Heir of Autumn Read online

  Before they hid the last bottle of Siren’s Blood, a gang of sailors had surrounded them demanding a taste of their wine. Trent had charged right into the lot of them, swinging the bottle like a sword.

  “Back, you puddle pirates!” he yelled, cracking a few over the knuckles as they tried to defend themselves. “Begone, you maggots of the sea!” The ferocity of the attack scared them long enough for Brophy to pull Trent away. The five sailors soon got their courage back and gave chase. They hunted the boys halfway across the market, but it wasn’t much of a contest. The two boys let them stay close just for the fun of it. It was never hard to outrun a sailor.

  Brophy rocked back onto his butt and stared at Trent. His friend’s thick black hair caught the fading light, surrounding his face like the mane of a rock lion. Even Shara said Trent was handsome, but as the sun set over Ohndarien, with Trent grinning at the departing girls, he was the most beautiful human being Brophy had ever seen.

  Trent turned toward Brophy, and the spell was broken.

  “What?” Trent asked.

  “You’re going to be a great king one day.”

  Trent’s smile faded and the keen sparkle left his eyes.

  “Why would you say that?”

  Brophy cocked his head. “Because it’s true. You’re so full of joy, so full of life. That’s all you need to rule. To inspire those who aren’t inspired. To love the people and let them love you back.”

  Trent let out half a laugh, but it fell flat. He stared at Brophy for a long time. He seemed about to say something, then didn’t. Instead, he turned to look around the market. The hot colors of the sunset were approaching full bloom.

  “You know,” Trent began, “I don’t think my father or your aunt would appreciate two Children of the Seasons lying dead drunk in the middle of the Long Market.”

  Brophy looked down at himself. His clothes were filthy and wet. Had they gone swimming? He looked over at Trent. His friend’s clothes were muddy, too.

  Then he remembered. They had been singing a song on the Market Bridge, and a group of “dad-inside” soldiers wouldn’t let them cross. The soldiers kept telling them to go back and sleep it off, which was obviously stupid. Brophy had never felt so awake in his life. So they had jumped off the bridge and swum. It seemed extremely daring at the time. Right now, with the sun going down, it seemed a little bit silly.

  Trent stood up, steady for the first time in hours. He pointed at the blazing horizon. “We’d best get out of the market before it closes.”

  Trent gave Brophy a hand up, and they headed back toward the Market Bridge. Everyone had to be off the island by nightfall. The merchants were busy loading the last of their goods into carts to haul them off and store them for the night. The Long Market was an immense, ever-changing city of tents, wagons, and wooden stalls packed with goods from all over the world. There were no permanent structures. Merchants rented space wherever it was available, sold their goods, usually by the boatload, and moved on by day’s end. There was always something new and different at the Long Market, and it was easy to get lost.

  Neither boy spoke as they wandered east toward the bridge that connected the Long Market with the Night Market. Brophy wondered if the soldiers would recognize them and send word back to Krellis and Bae. Trent must have been thinking the same thing and stayed wrapped in his own thoughts.

  As they neared the bridge, Trent suddenly came to life. He tapped Brophy on the shoulder and pointed to a pile of barrels behind an olive merchant’s tent. It took Brophy a moment to catch on. The missing bottle of wine!

  Trent hurried to the barrels and rummaged through them. In moments, he triumphantly drew out the last half bottle of Siren’s Blood.

  “Hah!” he exclaimed.

  “I can’t believe it.” Brophy laughed. “We looked all day for that thing!” After the incident with the sailors, they had stashed the bottle and forgot where they left it. They had spent half the day stumbling around the market, looking for that pile of barrels. After searching for so long, finding it this easily was almost a disappointment.

  Trent pulled the cork out with his teeth and offered the bottle to Brophy.

  “No thanks.” Brophy shook his head. “I think I’ve had enough.” It had been a great day, but it was over now. The tide had receded.

  With the cork stuck between his teeth, Trent looked a bit comical. He nodded, his face thoughtful. “Yeah. You’re right. We touched the sun today, though, didn’t we, Broph?”

