Or maybe it was the stink of death all around her. This was an evil place, where evil things were done. Images of disaster circulated through her head. She felt panicked, claustrophobic, and she knew she had to get out.
“You know, sir, I’m thinking maybe it’s best I come back tomorrow,” she said, turning back toward the stairs.
“Come on, missy, we’re almost there.” Gillen seized the scruff of her neck and yanked her forward so hard she nearly fell.
Instinctively, she knew that any sudden claim to royalty would be disregarded. In the unlikely event he did believe her, he would not hesitate to throttle her to death and drop her in the river to prevent her from carrying this story back to Fellsmarch Castle. Gillen had a killer’s heart under his royal blue uniform.
She’d thought of it as an adventure, like something Hanalea would do. She’d thought she understood the stakes she’d be playing for, and she’d been wrong.
Had Hanalea been frightened when she confronted the Demon King? Raisa felt plenty frightened now.
Ahead was a metal grillwork bolted into the stone with a massive metal lock at one side. As the torchlight bled through the cage door, Raisa could see movement in the gloom beyond, a shuffling of bodies.
It was a girl and two boys, fifteen or sixteen, maybe, though it was difficult to tell. They were thin and filthy, and they’d been beaten so badly they were scarcely recognizable as human. They did not crowd forward, as one might expect, but pressed themselves back into the corners as if hoping to escape Gillen’s notice.
Raisa was sickened—and furious to know that what Cuffs Alister had said was true.
“Hey, Sarie,” Gillen crooned, unfastening the door. “I’ve brought you some company.”
“Go away,” came a whisper from the dark. “We can’t tell you what we don’t know. We an’t seen Alister in months.”
“Come now, don’t be like that,” Gillen said, his voice silky. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who’d come to see me?” she demanded.
“I’ve got little Rebecca here, luv. She’s brought some supper.”
“Who?” Overcome by curiosity, Sarie shuffled out of the shadows and into the light. She was tall for her age, and broad of hip and shoulders. She looked like no relation to Raisa.
“Now your baby sister is here, I think we’ll get somewhere,” Gillen said with a bone-chilling smile. He tightened his grip on Raisa. “Maybe it’ll loosen your tongue when we put her on the rack.”
Sarie gaped at Raisa, then back at Gillen. “Who the bloody hell is this?”
In stories, Queen Hanalea fought off the powerful Demon King through strength of character and the power of good.
In the clan camps, they spoke of the small overcoming the mighty through the force of a focused mind.
Amon Byrne had shown Raisa street-fighting techniques meant to disarm a bigger and stronger opponent.
Raisa was smart enough to know that her chances of overpowering someone like Mac Gillen were slim to none. But when a person gives no quarter, if she’s fighting for her life, it can make a difference.
When she slammed both feet into Mac Gillen’s kneecaps, she knew it was unlikely to disable him. She hoped it would be enough to distract him.
In that she succeeded. He screamed like a stuck pig and went down, clutching at his knees, swearing.
“Get him!” Raisa shouted recklessly, rolling to her feet. “To me! Come on!”
With the strength born of desperation, the three Raggers jumped on Gillen, dragging him to the floor, kicking and punching for all they were worth. Gillen was like a massive bear set upon by coyotes who were snapping and biting and growling, but doing very little damage.
Gillen’s hands fastened around Raisa’s throat, and he squeezed, stopping her breath. She twisted and turned but could not break free. The blood roared in her ears, and spots swam before her eyes, coalescing into wolflike shapes.
Then somebody plowed into them, and the pressure on her throat was released.
Greedily gasping for air, Raisa snatched up the fallen torch and jammed it, still burning, into Gillen’s face. He screamed with pain and rage and left off pounding one of the boys. Suddenly he seemed less interested in beating them to death and more interested in getting to the door. Raisa hooked a foot around his ankle and sent him sprawling, and Sarie lifted a heavy iron chamber pot and slammed it into his head.
Gillen finally lay quiet.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Strange Bedfellows
Amon Byrne was not the kind of person who dwelled on things. He usually made a decision and moved on. But this time was different. He’d done more second-guessing over the past two days than he’d done in his lifetime before then.
