The Bay of Sins: The Water Road Trilogy, #3

By JD Byrne

The war is over, but nothing is settled.

On the Neldathi side of the Water Road the clans are slowly pulling apart following a sudden murder. Hirrek is tasked with getting to the bottom of a mystery: was this killing the random act of a violent, unstable man? Or was it something more sinister, a hint of what the Neldathi thought they’d defeated during the war? The unity won in blood may be slipping away.

In the rebuilding city of Innisport, life is returning to something like normal. That’s largely due to Mida, given the task of rebuilding the city by Antrey Ranbren herself. After Mida hands power over to the Guild of Politicians, she finds herself on trial for her life, charged with treason and being a collaborator. Along the way she meets someone, a curious remnant of the war, who makes her rethink the way she sees those that destroyed her city.

In the meantime, Antrey returns from exile, escaping to the wilderness of Telebria. She gains new allies, including Rurek, and a new foe, the Sentinel Faerl. He’s best known among the other Sentinels as the man who let Antrey slip away once before, getting all his men killed in the process. Now he has a chance for redemption and revenge. But Antrey is willing to do anything to ensure that her legacy does not slip away.

The chase is on, as the saga of The Water Road barrels toward its explosive conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JD Byrne
• Release date: Mar 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386435525

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

Weft was used to being alone. That didn’t bother him. In truth, it had always made his life as a Sentinel easier. That wasn’t a requirement, as plenty of Sentinels worked with each other, with liaisons from the Triumvirate military, and with the general public, even if the public didn’t know it. But it suited the work Weft did, what he was doing right now, for him to be able to thrive on his own. He thought it made him more able to deal with the new reality, one where the Sentinels, as a whole, were cut off. Once the Grand Council knuckled under to the blue-skinned barbarians in the name of peace, the Sentinels had become an embarrassment, something to be marginalized and forgotten.

This was a different kind of alone, though. He was used to being in a room or a city full of his own people. Now he was here, in this place that the Neldathi thought was a city, but was really just a collection of rough wooden buildings and shifting tent communities. Everything was white, the verdant green of the surrounding countryside buried under a constantly refreshed blanket of snow. The only green for miles around was him, his skin standing out starkly among the blue Neldathi. He was as conspicuous as a stain of rich red blood spreading across a white shirt after a gunshot.

No, Weft realized, he wasn’t alone. He was isolated, cut off from everything that was familiar to him. He didn’t like the feeling at all. Still, it was better than that damned ship. He’d trade months in what passed for Neldathi civilization before he returned to the constant heaving of the sea.

It helped if he kept moving, kept the sound of snow crunching underfoot in his ears. It kept him from being bogged down in the petty squabbles he heard all around him. The training he received in the Neldathi tongue, with its singsong tones and guttural words, had been better than he’d hoped. He couldn’t speak it like a native, but he could do as well as an Islander who traded with the savages on a regular basis. That cover story had served him well. They were not only willing to talk to him, but seemed to trust him almost reflexively. If only the Sentinels had infiltrated the Islander trading companies before this mess all began, they might have better seen it coming.

The Islanders had been dealing with the Neldathi for generations as equals, more or less. At least, that was the story they told the Triumvirate. In truth, Weft suspected that the Islanders knew they had a considerable advantage over the Neldathi because they had more information about the wider world. That no doubt gave them an advantage in negotiations, one they must have pressed. He had read an Islander treatise before he got on the ship that explained there was nothing wrong in dealing with another party that had less information, less grasp of the world, so long as there was no active deception. In other words, it was perfectly acceptable for the Neldathi to fool themselves, for whatever reason, so long as the Islanders didn’t lead them there. Since there was no way for the Neldathi to know they could make better deals, they saw the Islanders as friends— more so than other Altrerians, anyway.

