man thought for a moment. Perhaps this particular clan has decided to follow the Altrerian model? They are moving to the use of muskets in warfare. Which clan was he from?

Gaven snorted. I see you weren’t paying that much attention, were you? Didn’t you see the colored stripes of his braid?

Klaron looked down sheepishly. There was no need to answer.

It’s not that important, Gaven said, sure that Klaron had learned his lesson. Regardless of which clan he comes from, none of them have the industrial capacity to manufacture muskets in large numbers. Besides, he told me it was a gift from his matriarch. If there was a strategic shift underway, they wouldn’t just give them away, would they?

But if the Neldathi are not manufacturing them, master, then where are they coming from?

Gaven took the weapon back from Klaron. That’s the critical question. The Islanders trade with the Neldathi, since they aren’t bound by the Triumvirate’s embargo. But they don’t have the resources to manufacture them in large numbers, either.

A brief silence hung between them. Then who, master? Klaron asked.

I don’t know. Perhaps someone else will. What time is it?

Klaron took the timepiece out of a pocket buried in the layers of clothing it took to stay warm in this climate. Almost seven past apex, master.

Good. Then we can pass on this information right now, while it is fresh in our minds. Close up the shop, Klaron. Someone should be listening.

~~~~~

It took several minutes for Klaron to close up the tent and ensure that no stray passersby would disturb them. While he did that, Gaven took the ladder from its hiding place in the wagon—next to his pikti, he noticed—and hauled it out behind their compound. He was just beginning to fuss with it and make sure his connection between the ground and the platform high up in the nearby pine tree was secure when Klaron appeared, holding a lantern.

Gaven took the lantern from the young man. Go fetch the musket. In case they want details.

Yes, master. Klaron darted swiftly back under the tent into the shop. He was back almost as quickly as he had left.

Good, Gaven said, stepping back from the ladder. Sling that across your back. Gaven secured the lantern to a loop on his belt. For goodness’ sake, be careful as we are climbing. If you go roaring down this mountain on your backside, I am not coming after you. Is that clear?

Yes, sir, Klaron said, securing the musket across his back.

The two climbed in silence, clinging tight to the rungs of the ladder against the unpredictable gusts of wind. Gaven thought that this had to be the last severe cold snap of the spring, but one could never be sure. The winter had not been particularly harsh, in context, but it had overstayed its welcome. The winds that lashed the north face of the Vander Range had normally subsided by now, yet this year they persisted. Before long they were picking their way up through an increasingly dense screen of limbs, branches, and evergreen leaves. At least it helped provide some shelter from the wind.

Gaven clambered off the ladder, grasping a sturdy nearby branch in his right hand. He maneuvered himself over to the wooden platform that had been built into the tree. Once he was sure on his feet and braced against the wind, he turned and offered his hand to Klaron, who was following silently at his heels. The young man took his hand and climbed up on the platform beside him. They paused for a moment to catch their breaths, Klaron standing with his hands on his hips, while Gaven leaned against the tree trunk.

The Vander Range ran parallel to the Water Road for most of its length. All across the north slope of those mountains, platforms like this one could be found. Most were temporary affairs, meant to be used only a few times before the Sentinels moved on. Others were more permanent, way stations for the Sentinels to return to again and again in their travels. In either case, they were cleverly concealed and impossible to spot, unless the eye knew precisely what to look for. The Neldathi, in spite of roaming lands that contained great stands of timber in places, were not prone to climbing. No Neldathi had ever discovered a Sentinel’s platform, it was said. Gaven thought that was unlikely. It was inconceivable to him that no platform had ever collapsed just from neglect, not to mention the swing of a Neldathi axe.

For all his years doing this work, Gaven was not particularly comfortable on the platforms. Even very sturdy ones, like this one, gave him an uneasy feeling. Those apprehensions were a small price to pay for the view, however, which was ultimately the point of the climbing, for the Vander Range also ran parallel to the Triumvirate forts that dotted the southern bank of the Water Road. The garrisons in those forts stood ready against another Neldathi uprising, if the Sentinels failed to prevent it. The direct line of sight provided by the platform allowed for those Sentinels working undercover to communicate directly with their counterparts in the forts without the Neldathi knowing anything about it.

What time is it? Gaven pushed himself off the tree trunk.

Seven and one-half past apex, master, his apprentice replied, using the glow of the lantern to illuminate his pocket watch.

They should be in position, then. Send the signal. Gaven handed the young man the lantern.

Klaron took the lantern and walked over to the edge of the platform that faced due north towards the Water Road. The platform itself was surrounded by a low fence—not enough to keep anyone from falling off, but useful as a place for setting things. Klaron placed the lantern on top of the fence, then pulled a small telescope from somewhere in his clothing. He extended the scope and looked out towards the north.

Through the telescope, Klaron could see the great river off in the distance, shimmering like a ribbon on the other side of a darkened room. Along the river he found a fort that had a beacon hanging high above the ramparts, stuck in a tall tower. He repositioned the lantern so that it beamed out towards the beacon. Still holding the telescope in one hand, Klaron reached down with practiced ease and began to rapidly open and close the aperture on the face of the lantern. He repeated the short pattern twice before he saw a response from the other side through the scope.

