by A Van Wyck
He barely heard the explanation. He was struggling to stay upright amid the abattoir stink and stirred-up memories. Lightheaded, he reached for the wall’s support but misjudged the distance. Christian caught him before he could fall.
“You going to be sick?” the man enquired lightly.
Breathing heavily, mouth awash with saliva, he bent double. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t but he shook his head anyway. There was no time to be sick. Justin was in trouble. He tried to concentrate.
“Keeper’s been in here,” he croaked.
“That’s the theory,” the masha’na confirmed.
But he shook his head, his thoughts refusing to line up straight. The young captain followed as he stumbled outside, hovering in case he collapsed. His stomach churned. Merciful Mother, his head was splitting!
“He came out here,” he forcibly evicted the words, sweat beading his brow with the effort. “They hurt him. Not badly. Very little blood.” He was vaguely aware of the other masha’na drifting over, the light of the torches converging. A wave of nausea and vertigo sent him reeling. His legs folded beneath him, knees plowing into the hard gravel. “Here,” he groaned, pointing. The torchlight revealed two dots of deeper color where blood had spilled.
No time to be sick… no time to be sick…
Bracing one hand in the dirt, he heaved himself to his feet, swaying uncertainly. “They carried him,” he croaked, “this way...” He turned into the darkness, hugging his stomach against the pain.
Gradually, he became aware of the silence. He turned to see the gathered masha’na staring at him, expressions carefully blank.
“How do you know?”
Christian’s tone was kindly, making allowances for his distress.
Realizing what he was about to answer, he stumbled into stunned silence. The improbable words seared his tongue.
Goddess guard me, what is going on?
He confronted the steely expressions of the masha’na. These men wouldn’t believe him. Merciful Mother, he didn’t believe him!
Justin, oh, sweet goddess, Justin…
“I…” he tried, the words balking in his throat. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the disbelief and disdain on these men’s faces. “I… I can smell him,” he rushed the words, cringing.
The loud silence was even worse than the disgust and dismissal he’d imagined.
“It’s true.”
His eyes snapped open: Bear, massive arms crossed, easily weathering the stares of his fellows.
“Bear?” Christian questioned.
The huge warrior met the captain’s inquiring eyes. “We were coming back from the palace,” the man explained, lidded gaze turning to find him. “I got the feeling the lad knew where we were going. So I hung back, let him take the lead. He led us straight here,” the man shrugged. “Like a bloodhound.”
He’d done what?
He met the captain’s speculative regard with one of wild-eyed surprise. There was none of the skepticism he’d expected to see, the young officer’s eyes were unreadable as they contemplated him.
“We ain’t got nothing better to go on,” the lanky Longjaw directed at Christian.
“Watch’ll be here soon,” Parish opined non-committaly, “then it’s their game.”
Christian nodded, acknowledging both observations without breaking eye-contact with him. “Can you follow the trail?”
“I… I don’t know,” he stuttered, taken aback. “Maybe?”
“Try,” the captain commanded.
He swallowed hard, thinking: what if he could?
Oh, Helia fend, what’s happening to me?
Who’d ever heard of such a thing? He was no tracker! He was city-born and -raised, for pity’s sake! The nearest he’d ever been to wilderness was the Temple orchards! If he could do this, it would give the lie to Justin's earlier diagnosis. He hadn’t seen through the assassin’s spell because he was blessed. It was because there was something very wrong with him.
A darker thought intruded: what if he couldn’t do it?
Oh, goddess! Justin…
Shivering, he shut his eyes.
Merciful Mother, hold me in your regard tonight, he prayed… and inhaled gently:
Men. Fear sweat. Leather. The acrid taste of metal and the bitterness of oil. Weapons. Armor. He breathed deeper. Garlic. Basil. Stale beer. Sour wine. And under it, the coppery tang of blood. He tried to concentrate on that, peeling back the threads of the other scents. He exhaled through his mouth, tasting the different flavors on his tongue. Sandalwood. Ink. Moldy parchment. And a faint trace… rancid butter.
Justin.
Eyes closed, he took a step, then another and another, only peripherally aware of the masha’na falling in behind him. The scent was getting stronger. In a strange way, this was the most natural thing he’d ever done. Justin smelled like home. He was going home.
He hadn’t realized he was jogging until a hand on his shoulder gently steered him away from a collision with a stationary wagon. He opened his eyes to see Christian jogging alongside him, the other masha’na keeping pace behind, their armor jangling softly. He let the scent fill him and pull him onwards, paying enough attention to his surroundings now for Christian to withdraw the hand.
He led them down back alleys and dark passages, avoiding the main roads. If anything, they were headed deeper into the poor district. Finally, the buildings on either side began to thin, gradually giving way to garbage dumps and refuse pits. He nearly gagged at the overpowering stench. A hundred other threads joined the menagerie of scents but he clung desperately to Justin’s. And then they were beyond the city limits, looking out over humped hillocks, faint in the darkness. A new smell came to him and he halted, glancing at the ground to confirm what his nose told him. “They had horses waiting here.”