They’d not been released from Speaker Jemson’s study until the morning after Raisa’s abduction.
By then the trail was cold. Amon had sent his Gray Wolves racing into Ragmarket to search for any trace of Cuffs or Raisa, while he went straight to his father to confess what he’d done.
He found his father at breakfast, dining alone, as was his habit. Once the first few words were out of Amon’s mouth, Captain Byrne stopped eating, sat back, and listened stone-faced, firing a question here and there.
When Amon finished, his father threw his napkin on the table and sent his orderly to fetch his duty officers to the garrison room.
Amon extended his sword to his father, hilt first. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said stiffly. “I hereby resign my comm—”
“Keep that,” his father growled. “You’ll likely need it.”
“Sir?” Amon stammered, confused. “But . . . when the queen hears . . .”
“They are headstrong, the Gray Wolf queens,” his father said. “No one knows that better than me. The most difficult task a guardsman faces is to say no to his sovereign when he knows it may result in his own dismissal, imprisonment, or death.” He fixed Amon with his hawklike gaze. “But sometimes you have to say it. You should have said it to the princess heir.”
“But how can we do that, sir?” Amon restored his sword to its scabbard. “I mean, we serve the queen, and so—”
“We serve the line of queens,” his father said. “We serve the throne. Sometimes an individual makes a bad choice.”
Amon stared at his father. “But isn’t that ...isn’t that ...”
“Treason?” Captain Byrne smiled thinly. “Some would say so. Who are we, after all?” He rose, walked to the hearth, and prodded the fire with a poker. The careful arrangement of logs collapsed in a fountain of sparks.
“We Byrnes are here by a covenant made with Hanalea, the first of this stubborn line,” his father said, staring into the fire. “It is a tricky business, for sure, but we’ll be all right as long as we keep our eyes on the good of the line and the good of the realm.”
“But . . . not everyone in the Guard is there for the good of the realm,” Amon said, thinking of Mac Gillen.
His father nodded. “Time was, the captain chose every man and woman who went into the Guard. That’s no longer true. Politics have come into play. I did not choose Mac Gillen, and I’ve been unable to dismiss him, much as I’ve tried.”
Who chose Mac Gillen? Amon wanted to ask. But didn’t. “What . . . what are we going to do, sir?” he asked.
His father continued to gaze into the flames, his face hard and unreadable. “We’re going to risk everything to protect the line.”
“What do you mean?”
“The princess heir has her name day this summer, after which she’ll be eligible for an alliance by marriage.” He turned and leaned against the mantel, looking as grim as Amon had ever seen him. “It may be best for the long-term defense of the Fells if the princess heir marries a southern prince. But they’re conservative in the southern kingdoms. If they find out our princess was held captive overnight by a street thug, it may affect her prospects for a match.”
Amon’s stomach clenched. He thought of Cuffs Alister, his knife at Raisa’s thr
oat, declining a hostage switch. He found himself actually spluttering. “He wouldn’t . . . if he’s touched her, if there’s—”
His father held up a hand. “The facts are less important than the perception when it comes to marriage contracts, Corporal.”
The facts are important to me, Amon thought. “They ... they wouldn’t name Mellony heir, would they? If Rai . . . if the princess heir is tainted,” he said, not really sure who “they” might be.
Amon shook his head. “They may try, but we cannot allow that. Mellony is not the blooded heir, as long as Raisa lives. The Naéming does not recognize politics. I hope Her Majesty won’t be influenced . . .” His voice trailed off. “We are direly in need of a strong queen,” he said softly, rubbing his forehead as if it hurt.
“Da,” Amon said, anxious to get back to his subject, “when you said we’d risk everything to protect the line, what do you mean by that?”
His father fixed back on him. “Here it is. We will not announce that the princess has disappeared. We will set the Guard looking for one Rebecca Morley—that was the name you said she used, wasn’t it—who fits the princess’s description, taken from Southbridge Temple by Cuffs Alister. Rebecca, we’ll say, comes from a wealthy family but wanted to do good works for the poor. We’ll offer a very generous reward for information.”