Weft wasn’t bound by that morality. Deception was at the core of his particular role as a Sentinel. It was why he was here. If any Neldathi had noticed that, for a trader, Weft spoke very little of trade, none had let on. They were perfectly happy to talk to him of other things, although almost everything could relate to commerce, as he was quick to explain if needed. He was interested in internal Neldathi politics because they were inherently linked with buying and selling goods. He would be a bad trader if he let his firm set up trade routes that might be engulfed in civil war in a year’s time.

That had been the story he was selling when he arrived in Port Karn. His orders were clear: He was to observe, listen, and talk with the Neldathi to learn as much as he could. He was not to set anything in motion. Other Sentinels were doing similar jobs in the other Islander cities, and the first goal, as always, was gathering information. Thanks to the traitorous Grand Council, the Sentinel network south of the Water Road that had taken decades to establish had been wiped away. Gathering intelligence, seeing where things stood, was more important than ever.

Weft had to admit that the dismantling of the old system also provided him with greater flexibility. Before the Rising he might have had several layers of supervisors above him, people to whom he had to report regularly and who would dictate his every move. Now he was left more to his own supervision and had the ability to interpret his orders more broadly than before. He hadn’t been directly ordered to do any of what he had done since leaving Port Karn — even that was not part of his instructions. But he felt all of his actions fell within his broader mandate, the mandate of that group of Sentinels who weren’t going to take this new order lying down.

Those others like him, no matter how few, were committed to doing what the Grand Council had officially forsaken. It would be harder, given their small numbers, to keep the Neldathi at each other’s throats, but it could be done. If anything, what Weft learned in Port Karn make him think the blue barbarians were just as fractured now as they had ever been. They were trying harder to hold things together, but whether they would was anyone’s guess.

The days when a member of one clan would kill a member of any of the other ten clans just on general principle were probably over, at least for now. They weren’t a unified nation, though, no matter how much some of their people wanted that to be true. Once Antrey Ranbren went into exile, the Neldathi came apart. Without her to hold them together, and without the unifying goal of war with the Triumvirate to drive them, it was natural that fissures would appear. It just surprised Weft how quickly they had shown themselves and how easily they might be exploited.

Given what he had learned in Port Karn, he would have been a fool to stay there. So he hitched a ride with a caravan headed deep into the snowy mountains, through the Hogarth Pass to a place called Albandala. If nothing else, Weft figured it would be a tale to tell his grandchildren years from now. He would be able to see the city the barbarians were building while it was still in its infancy. It would either become a great city, like those in the north, or flounder and turn to ruin. Either way, it would never again be like it was now. From what Weft had seen, Albandala becoming a great city didn’t seem like the probable outcome.

That superiority, that understanding he was doing the right thing in a place that was so utterly beneath him, didn’t change the fact that he was so isolated that it hurt. He had been here about two weeks, and it unnerved him more than he liked to admit to not see any other Altrerian faces, to not have anyone else with which he could have a regular conversation. The only thing worse than the isolation was being suddenly thrust out of it.

There were three of them, not just Altrerian, but Telebrian. One was dressed like a Telebrian aristocrat, with a thick wool coat, gloves, and a hat that shielded his face from the cold. The other two looked like they worked for a living. Soldiers, perhaps at some earlier time, but something else now. Weft stopped when he saw them and lingered just a bit too long.

