Fractured Lands

Chapter 1, Spy:The Spy gazed through the window out over the indigo water and azure sky. In the east the twin moons of Major and Minor reflected peacefully across the crack. The dark obscured many things, including the tensions surrounding his world. The war hadn’t yet reached this far east. The crack, that space between the shards, filled with water, used by mariners to travel between the city-states. He understood chances were small anyone would see him in the dark room. The only lights the twin moons and a small shuttered lantern in the adjacent room. The city below shut in for the night, except for the docks, which never slept. Buildings carved from the black sandstone made up most of the shards’ civilization centers. They grew vertically from the water, and the docks that served the population with trade from the other city-states stretched out like tendrils into the water from the base. In the light of the moons he regarded the racks resting on the roofs, loaded with fish and other meats to dry. They reminded him of torture devices with victims strung up from the crossbar. He basked in this small reprieve from the intrigue that made up his life. Any number of rivals or victims wanted him dead or, worse, caught. The man’s lair lay at the edge of the cliff, the wall of the island, giving him at least one escape from the city below. The mountains began less than a day’s comfortable ride—they quickly rose like jagged teeth out of the center of the island. The pigs behind his little two-room shack made little noise. Like his neighbors, they’d gone to sleep shortly after the sun went down. Honest people slept when the sun went down. The Spy rarely slept at night. People with money didn’t like living this high up. Three hundred feet above the water presented a long drop, though there were a few places a person might fall all the way down. It still made for a long and challenging climb. There were slave-powered lifts, cranes with baskets that carried people or cargo, saving the climb, but they cost gold. For the man at the window, the constant guard at each lift became his concern. He never wanted people to learn his movements. Slavery was a constant sticking point between many. Most hated the institution but privately admitted nothing could be done. Civilization would fall apart without the extra manpower. Who would work the brothels? Who would tend the children? The saddest thing, most in bondage hadn’t been forced into slavery as an adult. Parents would sell unwanted children to the slavers once they reached an age old enough to be trained. In some towns there arose a cottage industry of baby farms just to keep the slaver paddocks full. It was a disgusting institution, but no one wanted to fix the problem. A few adults were sentenced to indentured servitude, or even placed themselves in service to rid their families of debt, but once under the yoke, they rarely made it out before old age took them over. A few cities outlawed slavery, but not Abaraka they embraced it. They felt the strong should rule the weak. Those that removed slavery found a boom in their lower and middle classes, as they required p*****t for their services. In and around the city-states, life came cheap. When people lived stacked on top of one another, people would do anything or anyone to get ahead. The Spy recognized the battle over a human owning another human brewed. He wasn’t sure when it would grow hot enough to explode into open conflict, but he wanted to be on the right side of that fight. Despite the climb, this location suited him well. He could observe anyone climbing the stairs for many levels before they arrived, and once the sun sank below the horizon, the farmers and artisans at this height slept instead of carousing. Little light surrounded his home, he lived for the dark. His appointment was late. The meeting was scheduled for when Minor reached one hand width above the horizon. Now it was one and a half hand widths. This irritated the man. He had other plans for the night—the sailor he waited for only the beginning of a long night to come. He would’ve left, but he’d paid dearly for the information he expected and would need to delay until the man showed. It started with barking dogs. His body tensed as he perceived someone moving up the steps, staying in the shadows and without a torch—either his appointment or an assassin. If a murderer stirred the dogs, he was a novice and would be easy to take out. He closed the wooden covers to the only window in the front of the building. With a flick of his wrist, he silently shot the well-oiled bolt home, moved to the back door to ensure it stood secured as well, shuttered a red lamp, and went to the front door to wait for his guest to arrive. His hand gripped the wooden handle of a twelve-inch-long sail maker’s needle. For the Spy, it only had one use here in the city of Abaraka. The stranger outside stopped at the door. There came a tap and three beats later another three taps. This was the prearranged signal. Opening the door the slightest of cracks, he inspected the intruder’s face in the dim moonlight. He found what he expected, the shaggy beard of a much older man, the Resolute’s boatswain. The door opened wide, and he grabbed the sailor, dragging him into the small space. With the lowered