After a brief exchange of coded signals between them, Klaron stepped away from the fence. They are ready to receive you now, master.

Thank you, Klaron, Gaven said. He stepped up and positioned himself directly behind the lantern, facing the fort’s tower across the land. Whatever his faults, Gaven had observed how Klaron took to this task as if he was born to do it. It seemed like a cruel joke, at times. Klaron lacked Gaven’s gift, to be able to speak with others in their minds, yet he yearned for it so badly. Gaven, and those like him, most often viewed the gift as more of a curse. Perhaps Klaron worked so hard to be correct in his part of the ritual because it was the closet he would come to this.

Gaven stood there for several moments, merely reaching out his name with his mind, until he received a response.

Greetings, Gaven, the other’s mind said in his. This is Pyrsal. Does this night find you well?

Greetings, Pyrsal, Gaven answered wordlessly. This night finds me as most nights do. I do have news to send, however.

Very well, said Pyrsal.

Gaven recounted the encounter with the Neldathi and told Pyrsal of the musket. He didn’t include any of the speculation he had shared with Klaron earlier. Analysis was not his role. He had learned, the hard way over the years, to deal only with objective facts when sending reports.

After Gaven had stopped sending out words with his mind, Pyrsal asked, Is that all you have to report, Gaven?

Yes, Gaven said. That is all.

Very well. Keep safe. May we soon speak again, Pyrsal said, sending also the signal to Gaven that it was time to decouple their minds.

Keep safe, Gaven said, before cutting the connection. In that instant, they were again separated by miles of night. Gaven exhaled deeply and stared out from the platform down the mountain.

Is something wrong, master? Klaron asked with obvious concern.

No, no, Gaven said, rousing from his fixation. You know that reaching out to the mind of another is very taxing. I just need a few moments before we climb down. He decided to change the subject while they waited. It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it, Klaron? Gaven swept his hand across the vista in front of them.

Yes, master.

How long have you been a Sentinel, Klaron?

I have been with the program nearly four years, sir.

But how long have you actually been a Sentinel? An active agent in the field? How long have you been south of the Water Road?

You are my first assigned partner, master, Klaron answered, a small note of pride in his voice. So I have been in the field since I joined you five months ago.

That long? Gaven laughed. It seemed as if they had been together for a lifetime. What do you think of it? Of the land. The mountains.

Klaron stepped up to the low shelf beside Gaven and gripped it tightly. Some places are very beautiful, master.

Is that all? He was trying to pull something a little more subtle out of the young man.

Klaron sighed. Honestly, master?

Of course. I wouldn’t ask you a question if I didn’t want an honest answer, would I?

Klaron took a deep breath. On a night like tonight, master, it depresses me to think that a land of such beauty is left to the barbarians. It does not seem right, sir.

The young man’s answer took Gaven by surprise. He had never heard him speak of the Neldathi like that in their time together. It doesn’t? Tell me, do they still teach the old myths in school these days?

Of course not, master, Klaron said proudly. Ever since the gods were revealed to be nothing but the constructions of our own minds, they are of no importance.

Really? Even in Telebria? I always heard that the Telebrians would hang onto any tradition just for the sake of it.

Klaron was too stunned to answer directly. You... you do not believe in the old stories, do you, master?

Of course not, Gaven said, giving the young man a reassuring pat on the shoulder. But that’s not the same as saying they lack any value. Some of those stories are beautiful in their simplicity. They are good stories. Any educated person should know about the Maker of Worlds and how she tore the land in half in a fit of rage. That created the Water Road and caused the rift between the Neldathi and us. It is poetic, even if it isn’t true. He paused and then said, Besides, the Neldathi most certainly believe them.

Klaron said nothing in response.

Gaven smiled. Don’t worry, Klaron. It is not that important. Come. It’s cold, and I am tired. We should turn in for the night. Maybe tomorrow morning we can begin your mythological education.

Part I

Chapter 1

Tolenor was a planned city that had experienced unexpected growth. Laid out after the Great Neldathi Uprising had been put down more than a century ago, it was designed to be the administrative center of the Triumvirate. It was not to be a capital city. At least the diplomats who worked there, and the sovereigns who sent them, would not call it that. The Triumvirate was an uneasy alliance. Making Tolenor a true capital would only fuel those who sought to break it up. It would also indicate that the Triumvirate was something like a nation unto itself, while it most definitely was not.

The city was laid out on a small island in the Bay of Sins. The Water Road, which flowed out of Great Basin Lake hundreds of miles away, flowed into the bay, which had made it a destination for travelers and pilgrims for centuries. Now, even though the old gods were dead, the people still came, but instead of seeking redemption they sought work or power or favors from those who had them.

The theory of placing Tolenor on the island was that the limited space would naturally keep the population down. Only those doing business with the Grand Council of the Triumvirate would bother reaching the island, connected to the mainland only by one great causeway and a few ferries.

