Ocean's Dagger Read online

  No doubt headed to Hiroshi.

  It was none of her business, but something drew her to the person they led. A tiny silver whistle hung from a chain around Shaya's neck, and she pulled it out from under her sea-green silk tunic, three quick bursts, and the sound of a school of dolphins filled the square. Akio would watch for her descent.

  Careful not to cut her hands on the roof, Shaya used the ledge to lower herself onto her fifth-floor balcony. The sturdy clothesline supported her weight as she walked with perfect balance to just above Dai's group.

  She slipped off the line, catching it with both hands to slow her fall, then dropped to the next, and the next, leaving her hanging fifteen feet in the air. The moment Dai's group was clear, she dropped behind them and bounced off the balls of her feet into a shoulder roll.

  Shaya popped up into a crouched fighting stance at the exact moment Hisoka and Jun turned to face her with dual street-blades drawn. Each blade was the length of four-hands and made of wicked steel—produced by hammering the blade's steel upon itself until it curved into a grin. The finest type of steel one could buy from the Ruby Nation's smiths.

  Her fist clenched the handle of her sword but left it inside her bone sheath. A crimson sash kept it secured during her acrobatic entrance.

  "Dai!" Her voice cut through the marketplace and echoed off the square's stone. "Tell your men to sheath their weapons, or you die first."

  Right on cue, Akio slapped his fencing daggers together causing Dai to jerk his head behind him. Akio was no longer the little boy who prostrated himself before Shaya at her brother's funeral. He was the fastest blade in Shinzo. Not even drunk on wine and madly in love, would any man dare duel him in a heat of passion. Yet, honor had forced many men to face their deaths at the end of those daggers. Always better to die than face dishonor.

  Nearly five hundred people stood silent inside the Bloody Square, wearing faces of stone. Even the children knew to be silent, though they showed their emotions. The silence lingered.

  "Dai!"

  He turned to meet her eyes.

  "Don't do this," she said.

  "Goruden-Tanken Hiroshi—" Dai started

  "Hiroshi, nothing!" She cut his words off and her voice threatened to do the same to his head. "You are not of the Goruden. Honor does not protect you!"

  Akio took one extended step with slow deliberate action—putting Dai inside Akio's death circle—for all to see. If Shaya ordered it, Dai would be dead before he blinked.

  "Dai," she shook her head.

  The outcome of the fight was decided before it began. There was no need to spill blood, and Dai was partially right. Hiroshi would take it as an insult if she killed Dai's gang, but the clan laws were clear. Dai was a familiar, not a clan member.

  "Do as she says," Dai said, and his men sheathed their street-blades. "What do you want?"

  Akio pointed his dagger toward Dai.

  "Kaito-Tanken Shaya," Dai bowed more deeply than customs demanded.

  Akio turned to the crowd and signaled with his blades. Suddenly the market was back in action, though shifted at least twenty feet away from them in all directions, creating a circle of privacy.

  Shaya took several steps closer to Dai's gang, but kept more than a lunge distance between her and Jun, just in case. The stranger was a boy, young by the looks of him, but she couldn't place where he was from. Blond hair and blue eyes, he looked like the mythical men of the sea, spoken of by Sueun priests. His hair looked almost like the people of the Pearl Nation, but not quite. Regardless, he was the sorcerer she felt, there was no doubt.

  "I want the boy."

  "Why?" Dai asked. "He's not from here, just arrived, or so he was telling us. I was on my way to introduce him to Hiroshi and teach him a few of our local games."

  "Really?" She raised a single eyebrow.

  Jun and his twin drummed their fingers on the hilts of their street-blades in rhythmic unison. They weren't the type of men to settle disputes with words. Their exposed right calves bore the black tally marks of the men they'd killed.

  Akio on the other hand watched the surrounding crowds and stared off at the clouds in the sky. He watched anywhere but the conversation at hand, without the slightest sign of worry.

  Dai's skin grew shiny, although they stood in the shade of the towering buildings. "Yes. The boy wanted to see the Bloody Square, and I thought it best he sees the real square."