Amon wasn’t sure he understood. “But . . . we’ll tell the queen the truth?”
His father looked him straight in the eyes. “No.”
Amon couldn’t believe it. His father, the soul of duty and propriety, was proposing a massive deception, one that could have dire consequences if it went bad. It would be perceived that the captain of the Guard had risked the princess heir to protect his son. It could be his career.
“Da! We can’t do that. If you’re found out . . .”
“Remember what I said. We are bound to preserve the line, no matter the cost. If this Cuffs knows who he holds, it will put the princess heir at greater risk. He might be frightened enough to kill her on the spot. He could carry her across the border and sell her off to some southern prince. Or align himself with the Gray Wolf ’s enemies.”
“If she’s even still alive,” Amon forced himself to say. “It’s been hours and hours.”
“She’s alive,” his father said. “I would know if the line was broken. And you will too, once you’re truly named.” His father put his hand on Amon’s shoulder, stopping his questions. “I know the queen enrolled you in the Guard, but anyone can be enrolled, as I’ve said. This is different.”
He left it at that, but Amon was glad to take his father’s word for it. Glad he wouldn’t have to insert the language “If Raisa’s still alive” into every speculation.
“But . . . but how will we explain Raisa’s disappearance?” Amon persisted. He was half relieved he wouldn’t have to face the queen right away, half convinced this scheme would never work. “She must have been missed by now. They’re probably already in a panic.”
“Averill Demonai will help us,” his father said. “He’ll say Raisa’s gone back to Demonai Camp for a . . . a prenaming ritual. Very secret, very sacred. Lord Bayar will be furious, but we can live with that.” A smile ghosted over his face.
“Why would Averill do that? He’s her father. He has to be worried.”
“He’ll want to keep it secret for the same reasons we do— for the good of his daughter and the good of the line.”
“What would you have me do?” Amon asked humbly, knowing he deserved no role in this, but desperately desiring one.
“You’ll comb Ragmarket and Southbridge. You’ll use all your contacts. You’ll talk up the reward in taverns and inns. After all, you know the streets, and you know Raisa, and you can identify Cuffs, and that’s important when most members of the Guard have never seen the princess in the flesh.”
Over the next two days, Amon walked the streets around the clock, mostly in Ragmarket, since that was Ragger turf and Cuffs was seen crossing the bridge with Raisa immediately after the confrontation in the study. Amon threw money around in taverns, but never drank himself. He interviewed countless people, asking after “Rebecca Morley,” describing her in detail, showing a secret sketch of Raisa that his sister, Lydia, had done for him.
Amon pushed himself so he wouldn’t have to think. When he did think, guilt washed over him.
He was the one responsible for Cuffs’s escape in the first place, that day they’d collared him outside of The Keg and Crown. And by going along with Raisa’s plan to go to Southbridge Temple, he’d put her in Jemson’s study when Cuffs barged through the door.
And finally, his decision to confront Cuffs then and there, in the temple, had resulted in his taking of Raisa.
Of course, there was a chance that by now Raisa had already told the streetlord who she was. Amon could picture that conversation, but he couldn’t picture what would happen next, except sometimes in nightmares. So he did his best not to sleep.
Consequently, Amon was less than alert in the days after Raisa’s disappearance as he walked the narrow streets and alleys of Ragmarket, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He’d arranged to meet the Wolfpack at the bridge at noon to see if anyone had news. He was not optimistic. He was nearing the river, walking a narrow alley, when someone behind him called his name.
“Corporal Byrne.”
He swung around. It was Cuffs Alister, in a side courtyard, on the wrong side of a wrought-iron grillwork. A half dozen other Raggers stood in a cluster behind him. No Raisa.
Amon lunged toward Cuffs and came up against the grillwork, which was too fine to insinuate even his hand through. Still, Cuffs skipped back a step, as if he thought Amon might somehow manage it.