One of the working men headed right for him.

~~~~~

Weft knew that there was supposed to be, at some point in the future, a Triumvirate ambassador stationed it Albandala. It was one of the terms of the peace treaty to which the Grand Council had agreed. In return, one of the Neldathi would go to Tolenor, revolting as that notion was to him. The thought of one of the blue bastards in the Grand Council chamber sent his mind on a flight of violent fancy, one that didn’t generate any sympathy for the Grand Councilors. They were the reason that Neldathi was there. They would pay the price.

Weft had no idea when the Triumvirate ambassador would arrive. He thought it would be some weeks, and he expected to be the only Altrerian in the city until then. At most, he imagined he would encounter other Islander traders, someone doing for real what he was only pretending to do. He hadn’t seen any of them yet, however. It had never occurred to him to be on the lookout for the ambassador.

He could have run. If nothing else, Albandala was full of Neldathi. It would’ve been easy to slip away. He thought better of it. He had to keep playing his part. A Sentinel doing covert things in the city should be frightened, scared of being found out. An Islander trader, on the other hand, wouldn’t care if he was spotted by the ambassador. He suppressed the urge to flee and put on a pleasant smile when the bodyguard walked over to him. Would he like to dine with the ambassador tonight? Of course he would. Why wouldn’t he? Aside from being unable to fathom an excuse, it would be another good opportunity to gather information.

Xalam Sosta was younger than Weft expected. Earlier that afternoon, with the ambassador wrapped up against the cold, it had been hard to tell what he looked like. Weft had assumed that this position would have gone to an elder statesman. After all, it required a delicate touch, tact, and patience beyond measure. Perhaps all who fit that description had refused, perhaps because, secretly, they opposed the peace. How many people who had spent their whole lives in fear of another Neldathi incursion — given Innisport, fear that was justified — would take the chance to go live among the barbarians for who knows how long?

Thinking on it now, sitting across the table from Xalam, it made perfect sense that the person they sent would be young and ambitious. If things went wrong, they could blame the problem on the inherent inferiority of the Neldathi. Did anyone really think such illiterate savages were going to keep the terms of a written peace treaty? Who would blame Xalam for any of that? On the other hand, if things went well and Xalam succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations, he would reap great rewards for his career. Weft admired him, even if he hoped that the result would ultimately not be in his favor.

I have to say, I did not expect to see another of our kind here, Xalam said while cutting a particularly tough piece of meat. The meal was pure Telebria, with grilled steak, vegetables, and, of course, wine. None of the Neldathi stews for the ambassador.

Likewise, Weft said, sipping his wine. He hadn’t seen alcohol worth drinking since he left Port Karn. The thick mead the Neldathi consumed turned his stomach. He drank slowly. The last thing he needed was for his wits to depart. How long have you been here, ambassador?

Myself? Only a few days. My men have been here for a few weeks, however, making preparations.

Weft wondered why he hadn’t seen them, particularly given how impressive the preparations were. Xalam’s cabin was small, but sturdy and far better than many of the other buildings Weft had been in. It was miles beyond his own crude tent, which did little to break the cold aside from providing shelter from the wind. Even the Neldathi buildings were drafty. Xalam’s cabin must have been built by Telebrians, or at least using Telebrian plans. Inside, it was tight as a drum. Nearer the fire, which crackled contentedly in the corner of the room, it was almost too warm for Weft’s comfort. Almost.

How do you find it? The city, I mean, Weft said.

Xalam waved the question away with his fork. I am more interested in how you found it. After all, I had some idea of what I was getting into. You, on the other hand. Are you the first Islander to make it to Albandala?

He had to tread carefully. He had no idea what the correct answer was. So far as I know, ambassador.

I would have thought that once the peace was signed, the Islanders would have descended upon this place. Think of the things these people need to build proper homes and such.

Weft nodded. We’re a very independent people, without a great deal of coordination. Everyone knows there’s an opportunity here, but it’s up to individual companies to exploit it. Others may still be a little suspicious of this place and of the peace, whether it holds.

