Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

the woods just south of Yarrding. The Mistrim ex-porter was already training their first set of volunteers for spies in protocol and Sky Child behavior. Key had discovered that the porter was indeed talented in that area. As for reading lessons, Sadena had kept her word and was teaching the locals as best as she could, while others were training to use the guns.

“We are going here to recruit more allies,” Key explained, continuing his march through the muggy forest on the skirts of the town to the south. “Edman told me of a group here in Kalsworth that might be willing to be our army in the south.”

Tiler moaned, glancing back at where he was sure a demon was following them and frowned. “I’d hate to be a killjoy, but I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

“For the last time, it is not a gole following us,” Key said. He halted, peering towards the first signs of the town. “If it were, we’d be dead already. It’s probably a kirrel looking for something to steal.”

“That does not comfort me.” But Tiler halted also, peering into the area.

Ahead of them were wood houses with old style demon ward carvings on the roof. Their paths were stone though. In the distance they could see raised poles with gaslights on them. An old woman sat on a stool in the alley with a basket in front of her. She was shelling peas into it. No one else was around.

“So, that’s Kalsworth?” Rainold asked.

Key nodded.

“Is your hat on straight?” Weston asked, adjusting the floppy farm hat so that it covered most of Key’s face.

Tucking up his hair, Key nodded.

“I can’t believe how fast you hair grew back,” Tiler muttered, glancing back at Key. “Why in the world is it so patchy? Can’t you dye it?”

Shaking his head, Key took a step towards the road. “Nope. The white part doesn’t take dye well. Kleston tried once.”

The boys with him shrugged.

“Ok,” Key said before taking another step. “We split up. Go through the market and buy some food as if running errands for your family or something. And also get a basket and stuff your pack in.”

“What about our swords?” Polan asked, already slipping off his pack.

Exhaling with look out at the city, Key pressed his lips together. He then glanced behind at the forest. The Kirrel had run up a tree, staring down at them. Nodding, Key said, “Take them off. Berd, if you don’t mind, would you carry the swords and wrap them up in a stick bundle. Just walk into town and rest near the town square fountain. Wait for us.”

“What if I get picked up for loitering?” Berd asked, now taking off his pack and handing it to Polan. Polan exchanged it for his sword, also passing along Weston’s and Tiler’s swords.

Gazing back at the town, Key nodded. “If that happens, complain about a sore back and take up the sticks. Return to the edge of town, right here. Or, better still, go to that meeting point. Whatever you do, if you see a constable, start moving.”

Berd nodded.

Key handed his sword to Berd then passed over Rainold’s weapon. “You all still have your knives?”

They nodded. Each one checked to make sure they didn’t show up under their clothing. A few of them glanced at the Kirrel who roosted above them in the trees with a hungry look.

“Pistols?” he asked.

They patted the inside of their coats. Their pistols were tucked in well.

“I still don’t know how to use it,” Polan said. “You’re the only one who figured it out right off.”

Key just shrugged. “I’ve seen those soldiers load and shoot them so many times. Not my fault. I tried showing you.”

Polan scowled.

“He’s just a bad aim,” Rainold said, nudging Polan in the side with a chuckle.

They organized their things and walked into town. Weston went ahead and got a large basket, stuffing in both his and Berd’s packs. He topped them with clothing as if he were carrying laundry to a laundress for washing. Berd, with his sticks on his back, trudged at a slow pace as if he were going somewhere across town, pausing with a groan at the square fountain where he rested his feet and back. Constables prowled the area, but none actually stopped him or told him to move on. Perhaps it was how dirty and hard working he looked, too below their concern to be suspected as an insurgent. Tiler, however, did get stopped once. He hadn’t been able to find a basket for his pack so he carried it with him. The constable asked where he was from, to which he lied and said he had come from Westerlund looking for work in the south. With derision, the constable suggested Tiler continue to head south towards the far areas. Having no choice, Tiler passed Berd and continued on, watching for Key who strolled in with Rainold straight to smithy row.

Smithy row had not changed much since the last time Key had been there. The smiths—from the silver workers to the coppersmiths—all were as busy and brawny as they ever were. The odors of industry filled the alley. They passed the shop where Key had his leg irons replaced and fused shut, and continued down the row to the shop where they noticed a sign for a gunsmith. This smithy was a blue-eye, his underlings brown-eyed. Key barely glanced at the shop. He went straight past to a smaller shop where they found a sign for a tinsmith.

“Hello?” Rainold stepped in, peering around. “Is anyone here?”

Something stirred in the far corner, disturbing a stack of tin cups and bowls. Coming from behind a table, a man in a leather apron straightened up, wiping something from his hands. A cat hopped down from the ceiling beams above to a shelf, then down to the floor, meowing up at him. Three cats rushed over to the smithy who stared first at the pair of strangers then wiped his hands on his apron.