Regardless of the designs of the city founders, and of the alliance, what was meant to be a small administrative center of limited importance quickly blossomed into a major city. People from all over Altreria, in addition to the occasional Islander and others, flocked there. They came for opportunity, for commerce, to influence the powerful, or for less savory reasons. Those people, the ones who jammed its grid of streets and gave the city its buzz, freely called it the capital.

Antrey Ranbren had come to Tolenor simply to try and make a life for herself. It was the one place in the world, north or south of the Water Road, that she might be able to do that. Neither the Neldathi nor the Altrerians were kind to what Antrey’s employer and those in polite society called children of mixed parentage. Those on the street used a less kind, and more brutally direct term: halfbreed. Fewer still used the term from the old tongue, ranbren, that gave Antrey her surname. Born of a Neldathi mother and an Altrerian father, Antrey was out of place in both societies. Tolenor, which existed as a part of that world but also as something apart from it, provided a small patch of middle ground on which she could survive. After these years, she was content with that. She had no dreams of actually thriving.

It wasn’t as if she could blend in with the crowds. The city was jammed full of Altrerians of every shade of green, from the pale northern Telebrians to the dark-hued Arborians. With her pale turquoise skin, Antrey was distinctive, a small patch of clear sky on an overcast day. At least she inherited her father’s slight Altrerian frame. It was difficult enough looking different. Having to poke out above the heads of everyone else by a foot or more would have been unbearable. She did her best to try and conceal her otherness. She kept her black hair, from her mother’s side, closely cropped so as to be almost unnoticeable. She did her best to ensure that as little skin was visible to the public as possible. Despite her best efforts, she stood out.

The crowds themselves were impressively diverse, made up of people from all across the land. Most came from the member nations of the Triumvirate: the Kingdom of Telebria, which ran along the east coast; the United Guilds of Altreria, its counterpart on the west coast; and the Confederated States of the Arbor, sandwiched in between. There were a few Islanders, too, although they tended to come and go with the ships in the harbor. Antrey had even once met a pair of Azkiri nomads from the Badlands in the far north.

At the heart of Tolenor was the Triumvirate compound, where the administrative buildings of the alliance were situated. It also contained a lavish collection of small homes and apartments for those who worked there, along with guest lodging for visiting dignitaries. The main buildings formed a large square in the middle of the island, with a collection of neatly kept gardens and courtyards in the center. There, in the safety of the compound, Antrey was merely another underling, one among many who tended to the business of the alliance. Her unique appearance and shadowy past did not matter to anyone with whom she regularly worked, except perhaps as a source of back-room gossip to which Antrey was never privy.

The streets of the city spread out like spokes from the Triumvirate compound, carving the island up into nearly proportionate squares. Out at the edges, where the main roads encountered the rocky island shore, the rigorous planning broke down. Streets curved and took odd angles as necessary to weave around the coast.  

It was in the unplanned places where the excess population, those who came to seek fortune and found none, went to live. The people who lived out in those hinterlands were often bitter, beaten down by years of crippling poverty and subjugation. Tolenor had no governance aside from the Grand Council itself, which was never intended to manage the day-to-day problems of a growing city. The people out there thought, with some justification, that they had simply been forgotten. The business of the Grand Council was disputes among nations, not ensuring that the poor had food in their bellies.

On some days, Antrey’s job required her to leave the safety of the Triumvirate compound and venture out to the hinterlands. On those streets was where Antrey felt the most vulnerable, exposed and alone. She planned those trips with great care, combining errands to try and make them as rare as possible. As she walked the streets, she kept a tight grip of the leather bag slung over her shoulder with one hand. In the other, she clutched at the papers that identified her as an employee of the Grand Council. After six years here, she knew many of the Sentinels who patrolled the streets, but the consequences of an encounter with an unfamiliar face were not worth the risk if she left those papers at home.

Today was one of those days. She had already been to the printer to check on the status of Alban’s latest collection of essays on the alliance’s economic policy. In addition to his official role as the official clerk of the Grand Council, her employer Alban was a well-regarded analyst, particularly on economic issues. However, because his analytical writings were not part of his official role, they could not be printed and bound by the staff attached to the Grand Council. Instead, Antrey regularly visited a printer’s shop in Tolenor’s northwest sector with a collection of papers. The printer would then collate them, set them in type, and print them as pamphlets. The current project had taken longer than expected due to a breakdown of the press last week.

After visiting the printer’s, Antrey walked to the open-air market near the end of the Grand Causeway that connected Tolenor to the Telebrian mainland. She went there to pick through the first of the spring’s fresh fruit that had been brought in from the Guildlands. There was no agriculture to speak of on the island, so the city’s inhabitants were completely dependent on importing food from the Triumvirate member nations. Fresh fruit was a delicacy that Antrey cherished. It reminded her of the brief summers of her youth in the southern mountains. It was worth saving and scrimping a bit to enjoy the pleasure of a fresh strawberry as she hiked through the streets on her rounds.

