Chapter 86

Coronation Day

Connie sat alone at the bar. The Whistle was a rundown tavern in the less savoury part of Port Novic. The patrons were as coarse and stodgy as the food they served, and they smelled worse than the ale. Connie loved it there. It was where she did most of her work and where she’d built her entire enterprise. She’d established a good reputation for her business and was proud of it. Even if it was a criminal enterprise.

Connie didn’t think of it like crime though, and she didn’t think of herself as a criminal. So it hurt so much more when the majority of her crew had been arrested at the docks earlier that week. As Sleek, Cowbell and the rest of the boys had been shackled, Connie watched as everything she’d nurtured and grown came crumbling down in moments.

There was no business without Sleek and the others. She needed them, she didn’t trust any of the other captain and deckhands with the cargo she transported. And she couldn’t take the risk with people's lives if she made a mistake.

Connie saw Micka and the other side of the bar with some girl she didn’t recognise. Micka was somewhat trustworthy; he brought her clients and skimmed a few silvers off the top for the effort. She didn’t particularly like the man but that was more on account of the fact he looked—and smelled—like a goat.

She ordered a glass of whiskey from the barkeep. It wasn’t her first this morning and definitely would not be her last. Connie intended to drink the place dry today. What else could she do? She couldn’t go watch all her friends be executed. No, a day at the bar was about all she could muster. And tomorrow? Nah, not thinking about that. She couldn't think about tomorrow, or the day after that. Or all the days that would stretch out for eternity before her liver finally gave up with the torture she planned to put it through.

“Got a job for you,” Micka said, approaching her. She smelled him before she saw him. Even sitting on a high stool, she had to crane her neck to look up at him. Not that Micka was particularly tall, just that Connie was tiny. She was so short that most people often mistook her for a child. It was one of the reasons she was glad that her hair had gone grey so early, at least people rarely made that mistake anymore.

“You not heard?”

“I heard,” he said with sympathy, “Sleek was a good lad. You’ll get another crew though.” Connie glared at him. She didn’t want another crew.

“Got a girl that needs to get through the travel embargo to Rubane. No documents or nothing, but she’s got silver.” He had a greedy glint in his eye as he spoke. If Micka had the strength to mug the girl he probably would have already.

“That her?” Connie nodded to the caramel-skinned girl at the bar. Young thing, small and pretty enough. The girl met her eyes, there was a determination in them that resonated with Connie and she was immediately intrigued. What is this girl running from? She wondered. A scorned lover? An overbearing family? Maybe she has debts? She didn’t look desperate, she looked composed, with the self-assured bearing of a runewielder.

To Connie, this was the best part of her work. She loved trying to piece together a person's story. Most people that need to be smuggled had a captivating past behind them. This girl was a bit of an oddity. She had money but knew how to make herself look like she didn’t, this was demonstrated by her travel garb that was of good quality, although subdued to not draw attention. And the girl clearly knew how to navigate through the underbelly of a city. She’d managed to find her way to Connie after all.

The girl also seemed to be alone, Connie would’ve spotted any hidden bodyguards. A pretty young girl should be reluctant to trust a man like Micka bringing her to a shady tavern in a rougher part of town. She’s either very naive… or she’s more dangerous than the men in this room and she knows it. The girl was a puzzle, and was precisely the kind that Connie loved to unravel.

But, alas, there was nothing to be done about it. Connie had no crew anymore. She felt the ice water in her bowels stir. She didn’t want to think about what was going to happen today. Connie met the girl's eyes again. She felt disappointed that she wouldn’t get the chance to help this girl with whatever she was running from, but Connie could barely help herself, let alone this misfit.

“Tell her to give up,” Connie grumbled, pulling her eyes away from the girl and back to Micka’s ugly face. “Nobody wants to risk crossing paths with a Reldoni warship.”

“I’ll let the lass know,” Micka replied, a note of defeat in his voice. He had likely been spending the girl’s silver in his head already.

Connie ordered herself another glass of whiskey and knocked it back the moment Gorge—the barkeep—placed it in front of her.

“Another,” she said, and patiently waited for the Gorge to oblige. In the corner of her eye, she could see Micka relaying the information to the girl. He was using hurried hand gestures, likely assuring her that he had other contacts for her.

Connie didn’t think Micka was the kind of man that would sell the girl out to the likes of Dennis—a trafficker who often took advantage of desperate people. She hoped the girl would take the advice, head back to wherever she came from or try to wait out the war. Either way, there was nothing Connie could do for her.

“Ah shit,” Connie muttered as she realised the girl was walking towards her. Micka trailing after her looking put out.

“Sorry ma’am,” Micka blathered as they approached, “I tried to explain to the lass how this works. That she cannae just walk up and talk to ye.”

“You’re the smuggler?” the girl asked, she had an odd accent but it was familiar to Connie.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“You’re from Altarea,” Connie concluded. This girl’s story keeps adding layers doesn’t it? Her interest was too piqued to not entertain a conversation with her.

“It’s fine,” Connie waved off Micka who slunk off to the other side of the bar. Once he was out of earshot, Connie gave the girl an assessing look. Normally, she would remain silent, and the silence would usually compel the person to pour out their stories to her.

“Are you the smuggler, or not?” the girl eventually asked.

“A dangerous question,” Connie replied, “how do I know you’re not a plant working for the watch?”

“Do I look like I work for the watch?”

“You wouldn’t make a very good plant if you did.”

“I need passage to Rubane,” the girl said, bluntly, “Garronforn would be better, but I would settle for Nordock.”