Is that so? Xalam chewed for a moment, in thought. I think things are going very well on that front. The Neldathi army made it back south of the Water Road without incident. The tribunal that your people are running about Innisport and Tomondala has been operating for several months. Ambassadors have been exchanged, obviously. All that being said, to what do you attribute the reluctance of your colleagues to come to Albandala?

Weft mimicked his host, making a show of chewing slowly and thoughtfully. He wished he knew more about Xalam’s background, something to give him a better idea of why he was here. Was he just a diplomat, someone from a family with a long history of such service? Or was he writing reports that would find their way back to the Minister of Information? Without knowing which, Weft decided to stay as close to the truth as he could.

I think they’re afraid the Neldathi won’t hold together, he finally said. Of course your people will do as promised, as will mine. I don’t think we doubt the sincerity of the Neldathi, either. They want to abide by the terms of the peace treaty, to become a nation like any other. But now that Antrey Ranbren is gone, there are concerns that they may splinter into different factions. That could make trade difficult.

Oh? How might that happen?

He was too far in to stop now. I can only go on what I’ve heard, ambassador. Rumors, which have a way of never being true, at least in the strictest sense. You certainly know more.

Xalam gestured for him to continue.

They say the Neldathi are splitting into at least three groups. There are those who value Neldathi unity over all else and feel that they will let Antrey Ranbren down if they cannot remain unified. That unity is the only way to defend against the Triumvirate, as well. There are others who think that unity is only a means to an end, an end that has been achieved: retaliation against the Triumvirate. They value a more decentralized structure, with some clans allied with others, but not necessarily all. Finally, there is a group that simply wants things to return to the old ways, now that they have extracted terms from the Triumvirate. Without the constant bloodshed, presumably.

Weft knew he was pushing too hard on the third group. There was no serious group that wanted the eleven clans to return to their circuits, competing against one another. Nonetheless, it was worth tossing it in to see what Xalam might say.

Fascinating, Xalam said, dabbing his lips with a napkin. I do not think your rumors are wrong, nor do I think things will happen quite so quickly as you seem to think. Even if the Neldathi eventually fracture, there is still money to be made here.

For certain. Weft raised his glass. After all, where there is risk, there is profit. He nearly cringed as he recited the old aphorism he had drilled into his head during the voyage to Port Karn.

Well said. Xalam raised his glass in agreement, then changed course. I have to say, the weather here is more frightful than I anticipated. My family is from Lesser Telebria, the highlands. I have seen my share of winters, but this is something else entirely. I cannot imagine how you feel about it. Those warm Slaisal breezes must seem so very far away.

That stopped Weft in his tracks. He had only been concerned with how he appeared to the Neldathi up to this point. They had no context for distinguishing between a Telebrian cold snap and the warm trade winds of the Slaisal Islands. Xalam had a point. An Islander would find this cold and snow particularly brutal. That he was actually from a small town near the Endless Hills and grew up with winters that were consistent, if less impressive than this one, was something he couldn’t let Xalam know.

Did it show when you saw me today? I hope not. The Neldathi already think of us as weak little people. It wouldn’t do for them to know how miserable I was in the weather they take for granted. Naturally, the chill and the snow settle right down in my bones. It pleases me that you couldn’t tell, ambassador. Weft was pleased by that particular parry.

The answer seemed to satisfy Xalam. He didn’t return to any critical issues about the Neldathi during the rest of their meal. Weft wasn’t much for small talk, but he was willing to put up with tales of Xalam’s youth in Telebria, not to mention a few shockingly off-color jokes, to avoid the cold outside.

When they were done and Weft stood to leave, Xalam asked, How long do you intend to stay here?

Weft couldn’t answer honestly, for he truly didn’t know. That depends, ambassador. I’ll have to see how things develop in the next few days. That had the ring of truth, even though it left out so much. Good night, and thank you for dinner. Weft pulled his coat tightly around him and walked out into the frosty night.