“Hello, shop’s closed. Sorry.” The tinsmith stepped out from behind the table with the inclination to shoo them away.

“Is this where we can find some river bass?” Key asked, not waiting for the man to chase them off.

Chuckling, a light flickered in the man’s eyes. “Only if you are a cat. Did you miss the market street? This is a tin shop.”

Key took a step back. That was not the answer to their code. He turned and whispered for Rainold to go back outside so they could figure out where to regroup with the other guys.

“Sorry to have disturbed you,” Key said, giving a slight nod.

The tinsmith took a step closer, watching them go. “If you like river bass, go to the fishmonger on Lamplight Road. My favorite is the one in the grass hat. You can’t miss him.”

Halting, Key blinked. He looked up at the man, met his eyes, and nodded. “Thank you.”

He shoved Rainold out into the street.

“That was our contact. We can’t meet here, though.” Key whispered to him.

Rainold blinked. “Where then?”

“You heard him. Let’s get some fish on Lamplight Road.” Key turned and walked back through the street.

The way to Lamplight Road was a bit far. Key had begun to limp some, which happened occasionally when he walked too long without a rest. And since he had been on his feet for weeks, he was really at his limit. Rainold had him pause near Berd at the fountain, pretending to check his boots for pebbles. They passed on the message of where they were going next. As Key rubbed his ankle, Rainold glanced down at Key’s feet. They were getting red under his leg irons.

“Why didn’t you take the wizard up on her offer to remove those irons?” Rainold asked when they started moving again. “You know she can just pull those apart with her hands.”

Key let a small chuckle escape as he shook his head. “I’m sure it doesn’t make any sense to you, or to the guys, but I don’t want to forget the slavery everyone else is still under. They remind me of that.”

“It would be easier to walk with them off,” Rainold said. “You’d stop limping.”

Shaking his head only slightly, they turned toward the street that would lead them to Lamplight Road. Key replied, “No. My limp is not because of the irons. It is from an old wound from my first irons. That’s all.”

Rainold glanced at him then shrugged. “Fine.”

They walked on in silence until they reached Lamplight Road. Looking in where there were all kinds of meat sellers in straw hats with chops of lamb, pork and beef, some dried some fresh, the two young men walked through keeping an eye out for a fishmonger. Among the sellers there was no fish at all on sale. Key pressed his lips together, wondering if they had been sent on a wild goose chase, or if this was a test for their allies to scout them out. Lowering his hat over his forehead to make sure his hair was not sticking out, Key scoured for even a sign or symbol of a fish. Sent looking for fish among pork was like a cruel prank. So far nothing of that sort was anywhere in the road, except….

Down in the middle where Lamplight Road met a small alley where some people came and went with their goods stood a man. He was dressed in a long tunic with half sleeves in the style of the lake area of central Westhaven, and he was plucking a stringed instrument Key recognized as a Riken Lake lyre. It had a curved handle at the top where the player rested his sun-freckled hand while the other hand stroked the strings below. It was an unusual harp carved from northern wood. An import, like the man himself. Key had seen only one like it before, though that one had been crude, made for a child down the peninsula. This one was a work of art.

The musician was young, slightly bearded. He had twists in the scanty whiskers of his chin to make a cleft. His hair was the rusty brown of most lake people, shaggy, flopping to one side. He wore a beaded headband with the patterns of smoky trails on them, reminiscent of the low fog on the lake water Key remembered so well from his childhood. It was also a design on most of the clothes from home. This man sang in a warm tenor that could dip lower into a baritone. And his words were like stepping into a memory.

 

“…and hush as the rain patters on down

The rush in the grasses as wind blows around.

The rise of the hill and the dip to the shore

I go to the fishes and never come more.”

 

The musician made a small bow as a few passersby clapped and tossed some petty coins into his hat which was made of lake reeds. The man then plucked out another tune on the lyre, his long fingers stroking the strings as he would a girl he loved. Then he played a child’s tune that Key recognized. It also sounded like a drawn-out version of the quick whistle Edman had told them to listen for. The southern insurgents used that whistle to signal one another when in the woods. But to Key’s ears it had always sounded like the cry of a lake egret—which was not a local bird of Kalsworth. Here, the musician played the bird tune slow, as if checking the strings of his instrument. Key hummed the tune, gravitating towards the lyre player. He tugged on Rainold’s sleeve.

“This way.”

Rainold turned, blinking. Peering over at the player, he saw no signs that the man was a fishmonger. No fish on sale or any drawings of a fish on him. However, Key muttered the words to the song as the musician played the simple tune, adjusting his strings occasionally.

 

“…I am a fisher’s son.

I work all day in the sun

Wet my