“Can’t help you, I’m afraid,” Connie said with a mock smile, “Duke Avriem has put a travel embargo on ships travelling to Rubane. He doesn’t want to step on any Reldoni toes… But you probably already know that, dear.”

“I’ve been told you’re the most reliable smuggler in the city.”

“I’ve been known to not sell my clients into slavery or to the authorities, it’s true. Helps to build a good reputation… why do you need to get to Rubane?”

“Can you take me there?”

“What’s your name?” Connie asked and the girl was quiet for a moment. This was something Connie was well accustomed to in her line of work. Most people didn’t like to give their real names.

“Femira,” the girl replied with a slight smirk.

***

Femira spent the better part of an hour trying to convince the woman to accept the job. She’d been told that the woman—Con—was the most trustworthy smuggler in Port Novic. Having already wasted nearly three weeks stranded in the city, Femira was becoming increasingly more impatient to be moving on.

“I wouldn’t be taking you anywhere,” Con said, accepting the third glass of whiskey that Femira had bought her. “I’m the gaffer, the man that normally sails the ship is Sleek.”

“Where can I find Sleek then?” Femira asked, becoming more than a little exasperated with the woman.

“Sleek is up for his coronation today,” Con revealed, her tone heavy with derision, “his smuggling days are finished.”

“I’m confused,” Femira replied, “his coronation?” She was quite certain she knew what that word meant.

“Yes,” Con threw the contents of her glass down her throat, “his grand inauguration.”

“Hang on,” Femira shook her head, “are you trying to tell me that this smuggler I’m looking for, is going to be the fucking King of Athlin?” How did Femira keep getting herself wrapped up into the affairs of royals. And—more importantly—how was a royal also a known smuggler?!

Con’s eyes narrowed at her, both hands still clasped around the now empty glass.

“You really are new around here, aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all,” Femira scowled, “I need to get into Rubane. That’s why I’m stuck looking for a damned smuggler.”

“Sleek isn’t going to be King,” Con spat, “Cowbell isn’t going to be King. None of my friends up for coronation today are going to be King. They’re all going to sit on the Red Throne today and like every person that has sat on it before; they’re going to die.”

“The Red Throne,” Femira mused. Something in that tickled at her memory, a story she’d heard told years before in a tavern just like this one in Altarea.

“Aye. The seat of the last true King of Athlin, Krastac,” Con explained, “and he made sure his fat arse would be the last that would ever sit in it. Krastac, being a Sorcerer King, cursed the thing. With a promise that only his true successor would be able to safely sit on it.”

“I’m guessing it kills anyone who tries to then?”

“It ain’t pretty neither. Anyone can attempt it, but getting it wrong will cost you your life. Every now and then a person either too desperate or too stupid risks it, deluded enough to think that maybe they’re Krastac’s chosen successor.”

“So if it doesn’t kill you, then… what? You get to be King?”

“Or Queen,” Con confirmed, “but it’s been three hundred years and that throne’s done nothing but turn people into blood puddles. It’s gauranteed suicide if you ask me.”

“So why is Sleek going to sit on it?” Femira asked.

“The Dukes call it the final courtesy… some call it Krastac’s tribute. As a convict on death row, you can choose the gallows or try your luck on the Red Throne.”

“The highborn would truly accept a criminal as their King?”

“Even the Dukes would have a hard time arguing with centuries of tradition. Krastac’s throne has killed gods know how many people over the years. If someone can survive it, maybe they really are Krastac’s chosen.”

Femira found it difficult to believe that the current rulers in Port Novic would crown some lowborn nobody on the basis of a legend.

“So if there’s no King in Athlin, who’s in power here?”

“Duke Avriem here in Novic. Duke Sakers up in Estarhall, I don’t know who it is over in Carrickforn, these days. In-land politics isn’t really my business.”

“You don’t seem to be any business right now,” Femira remarked.

“Not without Sleek,” she scowled, “he and Cowbell are the only ones I trust enough to run my ship.”

“So,” Femira began, “No Sleek, no passage?”

“Aye,” Con sighed, “Old Derrin’s made me an offer on the ship that I might just have to take.”

“He a smuggler too?”

“Aye, but he won’t take people. I honestly don’t know who’d be willing to run you through the embargo to Nordock—at least not anyone who’d be more likely to rob you and dump you overboard. You might have to wait out the war.”

That wasn’t an option for Femira.

“They say the new Reldoni King is bloodthirsty, that he’ll make short work of it,” Con went on, “maybe it’ll only be a few months.” Femira tried to force down her instinct to defend Landryn. King Landryn. She could imagine Garld now, whispering in Landryn’s ear and throwing more fuel onto the fires of this war.

Femira had already wasted too much time in Port Novic. She needed to get into Rubane fast, before Misandrei and her team caught up to Daegan. She still had a chance to stop this war.

It had been almost two months since she’d left Epilas. Since she’d disappeared on a ship bound for Port Novic. Femira had thought it would be easy to move on from there to Rubane. But the war between Reldon and Rubane had put many of the port cities on edge. No one wanted to risk their vessels anywhere close to the Rubanian coast.

“What if I could get this Sleek guy out?” Femira proposed. She was a burglar after all and with her abilities, she doubted there was any facility in the world that she couldn’t break into.

“His execution is today,” Con gave her a suffering look, “it’s done. It’s over.” Con’s voice broke as she spoke those last words. Sleek was more to this woman than just a colleague, Femira guessed.

“How much time do we have?” Femira asked.

“A few hours,” Con replied, “but there’s nothing—”

“Take me there,” Femira cut her off, “I can get your man out.”