~~~~~

It was overcast the next day, snow spitting from the slate-gray sky. Weft made his rounds in the morning, speaking with members of various clans, chatting about nothing important. He was feeling things out, trying to get information without anyone knowing they were giving it to him. He usually had better luck, but today people seemed tight-lipped. Something was in the air, something Weft couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The day began to achieve some focus when he saw an old Neldathi man emerge from the meeting hall in the center of the city. The long, low log building was where the clans met to discuss vital issues. It wasn’t clear what this meeting had been about or how many people had been involved, but the old man’s bearing and entourage suggested that he was important. Weft suspected he was one of the chiefs, a thek, but he couldn’t tell from which clan. He had no painted lines in the long black-and-gray braid that hung down his back.

Even if he couldn’t tell which clan the thek belonged to, Weft could make a guess as to which faction could claim him. It wasn’t a hard and fast rule, but generally an unpainted braid identified one as an unificationist. If a Neldathi still wore clan colors, most likely he was an independent. This was most likely one of Antrey Ranbren’s men, come to Albandala on a mission.

Weft watched as the man shuffled through the snow. There were four younger men with him, all of them also wearing black braids. Warriors, no doubt, although none of them had weapons to hand. One had a rifle slung across his back, another a short spear of some kind. The others no doubt had knives or swords on them, but Weft couldn’t see. Regardless, they were woefully unprepared for what came next.

The thek was greeting people as he shuffled. He must have been popular, at least among some portions of Neldathi society. People gave him what looked like warm hellos, meeting him with smiles and nods. The jumble of voices overtaxed Weft’s limited grip on the language. The numbers overwhelmed his guards, who looked reluctant to try and push back the well-wishers anyway. Were they obeying the thek’s orders?

One Neldathi, smaller than the others and with black, blue, and red stripes in his braid, stepped forward with another group to greet the old man. Weft had a hard time keeping sight of him, with the press of tall bodies around him blocking the view. He worked his way through the crowd just in time to see the small Neldathi raise his right arm and charge at the thek. He yelled something low and guttural and angry. Weft couldn’t begin to understand it, but he caught the gist. There was a pistol in his right hand.

It wasn’t as loud as he expected, but the shot rattled Weft’s bones all the same. The speed and violence of the maneuver took him by surprise. He knew something like this might happen, but had no idea when. In the blink of an eye there was a cloud of smoke surrounding the old chief as he fell, clutching his throat. The snow turned red underneath him.

The shooter held the useless pistol aloft and began to laugh loudly, in a way that proved he was out of his mind. Before he could even try to run away, another Neldathi, this one taller, wider, and altogether more in keeping with the stereotype of his people, tackled the shooter, driving him to the ground.

There was no need for Weft to see what happened next. His work was done. He needed to leave the city as quickly as he could.

PART I

Chapter 1

If there was one trait that defined each of the Slaisal Islands, it was that each had its own bustling port, whether big or small. Katon was the exception to that rule. It had a small dock on the western side of the island where supply ships would arrive every now and then, but that was it. A narrow path led up the bluff, just wide enough for a laden mule to pick its way up. When Antrey, Naath, and Malin arrived, it took them the better part of a day to reach the top. There was an even rougher path, more of a wide depression in the rock, on the eastern side of the island, but nobody talked much about it. Antrey certainly had no intention of exploring it.

About a third of the island, up on the bluff, was given over to a large estate. The main house perched on a cliff on the northern side, almost like it was daring itself not to fall off. There were stables, a guesthouse, and servants’ quarters. Naath explained that no one was really sure how the Telebrian who built the estate had made his money. Whatever it was, he had come to Katon for an early retirement, but managed to run afoul of the Islander elders. They seized the estate and kicked him out, driving him back to the mainland. Ever since, it had been sitting there, no one quite sure what should become of it. It was a perfect place for Antrey and the others to come to once the peace treaty had been signed. One man’s retirement retreat had become her grudging exile.

The views are startling. It was Undal, Antrey’s de facto jailor. I never quite grow tired of them.

Do you ever miss being more connected with the world? Antrey asked the question without looking at her.

It’s a life I chose, one in which I said I’d have no regrets. For someone like me, someone who doesn’t like the bustle of crowds and the stench of fish, where else would I go?

Did you ever think of leaving the islands altogether? You could go to Telebria or the Guilds.

Undal chuckled. When I was a child, I dreamt of going to Azkyroth, of running away with the Azkiri nomads. Then I had a chance to spend a week getting to the coast, then stumbling over those dry, red rocks. No, I could tell the islands were home, even if I didn’t want the same things out of life as most of my people do.