  "Very well." She straightened herself, then stretched her back in an arch with both hands in the air. "We'll go meet Hiroshi on this blessed day."

  "Blessed Sueun." The five of them said in unison—only the stranger stayed silent.

  "Do you agree?" Shaya asked the strange boy.

  "Yes." He nodded his head vigorously. Her voice had made it clear the question was rhetorical.

  "Dai, you and Akio lead the way. I'd like to speak with the boy alone."

  Dai opened his mouth but seemed to think better of whatever he'd been about to say and signaled for the twins to follow.

  Akio led the way, twirling his daggers, and juggling them as they passed children. One boy, no older than six, held up an apple in both hands. Akio flung his dagger with perfect precision, driving the blade into the core of the apple, but ensuring it didn't puncture the opposite side. Retrieving his dagger, Akio cut the apple and handed it back to him. The boy's mother watched silently with a stone face, but her eyes shone with fear. Shaya watched the mother scold her son after they passed.

  The boy beside her didn't speak. And while he didn't wear a stone face, he showed no outward signs of fear. Caution, yes. But fear, no.

  This will be fun.

  She slipped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close to speak in private as they walked.

  CHAPTER TEN

  REN DIDN'T KNOW WHERE THEY were headed, but he felt comfortable around with Kaito-Tanken Shaya, unlike Dai who'd made him feel like a rabbit cornered by an ice wolf. Her long, black hair—kept tightly weaved into one long strand—made his heart race and reminded him of someone he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  "You're here for the examination, right?" Shaya asked, keeping her voice low so they could speak in private. Akio stood between the two of them and Dai with his men.

  "Um, yes. How could you tell?"

  "Why else would a boy from the Pearl Nation be out wandering the markets of our fine city alone? What's your name?"

  "Ren." He rung his hands, avoiding eye contact with Shaya. Her sea-green silk tunic clung to her skin, and his face grew warm every time he looked at her.

  "What do you think of our city so far?" Shaya asked. "Have you ever seen so many people? I've heard the Pearl Nation is a tiny city with hardly anyone left."

  Ren felt his face flush fully, but not from lust. "We're the smallest nation, but at least we're progressing. As far as I can tell, Shinzo is a backwards city. Stuck in the past, with customs and rules not fit for a civilized people. Back home I'd have never been—"

  "But you're not home." Shaya crossed her arms across her stomach, drawing further attention to her feminine form.

  Ren went to speak, but upon looking at her lost his nerve and looked away.

  Shaya laughed at his modesty, and placed an arm on his shoulder, "You'll learn to respect, and even enjoy, your time here. All members of the Amethyst Nation must cast aside their old allegiances and serve Fencura. You'll have to respect all customs."

  "I've not joined yet," Ren muttered under his breath.

  Dai led the group through a side door, on the northeast side of the Bloody Square. The cool air instantly caused Ren's linen shirt to stick to him, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to a darkened stone stairwell.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BRANDON SAT IN THE BACK of the Ice Wolf, a pub in the far south of the city where the street dead ends into the Ice Plains. Dressed down to avoid attention, he kept his back to the brick wall while he sipped his beer. A cheap cask, likely spoiled from the sea passage, it tasted like brackish wat
er. In a place like this, it could be cheap whiskey mixed with ocean water, and a splash of coffee for the color.

  Keeping in character—to blend in with the lower classes of this part of the city-Brandon took a large swallow while his neighbors two tables over eyed him. Brandon let out an echoing burp, and they cheered before returning to their conversation. Leaving him alone to fantasize about killing George for being late.

  Thirty minutes late—George sat down carrying a double-pint glass of the same blackened concoction being called beer. Cultural norms forced Brandon to order a second pint to keep up appearances, and his stomach was protesting the abuse. The stomach pains saved George's few remaining, blackened, teeth from being knocked out of their sockets by Brandon. Though he smirked at the thought of doing it.

  George raised his double-pint with two hands, "Cheers." When he placed the steel mug down, half its contents were gone.

