Graveyard Gods by Joseph Daniel & Bryan Arneson

Author:Joseph Daniel & Bryan Arneson [Daniel, Joseph & Arneson, Bryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-07-31T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

The trade city of Carabas nestled in the Bay of Bianchetto like a ruby burrowed into the pommel of a sword. Approaching ships greeted a white-stone lighthouse illuminating a trailing line of reef and sandbar like submerged battlements in the bay. A quarter-mile stretch of deep water allowed ships to pass between the lighthouse and a high, rocky cliff upon which was situated Castle Fantalco, a seaside fortress overlooking the bay as well as the city of Carabas itself.

Fitted stone blocks supported the docks and stretched along the coast from the shadow of Castle Fantalco—home of the Commodore of Carabas—to the rocky base of Verian Hill on the western side of the city. Ships of various sizes and sails clogged the harbor with their coming and going, the swish of cloth and heaving anchors rattling the breeze ahead of the sound of shouting voices in a dozen different languages. The choir of hagglers and merchants resounded over the bay, preceding the wares offloading from the ships to nearby warehouses, or to the carters prepared to transport the merchandise further into the city.

Few merchants recognized the Man-of-Faces or his veiled companion. Some stopped or glanced in the odd couple's direction as they disembarked a large fishing vessel, bidding farewell to the captain with a toss of a small coin pouch—by the sour look of the man and the reluctant way his arm hung after the toss, it was coin he could ill afford to part with.

The man wore a simple vial of blackened glass which dangled on his chest and his disheveled clothes looked as if they'd only recently dried. Tanned, with a muscular form and a crooked smile, the more keen-eyed observers might have noticed the man favoring his left hand—and the more superstitious among them waved their fingers in a warding gesture against the cursed presence of one who leads with their left. If one looked even closer, they might have described this man's gaze as permanently melancholic. The man was of average appearance and average height; but his movements were anything other than pedestrian. He moved like one of the Signerde, who called themselves The Children. And though he was no Signerde, his body rolled like the ocean waves coming in to shore; he took surefooted steps and danced his way through the crowds on the wharf, guiding his veiled companion into the city. He had dancer's feet, but the forearms of a sailor.

Burglars and latchlads might have spotted some similarities in the man's physique and movement. Nobles and dignitaries might have recognized the poise and confidence in the man's bearing. Brewers and alchemists would certainly have recognized the scorch marks and stains on the man's fingertips and knuckles.

But few would have recognized the look in his eye.

It was the look of a resurrected soul. A dead, shriveled, husk of a spirit given life by the breath of hope; by the promise of a new heading.

Edmond Mondego was a man with renewed purpose.

“I still don't see why I have to wear this,” muttered Mirastious.

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