Antrey stood on the cliff, letting the wind whip around her. At first she had found these warm Slaisal breezes refreshing, a pleasant change from the frozen winds of the Neldathi mountains or the stagnant air of Tolenor. But now, a year into an exile that would last the rest of her life, the warmth seemed to be gone. Regardless of what Naath said, it seemed cooler now.

Standing here, Antrey thought she was living in some other world, one that wasn’t so big and complex as the one on the mainland. Here, on the precipice under hazy moonslight, she couldn’t see down to the beach. It was hundreds of feet straight down, more or less, full of jagged rocks. If she was perfectly still and held her breath, she could just hear the surf rolling in.

Looking out to sea was no better. This side of the island didn’t face the mainland, but the distinction was meaningless since it was too far away to see in any case. This was where they let her be alone. There was no one out there at sea to whom she might try and make contact with, to break the quarantine. Every now and then she saw a light bobbing on the waves, a ship taking a peculiar route home. It was enough to let her entertain thoughts of escape, even if she knew the chance would never come. Not that life here wasn’t pleasant, in its way. But a cage was still a cage, no matter how nice it was.

Not thinking of leaving us, are you?

Antrey wasn’t sure what Undal’s title was, technically. She was the one responsible for overseeing Katon, for making sure that the artists’ colony that made up the rest of the population ran smoothly. She was a kind, older woman, sort of how Antrey imagined her mother might have been, even as a Neldathi. But she wasn’t her mother.

She tried not to say what was roaring through her mind. Undal could leave any time she wanted. She could go for any reason or no reason at all, decide to come back at some later time or travel the world forever. She wasn’t stuck here, being left behind as the world went on its way.

Katon hadn’t been designed to be a jail, and Undal certainly hadn’t come here to be a warden, but the additional responsibility didn’t seem to bother her. Unlike most of the Slaisal Islands, Katon had nothing to do with fishing. It was too small, too rough, and too far from the other islands to be a part of the fishing lanes.

The island rose out of the waves like a huge stone thrown into deep water by Goshen’s Maker of Worlds. It was barren and dry, which made farming on any kind of large scale impossible. So it had developed as the artists’ colony, a communal collection of homes and workshops dotting the rocky landscape. It attracted a rotating cast of artists and craftspeople of many disciplines, all of whom wanted to get away from the world and focus on their art for a while. Antrey had had several long conversations with a sculptor and a glass blower, both of whom offered to make her pieces. She had declined, wary of getting too close.

Antrey didn’t answer Undal’s question. Instead, she turned and started walking back toward the house. She was free to go there, at least. The wind’s picked up a little chill since the sun went down.

It does that sometimes, when the breeze comes in from the eastern sea, Undal said, walking a few steps behind her. Time to head home?

I think so, Antrey said, without looking at her.

Do you need company? It sounded like a friendly request, but Antrey knew better.

I’ve been here for a year, Antrey said, stopping, but still facing the house. I think I can find my way home.