  Using a method, he'd learned in the university, Brandon projected his voice onto the tabletop, meaning only George could hear him. "Where the fuck have you been! It's half past."

  "Had to top off and complete the crate." George's voice echoed off the wall behind Brandon.

  "Lower your voice, you fool."

  Their neighbors glanced over in their direction before continuing their own chatter. Loud drunks were expected there, but George wasn't drunk, he was wired on dust. His beady eyes and the tiny droplets of sweat were a dead giveaway, given the freezing temperatures outside.

  George did as he was told but puffed up his chest in defiance. "Where's the money?"

  "Safe, but ready for you. Where's the prototype?"

  "Safe."

  The two men stared each other down, waiting to see who'd offer first. The dust George was on gave him the advantage and Brandon blinked.

  "I can bring the money to the pickup. However, I'll need proof first."

  "What proof?"

  Brandon took another sip of the sour slurry in his mug. "Pictures. Not just any though."

  "What's that mean?" George's hand aimlessly scratched at a spot on his neck—he'd been at it for days with the way the wound scabbed over.

  "You and your crew have to stand in front of the crate."

  "Fuck that!"

  "Hear me out." Brandon put his palms up, in good faith. "You need the money. I only care about the prototype. I can't risk bringing in others to this deal, for obvious reasons. You have a whole crew."

  Brandon took another sip despite a sensation of crabs trying to claw their way out of his gut. "You've got me at a disadvantage. I need visual confirmation of the prototype, with you and your crew touching it. I have it on good authority what the prototype looks like, so I should be able to tell if it's genuine from the photos."

  George scooted his chair back from the table. "You're just trying to play me and get us arrested. There's no money. Fuck this!"

  "Wait!" This time Brandon's voice echoed, but no one seemed to notice or care. He lowered his voice again. "I can also offer proof. I'll give you a photo of me with the money. Besides you know who I am, and I know you. If I'd wanted to bring the authorities in on this, I wouldn't be sitting here. Just as I trust you would have already robbed or killed me if you meant me harm. Make this deal!"

  He offered his right-hand palm up, with his left-hand palm up resting on top of his right elbow. The traditional sign of a blood oath. Five-hundred-years ago, George would have grasped Brandon's left hand and cut the right hand being offered. Instead, George grasped both hands and shook.

  Their neighbors looked on at the gesture. A formal blood oath was rare and meant serious retribution from the gods if broken. Brandon caught one man's eyes, and the group of them made themselves preoccupied with their own drinks.

  "You send first." George broke off the hand shake.

  "Deal. Tonight, via encrypted message."

  George took a pencil and a small sheet of paper from his front coat pocket. Scribbled a note and slid it across the table. It was the public access key to his bank account. Brandon nodded.

  George stood up and drained the remainder of his mug. "Tonight?"

  "Yes. Tonight."

  "Fine, I'll get it ready for tomorrow." George let out a loud burp and slammed the mug on the hardwood table.

  Without so much as a goodbye, he staggered out the pub into the frozen night. No doubt in search of more dust.

  He better live long enough.

  Brandon faked sipping his beer. He couldn't force down any more of the horrible slurry. The men—two tables over—did their best not to look his direction. Their eyes wandered around the pub but darted away from his table.

  After waiting a quarter-hour, Brandon placed a small tip under his three-quarters-full mug and left for home. Stopping along his walk to puke up the vile liquid and purge himself. Anything to avoid the painful hangover such a beer would cause.

  * * *

  WHEN BRANDON AWOKE, his head felt tight, and his stomach groaned as if he'd skipped food for a week, but he had one new encrypted message.

  Wooden Antique

  Brandon,

  Take it or leave it. You'll not get my men.

  [embedded image]

  Death before dishonor!

  -George

  The image showed a large metal ball, resting atop stone feet, on a wooden floor and surrounded by wooden squares, which made-up the crates walls when assembled. Atop the metal ball sat George gesturing his hands in the same blood oath Brandon had offered, and below him stood four men wearing white woolen masks. The same kind Brandon wore when he explored the Ice Plains for new artifacts.