voice of conspiracy, he whispered, “You’re late.” The sailor matched his tone, “Aye, that b***h Kanika kept me workin’ overtime, the sails needed repairin’.” “I didn’t need an explanation, I was stating a fact. Do you have that which you promised?” The Spy dearly wished he might find a more competent conspirator to work with, but there were times that one must settle. When scraping the bottom of the barrel, you were more likely to find the dregs. The sailor reached into an inner pocket on his vest. There was little need for warm clothing this far north, the nights were not much cooler than the days. The dead lands, the Great Beach, vast stretches of sand, were near. It never got cold in the city of Abaraka. The sailor pulled out a sweaty envelope. “Here’s everything you need. I risked everything to get this for you.” The bearded man reached his right hand up to the Spy’s clean-shaven face, caressing it gently. “I told you to memorize it, not steal it.” The Spy snatched the papers out of his hand and walked to the small lantern on a nondescript table in the back room of the shack. “There was too much for me to remember—” The Spy stopped and pointed at the sailor with the envelope. “If you stole this, the Resolute will change its plans. It will know something is amiss.” Lifting the cover on the small dark lantern, he bathed the boatswain in a beam of red light. “I’m not daft, I copied it over several nights. No one will know you have this information. You haven’t even told me your plans. Wait, never mind, as long as you kill that b***h I don’t care what you plan.” The Spy let a smile sneak out. The man that stood before him might be an i***t, but he was a useful i***t. He would need to destroy the evidence after he memorized it, but that would be easy enough. “You did well. I thought you were going to require punishment.” He meandered over to the older man. The bearded man looked on with a hungry eye as the Spy stood directly in front of him. The younger man paused, inspecting the old man’s weathered face before reaching up with his right hand and grabbing a handful of his graying hair. With a jerk, the old man’s head went back. A soft sigh of anticipation slipped from his lips when the man nuzzled his face into the boatswain’s collarbone. “I think I’ll still be needin’ that punishment,” the old man begged in anticipation. The Spy stopped. “I think you’re getting too needy for this. Before we begin, I want to show you something.” The younger man stepped away from the boatswain, dragging his hand down the man’s arm, gripping his fingers and pulling him to the back door of the shack. Anticipation on his face, the old man followed like a puppy. The door swung open, the younger man continued to lead the old sailor along. “I’ve seen pigs before, I don’t need to see more.” Despite his protest, the old man followed. “Just a little closer, I want to show you something.” He stopped next to the pen. It didn’t take much to convince the old man to wrap his arms around the Spy’s neck. The younger man leaned in and softly kissed the old man’s weathered lips, which was met with greedy anticipation. The old man broke the embrace, his eyes wide in shock. He tried to speak but was unable. The Spy twisted the twelve-inch needle he’d lodged under the boatswain’s arm, between his ribs, that pierced his heart. He found it easy to kill silently; the man learned how long ago. The hard part was disposing of the body. That’s where the pigs came in. He inspected the old man’s eyes as his life fled. “If you hadn’t been a traitor, you would’ve never died. May you find your reward in the afterlife, you bastard.” He guided the dying man to the fence and let him slide off the steel and slump over the top rail. Grabbing his feet, he tipped them over and into the pigpen. The pigs hadn’t eaten since the Spy fed them the original owner. They were hungry. The traitorous boatswain would be reduced to pig s**t in a matter of hours. With one last look, he admired the pigs as they began the process of disposing of the body. He cleared his throat and spit on the dead man with contempt. He’d stripped the first body, concerned for the pig’s digestive system. This time he didn’t care. He would be off the island before any of them died. In the hut, he secured what little information was provided from the envelope. He’d asked for more details than he needed in case the old man was caught. The small point he required was found, and the papers burned. This confirmed his target, he needed to pass this update on to the proper asset, and his work so far north would be finished. One last check ensured all his belongings were accounted for, no trace of him left behind in the hovel. He pulled his hat low and wrapped his scarf around his face, like he hid a sickness, free to move to his next contact. The trip down the cliff would take considerable time. Most of the paths through the city were an unmarked labyrinth only the citizens truly knew. Gates, zigzags, and dead ends designed to lead attackers into deathtraps easily defended by an average citizen. Lucky for him, one of his first assignments years ago was a survey of the quickest routes for an invasion that never came. He understood Abaraka better than the streets of his hometown. Now the time grew near to meet his contact and escape this city.