The Blunt Reaper

Mara’s hand moved instinctively toward the memory fragment inside her coat.

Rook noticed but said nothing.

She studied the record again. Voss had possessed the name of the Captain, the purpose of the expedition and enough scattered information to surround the truth with convincing possibilities.

"And he never mentioned the island because this would have told us everything he was selling," Mara said.

"Now you understand him."

"I understood him when he put a blade against my throat."

"That was Voss being honest."

The ferryman had returned while they searched. He stood several paces behind them, reading the record over their shoulders.

Mara pointed to the final line. "Do you know the Hollow Road?"

"Only by reputation."

"What reputation?"

"People enter it."

"And?"

The ferryman shrugged. "That’s the reputation."

XXXXXXXXXXX

The third channel remained dry.

Mara checked it twice before they left the registry, half expecting the sea to change merely because they had finally found somewhere worth going. Salt still crusted the bottom of the carved stone, and not a single drop of water had entered from the opening beneath the eastern wall.

The ferryman spoke with one of the workers stationed beside the currents, gave him the name of their inn and instructed him to send word the moment the channel began filling. When Mara asked how much warning they would receive, the worker pointed toward the water flowing through the neighboring channels.

"Depends how quickly it comes."

"That isn’t an amount of time."

"It isn’t a clock."

Rook placed one hand against her shoulder and steered her toward the doors before the conversation could continue.

They descended the broad steps leading from the current station and returned to the narrow streets surrounding the inlet. The activity below had increased while they searched the records. Another boat had arrived, carrying six passengers and the remains of a seventh wrapped in sailcloth. Workers hurried to secure the vessel while a registry clerk crouched beside the covered body and began asking questions.

Farther along the docks, three Reapers argued with an innkeeper over the cost of a room. A carpenter shouted at someone who had used the wrong timber to repair a damaged hull. Two ferrymen sat upon an overturned boat and shared a dark bottle while complaining that the western current had shifted twice without carrying either of them anywhere useful.

Nothing attacked them.

Nobody drew a weapon when Mara passed. No lanterns had been arranged to guide them into a nest, and no hidden watchers moved across the rooftops. The people of the Last Anchorage repaired boats, hauled supplies, complained about prices and attempted to continue whatever lives they had built upon the edge of a sea filled with monsters.

The normality of it felt more unnatural than the Red Tide.

Mara had spent the last several days running from one danger into another. She had crossed fields filled with Abominations, travelled through forests where the trees themselves could devour her, been held hostage and forced to remain silent upon a sea where one careless word might call something large enough to swallow their boat.

Now a woman leaned from an upper window and shook dust from a blanket.

For the first time since Mara entered the Underworld, the dead seemed to be living.

She slowed beside an open doorway. Several people sat around a table inside, eating from wooden bowls while one of them told a story with enough exaggerated gestures to nearly strike his companions. None appeared concerned by the possibility of losing their memories, being torn apart or returning somewhere unfamiliar after death. They were occupied by the immediate problem of preventing the storyteller from knocking over the bottle between them.

Rook noticed that Mara was no longer beside him and looked back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Then keep moving."

Mara caught up. "You could let me appreciate something without treating it like a delay."

"You’ve seen an inn before."

"Not here."

"That doesn’t make it interesting."

"It makes it reassuring."

Rook looked over the modest settlement. "That feeling will pass."

The inn nearest the current station was already full, as was the one beside the repair ramps. They found space in a third building overlooking the sheltered inlet. It had two floors constructed from black stone, a roof patched with pieces of dismantled boats and enough blue lanterns hanging outside to make the entrance visible from the docks.

A wooden sign above the door depicted an anchor resting inside an open grave.

Mara examined it. "Cheerful."

"The previous owner called it the Drowned Man."

"What happened to him?"

"Drowned."

She looked at Rook.

He shrugged. "People complained the name was insensitive."

The ground floor was warmer than anything Mara had experienced since arriving in the Underworld. A broad hearth burned against the far wall, though the flames produced more light than heat. Several long tables filled most of the room. Travelers ate, drank or slept with their heads resting beside unfinished meals while workers passed between them carrying plates.

The ferryman secured his pole against the wall near the entrance. "Rooms first. If the current begins filling, we may have minutes before it opens."

"How long will it remain open?" Mara asked.

"Long enough for us to use it if no one wastes time asking questions."

She gave him an irritated look before approaching the counter.

They were given two neighboring rooms on the upper floor, with the ferryman taking a third across the narrow corridor. Rook inspected the windows, the rear stairs and both exits before appearing satisfied enough to remain.

Mara watched him test the lock on her door. "Do you expect an attack?"

"No."

"Then why are you checking everything?"

"Because expecting an attack only after it begins is how people become memories."

Before she could answer, the smell of roasted meat drifted up the stairs.

Mara stopped.

Her body reacted before her mind did. Hunger tightened her stomach so sharply that one hand moved against it. She knew she could not starve in the Underworld. Rook had already explained that much, but several days without proper food had left every human instinct inside her convinced otherwise.

She turned toward the stairwell.

Rook had noticed the smell as well, though his reaction was considerably less desperate. "We should eat."

"I thought we couldn’t starve."

"We can’t."

"Then why?"

"Because the third current might not open for several days, and I’d prefer not to spend all of them listening to your stomach complain about something it doesn’t need."

"That is a remarkably unpleasant way to offer someone dinner."

"It worked."