~~~~~

Before she returned to the compound, Antrey had to make one last stop, at a small shop perched on a rocky bluff on the island’s northeastern shore. From the shop’s back door, a person could stand almost at the edge of the world and look out over the never-ending ocean and the horizon that seemed to stretch on forever.

Under normal circumstances, Antrey would appreciate the view and the quiet contemplation it forced upon her. But the reality of her life meant that she did not like going there. It required her to pick her way through several back streets in a poor and ugly part of the city. The people there were packed in like pickles in a jar. It was impossible for her to pass by without feeling their eyes latch onto her, exploring every aspect of her odd appearance. It didn’t help matters that this outsider, this halfbreed, was dressed as if she came from some means. The attention unnerved Antrey and made her quicken her steps.

This was a regular visit because it was the only place in the city that carried the particular kind of parchment and ink that Alban preferred for his work. He had explained to her one day, in mind-numbing detail, about how important the proper match of parchment, ink, and pen was to keeping the official notes of the Grand Council. An ink that was too heavy, or a parchment that was too thin, would cause words to smudge as he wrote them. Ink that was too light, or the parchment too thick, he would have to work harder to ensure that the notes were dark enough to be legible later. Alban wrote furiously during the course of a heated debate, to keep track of the competing arguments. He owed it to history, he explained to her, to make sure he did not have to worry about the supplies he used. Antrey was not certain that she needed the detail Alban gave her, but it did give her an appreciation for how seriously he took his work.

The shop appeared to be empty when Antrey went in. There was no one at the counter and she did not detect anyone lurking in any of the aisles. Antrey walked up to the counter in front and rang the small brass bell. When there was no immediate response, Antrey busied herself with an examination of the store’s inventory. After all this time, she was certain she could find precisely what Alban wanted without any assistance. There were stacks of paper and parchment in various forms. There were quill pens and inkwells, of the sort Alban insisted on using, although they took up a smaller amount of shelf space each time she was there. Antrey had to admit she loved the smell of the place. It reminded her of the books in Alban’s library, the ones she read when he wasn’t looking.

From behind her, Antrey heard a voice. I am sorry, we could not hear you come in. How can I help... The sentence fell away without completion as Antrey turned and faced a young boy. He jumped subtlety, but Antrey had learned to notice such things. Um, er, the boy stammered, unsure how to continue.

Antrey did not recognize the boy from her earlier trips. He must be new, a child from one of the homes in the neighborhood, forced to work at this age to support the rest of his family. She smiled at him and was keen to not make any suggestive movements. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m here to pick up a few things for my employer. I have a list here, in my bag, she said, before slowly taking out a piece of paper. Can you help me? She held out the list to give it to the boy.

I... I... I am sorry, miss, but... I... I do not think I can help you, the boy said, thinking on his feet and doing it badly.

Why is that? Antrey asked. She knew the answer, but wanted to see if the boy would admit it.

I...just do not think we have what a...what a person like you is looking for, he said, slowly backing away from her with small steps.

But that cannot be, Antrey said as politely as she could manage. She stepped towards the boy, keeping the space between them even. You haven’t even looked at the list I have, she said, waving it at the boy.