“Where is she?” Amon demanded, looking for some way over or around the fence. “What have you done with her? If you’ve touched her, I swear I’ll—”
“Rebecca, you mean?” Cuffs frowned as if confused.
“Right. Rebecca.” Amon’s mind stumbled to a conclusion. So the streetlord still didn’t know Raisa’s true identity. “Who else would I be looking for, you murdering, thieving . . .”
“She’s in Southbridge Guardhouse,” Cuffs said, cocking his head right, toward the river.
“Southbridge?” Amon struggled to control his voice. “What’s she doing in there?”
“I don’t exactly know what she’s doing in there,” Cuffs fingered the silver at his wrists. “But she went in there yesterday and hasn’t come out. Something’s up. I was hoping you could, you know, take a look in. Make sure she’s all right.”
Amon was lost. There was something crucial the streetlord wasn’t telling him. “Why wouldn’t she be all right?” And why hadn’t Amon heard she’d been found?
Cuffs shrugged. “Mac Gillen’s in there, for one.”
Mac Gillen was a brute on the streets, but what did that have to do with Raisa? “How did she come to be in there?” Amon asked, choosing his words carefully, trying to resist the impulse to beat on the metal door between them. “Did the Guard find her, or did she escape from you, or . . .”
“Well, I believe she went in to rescue some Raggers from the pits,” Cuffs said. “She wasn’t all that specific.”
“She went in to rescue—why would she do that?” Amon gripped the ironwork, studying the streetlord’s face. Was he lying? And if so, what was the purpose?
“Guess she’s kind of taken with us,” Cuffs said. “You know, the glamour of the gang life and all. Getting beat up every other day, arrested for crimes you didn’t commit, long nights in gaol, sleeping in the cold and wet. It’s . . . seductive.” He raised an eyebrow.
Amon couldn’t help thinking Cuffs had chosen that word on purpose. Yet despite his sardonic tone, the streetlord’s face was pale and anxious under the dirt and bruises, and he practically twitched with tension.
Was he worried about Raisa?
No. He wasn’t allowed.
“Why should I trust you? Why should I believe you
about anything?” Amon asked.
Cuffs spat on the ground. “All right, then. If it’s too chancy for you to walk into your own guardhouse and find your own girlie, I’ll go myself. I just thought you might get a better reception.” His face had gone hard, his blue eyes bright with anger.
Amon wavered, unwilling to lose Cuffs now that he had him in his sights. Even if he was tantalizingly out of reach.
“Look,” Cuffs said, rubbing his chin. “I’m sorry I took your girlie. I don’t want her to get hurt. And the longer you wait, the more likely that’ll be. I don’t know what else I can say.”
“You wait here,” Amon said. “Don’t you move.” As if he had some power to enforce it.
“All right,” Cuffs said, smiling slantwise. “You go on. I’ll be waiting here.”
Amon turned and raced toward the bridge, but hadn’t gotten more than a few paces when he heard his name again.
“Amon! Corporal Byrne! Where’ve you been? Wasn’t we supposed to meet at noon?”
He turned and found his Gray Wolf cadets clustered around the bridge pillar.
On impulse he said, “Come on with me to the guardhouse. I hear there’s trouble.”
They cut to the front of the line for the bridge. The guardsman on duty saluted.
“Are you the reinforcements?” he asked, eyeing Amon’s companions.
“Right,” Amon said. “Reinforcements. What seems to be the trouble?”
“Dunno. Some kind of prisoner riot.”
Amon set a killing pace across the bridge, which cut down on the questions from the Wolfpack. The door to the guardhouse was ajar. Several guards stood around outside, armed with clubs. Amon slowed his pace and approached cautiously from the side. When he peered around the door frame, he saw a handful of guardsmen bunched at the end of the corridor that led to the cells.
“What’s going on?” Amon asked, leading the others inside. “Where’s Sergeant Gillen?”
“Corporal Byrne, thank the Maker,” one of the guardsmen said, only too happy to hand over responsibility. “The prisoners took over the cell block yesterday morning. They have the gate barricaded and they’re holding Sergeant Gillen and some others hostage.”
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