  The message was clear. Brandon could make the trade, but George would never betray his team.

  Perhaps there is honor amongst thieves?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  UNDERNEATH THE BLOODY SQUARE, and the public market, lay the true market. The Thieves' Market. Carved into the rock beneath the island's surface, the market sprawled out in all directions, with pillars stretching thirty feet to separate the floor and ceiling. Illuminated entirely by torches and Amethyst Lanterns, the market felt more like a crypt than a tropical island.

  "Welcome, to the Thieves' Market!" Dai's voice echoed off the stone.

  "Ignore his false bravado," Shaya whispered to Ren.

  As the gang led Ren down a long staircase cut squarely from the stone, the temperature dropped and he felt more at home. The tropical weather had been nice at first to thaw his bones, but he learned it was possible to have too much a good thing. Unlike the impermanent stall structures above, the merchants in this market used stone tables which appeared to grow from the ground. The ornate carvings of dolphins and other such sea creatures upon the stone surface astonished him. Construction back home was half as grand. To carve such works would have taken a master mason months.

  How old is this market?

  With the disappearance of magic in the Pearl Nation, it had forced them to rebuild. Without the ability to maintain structures with magic, they chose to turn their backs on magical building techniques and instead use their own technology. Only a handful of buildings remained from before the fall. The plague—which ravaged the city before Ren was born—forced them to burn down many structures, rather than risk further contamination. The Pearl Nation didn't have structures more than a few hundred years old.

  "Watch yourself." Shaya whispered to Ren, which snapped his attention away from the architectural marvels.

  As they walked north, towards a red structure in the distance, Akio whispered into Shaya's ear. Giving Ren a look as sharp as his daggers, he split off towards the stalls and merchants to the east.

  "How old is this place?" Ren asked.

  "No one knows exactly," she said, "but it's thought to have been built with the creation of the island."

  "What? Who created the island?"

  "Later—" She gripped his left elbow with a firm hand.

  Maybe the story in the history book wasn't a myth after all?

  Before them stood a collecti
on of red linen tents. Each tent stood fifteen-feet tall at their center poles—though their widths varied, connected with shared walls or small walkways. Inside the vast grotto of the Thieves' Market, the tents looked out of place, as if a nomadic tribe from the Emerald Nation's eastern deserts had set up camp underneath the city above.

  Dai and his men bowed to the front entrance guards. The two men who carried curved swords, similar to the one Shaya kept fastened to her waist with a red sash. To keep the pommel of their sword in hand, they fastened ropes through two rings attached to the sword sheaths and wore the ropes around their shoulders. In effect, their swords became honorary sashes showing to the world who and what these men were.

  After a quick exchange with the guards, Dai waved for Shaya and Ren to approach.

  "This is Ren, he's visiting from the Pearl Nation." Dai bent his hand in midair.

  When Ren didn't bow, Shaya gave him a firm tap on his back with her palm. He followed the cue and bowed with his hands at his waist like he'd seen Dai.

  Dai cleared his throat. "And honorable Kaito-Tanken Shaya, wishes to pay her respects to wise Goruden-Tanken Hiroshi."

  The two guards clicked their heels at the last bit, and this time they bowed to Shaya. Dai's face betrayed his disgust, though the twins to his side seemed unphased by the pomp and ceremony.

  Wrapping her arm around Ren, Shaya walked him inside the tent, and he allowed himself to be led, eager to see more. The guard to his right gave him a curt nod upon making eye contact. The inside of the tents switched from red to gold. Every carpet, linen wall, and piece of furniture was elaborately decorated with gold. Ren tried to estimate the wealth contained within, but lost count after the first 100,000 credits.

  Not even the Belfrys could afford this.

  Ren attempted to rotate his neck beyond 180 degrees and tripped over his own feet. Shaya's instant reflexes stopped his fall and saved his pride. If asked, he'd blame the blinding light which reflected off of every surface, creating the illusion they were drifting through a sunny day, rather than walking through a den of thieves.