I...  I... he stumbled again, trying and failing to come up with some polite way to get away from her.

And what did you mean when you said you couldn’t help ‘a person like me’? What kind of person am I? She was getting increasingly fed up with the situation.

Well, I mean... I mean... you are... you look...

To the boy’s great relief, their exchange was interrupted by Rasinah, the stooped old Telebrian man who ran the shop, when he came out of the back room. Who is it, boy? What is the matter? he asked as he rounded the corner of the aisle in which they were standing. He looked first at the boy and then at Antrey, to whom he flashed a warm smile of recognition. It is very nice to see you again, Antrey, he said to her, dipping his head slightly. He turned to the boy with eyes of fire. Boy, this is Antrey Ranbren, assistant to the official clerk of the Grand Council. She and her patron are fine and long customers of ours. Take her list and gather what she needs. His voice was forceful, but measured, until he realized that the boy was still frozen where he stood. Quickly! he yelled.

The boy’s body released the tension it had accumulated in an instant. He snatched the list from Antrey’s hand and began to expertly snatch parcels off various shelves.

Rasinah turned back to her. My deepest apologies, Antrey, he said, shaking his head. It can be so hard to find a good assistant these days, one that will not run away at the first dream of adventure or some such nonsense.

There was no offense, Antrey said, being more gracious than she felt. The old man had always treated her well. She remembered how stunned he was when Alban first brought her here years ago. I know how people react to me when we meet for the first time. I’ve grown used to it.

Rasinah waved his hand, as if to swat away an errant fly. Balderdash! he yelled, in the same tone with which he dispatched his young protégé. You are no monster, Antrey, no creature of myth sent to torment this boy. He needs to learn that. All of his generation need to learn that.

Antrey smiled and chuckled softly to herself. If anyone were to give lessons on not judging books by their covers, it would be Rasinah. By all appearances, he was an old fool set in his ways who looked askance at anything different from how things used to be. Instead, he was as open-minded as the young assistants who flooded the Triumvirate compound every summer.

Antrey and Rasinah exchanged small talk while the boy collected the supplies. Her last errand complete, Antrey was ready to head for home.

~~~~~

The sun had begun to set over the city by the time Antrey left Rasinah’s shop. The taller buildings towards the center of the city cast long shadows over the twisting streets near the coast. The bag that Antrey had slung over her shoulder was heavy now, laden with the supplies she had procured for Alban. The extra weight made her shoulder sore and slowed her steps. As a result, she became particularly wary about her surroundings.

As she weaved her way through the streets back to the main avenue that would take her to the compound, Antrey became aware that someone was following her. More than one someone, she thought. It was only a hunch, but over the years she had developed a keen sense for when the eyes of others were following her. It was part of her daily life as someone who looked out of place with the world around her. She picked up her pace as best as she could.

Antrey turned a corner—she had just three more to go before the relative safety of the boulevard—and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She was right. There were two men behind her who appeared to be following her, tracking her, and trying to avoid looking like they were. They made the turn around the corner behind her and averted their eyes when she saw them. They were closing in on her.

Her mind raced as she thought of what to do. If she kept going towards the boulevard as planned, they would surely catch her. What would they do in such a public place? If they grabbed her off the street and into some dimly lit dead end back alley, would anyone notice? Would anyone care? She did not know the area well enough to know where else she might go. She could dash into one of the shops along the street, but most of them were closing for the evening. In an unsettled moment, she turned right at the next intersection, rather than left, without thinking about it. The moment she made the turn she knew it was wrong, just as she knew that turning back was not an option. She kept walking, only to find that she had actually turned into a dead end. If the two men had continued to follow her, she was trapped.

They followed her all the way down the alley. They were large for Altrerians, with evident bulk on their frames. Even with her father’s wiry frame, Antrey was still stronger than the average Altrerian, but probably not these two. Certainly not the two of them working together. Brute strength was not going to get her out of this.

Both of the men that confronted her had fair light-green skin. The one approaching on the right had a scar across his temple. Antrey also noticed that he had a small knife dangling from his belt. Not a dagger, but big enough to hurt. His hand lingered near the hilt. The other one, approaching on the left, did not appear to be armed, but it was impossible to tell what he might be concealing.

The one on the left was the first to speak. Well, well, well, Gintie, what we got here, you think?

Gintie, the one with the knife, answered as if this was a prepared routine, Looks like we got one of them halfbreed whores, Myral.

I do believe you are correct, Gintie, Myral said, with practiced rhythmic precision. A nice clean one, too. The kind you find in those fancy houses down in the center of town.

You are right,