Hera by Chrystalla Thoma Page B

squat buildings, old
warehouses, rose from the white mist of night. Starlight reflected
off polished gray walls. The vacant pier jutted out into the sea
like an arm of stone. The boat swerved toward it, then slowed down
and bumped to a stop, thumping gently against the square
blocks.
    Elei inhaled the humid air and tried to get
his bearings, to remember something, anything. In the end, he had
to admit defeat. “Which island is this? Is it Kukno?”
    “Are you saying I tricked you?” The boatman’s
voice was dry. “We’re right where you told me to take you.
Dakru.”
    Dakru! The heart of the Seven Islands,
risen in their perfect center, pushed out of the depths of the sea
by the gods — at the beginning, before their divine hands molded
the flesh of fish and birds, and then man. Elei stared at the
shore, not quite believing he was there.
    Until the boatman planted a heavy hand on his
shoulder and shook him. “Hey, snap out of it. Pay me my second half
and jump out now, or the sea will have you.”
    Looking into his hard eyes, Elei had no doubt
he meant it. He reached into his pocket and took out his thin wad
of bills. Blood ran in a hot line down his hip as he counted and
gave over the money. The boatman counted it again, eyes darting to
the remaining bills and Elei’s gun peeking out of the holster.
    Not good. Grimacing, Elei climbed out of the
boat, scrambling on hands and knees to keep his balance on the
blocks of the pier, fumbling in the half-darkness as the sea sang
and sighed all around him and cold water sprayed his face. His left
wrist throbbed, felt slightly sprained. His body felt numb,
uncoordinated; the pain in his side echoed in his limbs, in his
head.
    Like an insect, he crawled on the giant
squares, skinning hands and knees, until he finally reached the
pier road. He could have wept for relief. Maneuvering his heavy
legs, he climbed to his feet and glanced back at the boat which was
already speeding away — a speck blacker than blackness, a white
line of surf. Then he turned with a knot in his stomach to face the
unknown shore.
    The island was Dakru, but which city was this
one? A memory returned and Elei frowned. Krisia . The boatman
was supposed to drop him at Krisia, a small enough seaport to avoid
Gultur police control. What had possessed him to go there?
    Elei staggered along the pier toward the
storehouses lining the seafront and the wound hurt like a son of a
bitch with every step. He should have hidden in the mountains of
Ost until he figured out what happened.
    Nobody in their right mind would come to
Dakru. The Gultur presence was stronger there. Their capital, Dakru
City, the Gultur stronghold, rose in the center of the island,
dominating the plains at the feet of the rugged mountains, and the dakron mines spread around it in a spiderweb of power. The
source of the Gultur wealth lay in the control of the dakron mines, where the mineral fuel, pure and invaluable, was extracted.
The police presence would be stronger here as well. And he was an
illegal migrant.
    This is mad. Why would I…
    Someone had chased him. A face he knew, a
man’s hard features, surfaced in his memory. Falx? He
wondered why Pelia’s head of security would go after him, though it
made no difference now. Nevertheless, it explained why he’d chosen
— wisely in retrospect — not to travel with legal transportation
over the immense bridges between the islands. He’d still been able
to think when he’d boarded the boat, body pumped full of
adrenaline.
    Now the images, the words, the thoughts
turned hazy. He stumbled and had to stop to catch his breath, his
hand clenching on his side. Just move . He licked his lips,
his throat raw from thirst, knowing he couldn’t rest there — too
conspicuous, too dangerous. Keep moving . He had to get to
Artemisia. He knew that. And from there…
    Elei grappled with the memory. Where did he
have to go? An address, he had an address. Where was it? His hand
dove into his pocket and