Or what passes for home, at any rate.

~~~~~

The aroma hit her the moment she walked into the house: rich, meaty, earthy. Not fish again, thank the Maker. She went to the kitchen, where the cook was staring intently at a large steel pot on top of the wood-burning stove. He tossed in a bit of spice, just a pinch, before he noticed her.

Rabbit, he said. The boys caught a few this morning. Been a while since I skinned one, but it came back to me. He smiled a wobbly, toothy smile.

Smells lovely. How long?

Another hour, more or less.

She nodded, inhaled deeply one last time, then left the room.

Antrey hadn’t realized how accustomed she had become to having others do the basics of life for her until she had arrived on Katon. She had been with the army, or surrounded by aides and advisors, for so long that where dinner came from or how hot water materialized hadn’t crossed her mind. Here, once she met her staff, she realized how much effort others had been making on her behalf. There was the cook, along with a housekeeper, a groundskeeper, and an older gentleman whose title wasn’t clear, but who appeared to be responsible for making sure supplies came in as scheduled.

Then there were the guards, of course, about half a dozen of whom were patrolling the estate at any given time. They lived in the servants’ quarters — the main house had room for the rest of the staff — and were rarely seen. But she knew they were there and why they were there. Undal insisted they were there for her protection, but she knew better. She had no doubt they could keep intruders out, but that was secondary to keeping her in.

There was even a tutor for Malin, although the boy hadn’t taken to books the way Antrey had hoped. He certainly hadn’t taken to her. She had hoped, against everything her mind told her, that he might. It had been more than a year, but could he ever forgive her for giving the order to have his father executed? Forlahn seemed to accept his fate when it came and was concerned only for the boy. She hadn’t given the issue much thought when she decided to make Malin an orphan. Sometimes she wondered if she had told Forlahn everything, about her plan for exile and that she would take the boy and raise him, if he could have talked him into acceptance. She doubted it.

At least Naath hadn’t been there when it happened. She had wanted nothing more than for him to be with her at Tivol Market, during the most intense days of her life. Now she realized his absence had been a blessing. Since he played no part in Forlahn’s death, Malin had no reason to hold the same hatred against him. They became friends almost immediately after Naath returned from Azkyroth. So long as Malin listened to one of them, Antrey had to be content with that.

She walked into the library, the place that had become her sanctuary. At first she had felt deeply conflicted about this room, which took up one corner of the house. She was thrilled to be around books again, to be able to read them any time she wanted just because she wanted to. Since she had fled Tolenor, anything she read had been in the service of the Rising and her role as jeyn.

But it also reminded her, all too often, of Alban’s library back in the Grand Council building. It was actually larger than that, but with a vastly different collection of books. Alban’s library had been filled with books on history, philosophy, and military strategy. The previous owner of this house, by contrast, had less sophisticated taste. Being more charitable, Antrey thought that perhaps he had come to the point in his life when reading was only a pleasure, not a chore. He had stocked his library with fiction of nearly every kind imaginable, as well as poetry, which Antrey had not really read before. There were books in which great hunters and explorers recounted their travels, and stories about the titans of industry. To her, it was all new, and that was a joy.

It took her a few months to feel comfortable there. She was more likely, during that time, to take something off the shelf and go to another room to read it. To sit there, surrounded by books, endless shelves of words, was to be reminded of what she did to Alban. It had happened in his library, after all. It had happened because of his library.

She decided, at some point, that she couldn’t keep living like that. This was her home, and she had to make it feel that way. So now the library looked like it was used on a regular basis, lived in. There was a high pile of books on a small desk, while another few books and newspapers were spread out on the table in front of the couch by the window. She liked reading there the best, where she could glance up and watch the world go by outside.

The newspapers she got, some from as far away as the Guilds, were well out of date by the time they reached Katon. That wasn’t just due to the distance to the mainland. Before any newspaper reached Antrey’s hands, it first passed through Undal’s, or whoever else’s, so that it could be scrubbed clean of the most important news. Anything about politics, about relations between the Triumvirate and the Neldathi, was considered off limits, although no one could tell her why. She knew nothing about whether the Triumvirate continued to operate as it always had, nor about whether the Neldathi clans continued to hold together. The best explanation Undal had given her was that someone somewhere was worried that if she knew all of what was going on she might be enticed to try and go be a part of it. She wasn’t convinced when Antrey told her that not knowing was more likely to produce that result.

Besides, why would they expect her to do anything? She had agreed to this exile as a term of the peace treaty. Yes, she was stuck with it now, but she had been aware of the bargain when she made it and chose it of her own free will. It wasn’t as if she could write someone with instructions. She wasn’t even certain if a written communication could make it to the desired destination south of the Water Road.

Even scrubbed, she read the papers, trying to tease out greater strands of meaning from