  “At least a couple times.” He smirked.

  Trent shoved the cork back into the bottle without taking a sip. He opened his mouth to say something and clacked his teeth together again. A mischievous smile flickered on his face. “Then again,” he murmured, “perhaps the day’s not over after all.”

  12

  BROPHY FOLLOWED Trent’s gaze. A dark-haired woman struggled with a broken cart beyond the next row of tents.

  Trent breezed past Brophy, clapping his shoulder. “It’s Femera,” he said.

  Brophy blinked and felt a cold pit in his stomach. He didn’t mind being around when Trent talked up other girls, but for some reason it bothered him with Femera. He looked wistfully back toward the Market Bridge, but Trent was on a mission. There was no going back.

  Trent hurried to the side of a bright green tent from one of the Summer Cities. He peered around the corner at the girl’s retreating back. She was struggling to push her awkward load up the bumpy street. One wheel of the heavily laden cart was split along the side. She could barely get it to roll.

  “Wait a minute,” Trent murmured, as Brophy peered around the tent as well, “This is a perfect opportunity for you. Go talk to her.”

  “What? Me?”

  Trent rolled his eyes.

  Brophy looked at Femera. She stopped, rubbed her aching hands, and took several deep breaths.

  “What do I say?”

  “Ask her about the cart, stupid. It isn’t every day you get a chance to save a damsel in distress.”

  Brophy started forward, but hesitated. Femera looked back and spotted Brophy as he hovered beside the green tent. She smiled immediately.

  “Brophy?” She wrinkled her brow. “What happened to you?”

  “I, uh, fell in the bay.”

  “And then rolled in the dirt?” She stood up, her pale blue skirts swirling around her. She wiped her hands on a once-white apron.

  “I…” he stumbled over the words. He could almost hear Trent’s voice in his head. “So, what’s wrong with your cart?” Brophy asked.

  She stepped back and let him see the wheel. It was a solid piece of wood, cut in a circle with a cotter pin holding the axle through a center hole. It had split along the grain. The entire cart was packed with some kind of reddish brown rock.

  She squeezed her aching hands and looked like she wanted to kick the thing. “It cracked going down the steps to the pier on Stoneside. I can barely get it to move.”

  “Maybe I can fix it. It just needs a new wheel.”

  She smiled again, and Brophy had to look away.

  “You’re sweet,” she said, “but if I don’t get this iron ore to the other side of the market before it closes, the cart won’t matter.”

  Brophy looked toward the Windmill Wall. The sun had already set, and the light was fading. “Maybe we can push it together.”

  “Definitely,” Trent said, emerging from behind the tent. “And I’ll help you.”

  Femera glanced at him for a moment. “Trent,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Hello, Femera,” he said, flashing his most charming smile. “C’mon, Broph, we’ve got a mission.” He grabbed one of the handles and tipped the cart onto its good wheel. Brophy took the other handle. Between the two of them, they pushed the rattletrap cart along at a thumping jog.

  “So why are we in such a rush?” Trent asked.

  “My father’s supplier delivered this low-quality ore this morning. If we don’t get our money back before he leaves, we’ll have to wa
it a month until he’s back in the harbor.”

  “We’ll make it,” Trent said.

  Femera glanced west. “I’ll hurry ahead,” she said, “and try to catch the merchant before he can set sail.”

  Brophy watched her skirts sway as she ran away from them. Trent gave him a little shove, and he dropped his end of the cart.

  “Keep your tongue in your mouth,” Trent said. “Unless you’re going to use it.”

  “Shut up and push the cart,” Brophy shot back. “I’m doing most of the work.”

  Trent smiled and started pushing so fast, Brophy had to run to keep up.

  Huffing and puffing, they rolled the cart up the market as fast as they could, forcing other people to jump out of the way. It was hard work. Balancing on the good wheel proved impossible. Running on the bad wheel jolted Brophy as if Trent were punching him in the shoulder over and over again. He kept watching the cart, hoping it wouldn’t collapse altogether before they got there.

  As they approached the south side of the island, the street sloped gently downhill, and their job got easier. A long line of wooden wharves reached out into the bay. Only a few ships lingered at the quay. Most had already sailed dockside for the evening.

  “There!” Brophy pointed. Femera stood next to the gangplank of a small trading galley from Kherif. Her prow was carved into a menacing bare-breasted woman with the head of a dog. They turned the cart down a ramp and started pushing it along the wharf. The broken wheel beat the wooden dock like a drum.

  Femera argued with a thick-limbed man twirling his pointy beard. He stood in the middle of the gangplank, shaking his head. As soon as he saw the cart, he turned and began walking up the plank.

  Brophy and Trent were panting as they rattled to a stop. Femera stood, hands curled into fists, staring daggers at the merchant.

  “What did he say?” Brophy gasped.

  “The pointy-chinned bastard won’t take it back. Said the ore is of fine quality and that the market’s already closed.”

  “He said that, did he?” Trent muttered between pants.

  Two deckhands took ahold of the gangplank and began jostling it free. Just as they wrestled the hooks up from their niches, Trent stepped on the bottom, knocking it out of their grip. One of them jumped back, gritting his teeth and shaking a pinched finger. The other one glared at him. Trent ignored them both and walked steadily up the plank.

  Femera’s eyes widened.

  “Dammit,” Brophy muttered, but he smirked nonetheless. Trent had his moments. Brophy jogged up the plank as the two glowering deckhands stood in Trent’s way.

  “I should like to speak with your captain,” Trent announced.

  “The captain is not to speak with you,” the unshaved man grunted in a thick Kherish accent.

  Trent raised an eyebrow.

  “Considering the unusual state of my attire, I’ll forgive you that. You obviously don’t know who I am. Go get your captain.”

  The sailor spat on the deck.

  Trent whipped out his dagger and put the tip against the man’s throat. He placed a calm, strong hand against the back of the man’s neck. The sailor froze.

  “I suggest you do as I ask. I am the son of the Brother of Autumn. I assume you know who rules in Ohndarien?” Trent said with a smile.

  Brophy put his hand on his dagger but didn’t draw it.

  The other deckhand, with the crushed finger, glanced at Brophy’s dagger. “Best to get the captain,” he muttered to his companion.

  The man with the dagger at his throat shot a murderous look at his comrade.

  “Much better,” Trent replied. He released his captive, shoved him back a step, and smoothly sheathed the dagger.

  The scraggly sailor felt his throat and gave Trent a look before disappearing through a hatch.

  “Your friend has bigger balls than brains,” Trent said to the remaining Kherish sailor, still flexing his pinched finger.

  “No friend to me. You should’ve stabbed him.”

  “I still might,” said Trent, with yet another smile.

  The captain climbed the ladder from belowdeck. He regarded Trent carefully as he twirled the tip of his beard.

  “You are the son of Krellis?” he finally asked.

  “Can’t you see the resemblance?” Trent replied with a flourish.

  “No,” he grumbled, but the fire had left his eyes. He pulled a leather pouch out of his pocket and held it out. “This is the money paid for the ore. It is fine good ore. If he does not like to use it, I will find one who does.”

  The man turned to Femera, giving her a slight sneer over his pointy beard.

  “You are to tell your father I never want his business again.”

  “You won’t be getting it,” she assured him.

  The captain tossed the money toward her.

  Trent snatched the pouch out of the air, spun his arm around in a flamboyant arc, and tossed the bag right back to the captain. “Add three more for the cart you just bought.”

  “Now, wait—”

  “The fine for leaving the market late is five coppers. I suggest you pay the three.” Trent smiled as if asking a beautiful barmaid for another mug of ale.

  Brophy was amazed as the scowling merchant pulled three more coins out of his pocket and slipped them into the bag. Trent held out his hand, and the man slapped the money into his palm.

  “Good sir, it has been a delight doing business with you,” Trent said. “I am sure tales of your honesty will soon become legendary.”

  With a silent sneer, the captain headed back belowdeck.

  Trent bounced down the gangplank. Brophy followed behind him, shaking his head.

  Femera watched Trent saunter up to her and put the coins into her hands. “Justice is served, I believe.”

  “Thank you,” she said, pocketing the coins. “Was the knife really necessary?”

  “Some people need to be encouraged.”

  “Well, thank you. And thank you, too, Brophy.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Oh, weren’t you pushing half the cart?” she asked. “And weren’t you the one who stood ready, giving that second Kher pause when he was about to knock Trent into the bay?”

  Trent scowled. “What do you know about it?”

  She shrugged. “I know that sailor had a dagger of his own. Probably longer than yours.” She arched an eyebrow.

  Trent shook his head. “I knew Brophy was there for me.”

  Femera opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it.

  “I can give the money back if you’re not happy,” Trent said.

  Femera shook her head. “I’m sorry, Trent. You scared me, that’s all. Thank you. It was a noble thing to do. You almost got yourselves killed, but I still appreciate it.”

  Trent’s brow furrowed. He started to say something, but Brophy jumped in front of him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said for both of them.

  Femera began walking back toward Stoneside, her blue skirts swishing like shadows in the darkening evening. “How did you two get so dirty?”

  They passed a few soldiers herding straggling merchants out of the market. Trent and Brophy fell in stride on either side of her.

  “We were in a fight,” Trent said.

  “With reality,” Brophy added before he could make up another stupid lie. He shot Trent a disapproving frown.

  “It looks like you lost,” Femera said.

  Brophy laughed.

  “We got a few licks in,” Trent murmured, drawing the half bottle of Siren’s Blood out of his shirt. Femera eyed it as she navigated around the departing merchants.

  “Thirsty?” Trent asked.

  She pursed her lips. “I oughtn’t.”

  “It’s a fine vintage, I must say.”

  “What is it?”

  “Taste first, then I will tell you.”

  Femera looked over her shoulder, then turned back to Trent. She held out her hand. “Give it over.”

 
He handed her the bottle, and she took a taste. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “By the Seasons, that’s good!” she said, licking the taste off her lips.

  “Best there is,” he said, taking the bottle back. He drank deeply and returned it. She took a longer sip this time.

  Brophy remembered how quickly the Siren’s Blood had begun to affect him. It was no different for Femera, or Trent on his third time around. Not to be left behind, Brophy joined in. The same thrill went through his body every time he swallowed. It was like drinking a smile.

  Trent began a long-winded story about one of his hunting trips. He stumbled across a party of Physendrians and led them on a merry chase as they howled for his head like savages from the Vastness. Brophy didn’t interfere. He knew the truth of the story. There had been a party of Physendrians close to the wall, but it wasn’t Trent who’d outsmarted them and escaped. It was an Ohndarien scout named Thaft. Trent and Brophy heard the tale by the fire in the barracks. Brophy thought about spilling the truth, but he decided against it. He’d already corrected Trent once. To do it twice would spoil the mood. Besides, Femera actually seemed to be enjoying the story.

  Brophy thought about Trent kissing Femera on the back of the neck, his hand sliding down the front of her dress. It still made his stomach turn. Why couldn’t Trent have left Femera alone? He could have any other girl in Ohndarien. Brophy shook his head. It didn’t matter. Trent was who he was. Who wouldn’t be attracted to him?

  “Waitaminute.” Trent stopped and spun around one and a half times. Brophy accidentally bumped into Femera.

  “What?” Femera asked, whirling around to look at Brophy, then back at Trent. “What, what?” She giggled. She looked at her hands for a second and back at Trent.

  “Why are we going this way?” he asked, as if it were the stupidest thing in the world.

  “The Market Bridge?” Femera asked, looking around as if she were suddenly lost.

  “Exactly my point. Why don’t we go the other way?”

  “The Spire Bridge?” Brophy asked.

  “Precisely. Why don’t we go climb the Spire? It’s a perfect night for another adventure. It’s clear, not too windy. The view will be incredible. We can watch your friend the iron merchant sail through the Sunset Gate.”