Meaning they could be far ahead by now. He made to plunge into the darkness but a restraining hand caught the back of his robe.
“Hold up there,” Christian commanded.
He turned on the young commander imploringly. “We’ve got the trail,” he argued, “we should keep going.”
“Trail?” someone scoffed. They both turned to regard Ryhorn. The older man’s waxed moustache failing to hide the perpetual sneer a mace-blow had left him. “No offense to the boy, Christian, but we don’t know we’ve been following anything. He don’t look to me like he’s got a tail that wags. No offense,” the man said again, casting him a glance. He missed Christian response because he wasn’t listening. Instead he followed a new scent off into the brush. It was strangely familiar to his newly discovered sense and he found himself frowning. He stared down into the knee high grasses, following the path of crushed stalks. Bending, he reached into the shadow of the wet fronds, aware of Christian coming up behind him. The masha’na’s footsteps sounded overloud, even on the soft grasses.
He turned, fist clenched around something soft.
“Marco?”
He opened his hand, dew cascading from his fingers. In the middle of his palm lay a scrap of cloth, the intricate knot crushed and stained. The keeper’s smell lay heavily on it but there was another, stronger scent. He smelled his own blood on it. He knew what this was.
He offered the knotted cloth to the captain in silence. No one spoke but there was a certain rustling among the masha’na. “This was his,” he told the young officer, willing the blonde man to recognize it as well.
“A yarn charm?” Christian identified.
Variants of yarn charms were common in the Empire, especially among the Kender, as toys and good luck tokens. They were sewn into clothes or knotted around wrists or ankles. It was not a custom shared by the Renali. And it was not something you were likely to find in the kingdom. He saw the same knowledge in the masha’na officer’s level regard.
“All right,” the man nodded. “I believe you.” Relief rushed through him but was brought up short. “We’ll need horses and supplies,” Christian declared aloud. “And we need to arm up and get the r
est of the troupe. We’ll pick this up at first light. Everyone back to the barracks, double time.”
“But–” he tried to argue as the masha’na formed into ranks for the quick march back into the city.
“Marco,” the officer forestalled, “they’ve got three or more bells head start on us and they’re mounted now. We’ll never overtake them on foot. Add to that we don’t know where or how far we’re going or how many men we’ll have to fight when we get there. Besides, even if you can lead us straight to them, we’ll break our necks in this darkness before we get anywhere close.”
He wanted to argue further – it really wasn’t that dark – but the leonine masha’na gave him no opportunity. “Come along. There’s a lot we need to do.”
Fighting against the tug of his heart, he set off after the masha’na, trying not to think of his mentor getting further away by the moment.
He left the masha’na at their compound and continued on to the palace alone. The stars still held sway in the sky but first light could not be far off. The gate guards knew him by sight but still stared as he ran past and up the stairs, robes flapping behind him.
Suddenly Dennik’s suggestion of being fitted for some armor did not seem so preposterous. He did what he could, donning his sturdier undershirt beneath his robes and exchanging his sandals for his boots. He hesitated before reaching for the burlap-wrapped sword in his trunk.
He knew something was wrong the moment he hefted it. The weight was off, the burlap tied with knots not of his making. He ripped it aside. The taper of the blade, the placement of the ferrules, the curve of the guard, the design of the pommel – were exact. But he knew he held a different sword.
One not palace forged. One that did not incriminate the Royal Guard.
It was just one more thing he did not have time for right now. He needed a sword and here he held one. He buckled it on, trying to ignore the sick weight of it on his hip. He took nothing else, simply pulling closed the door of the little room behind him.
The hallway windows still showed the black of night outside but he could feel the restlessness of the palace as it prepared to wake. There was one more thing he still had to take care of before he left. He climbed the stairs to the next floor. The guards who stood stiffly at attention in their niches acknowledged him with their glances but didn’t otherwise move. He traversed the curved corridor swiftly, finding the door he needed.
“Is the princess awake, Kreel?” he directed at the flanking guardsman.
“Should be,” the man mused, speculatively eyeing the unaccustomed sword at his hip. “Her maids just left.”
“Can you let me in?”
Kreel frowned but reached readily for the door. “You alright? You look like you’ve got something heavy on your mind.”
The understatement threatened hysterical laughter. He quashed it, giving the guardsman a terse nod.
The door closed behind him as he reached the center of the princess’s reception area. He had no patience for waiting this morning so it was a relief when princess Dailill came striding from her bedroom, mercifully alone.
“My lord protector,” she smiled, eyes alighting on him. “They really aren’t letting you get much sleep, are they?”
He bit his lip, all the words he’d been rehearsing on his way up the stairs fleeing in an instant. “I’m not on duty,” he managed, which was not at all what he wished to say.
“Oh?” Her frown echoed her confusion. “I don’t understand,” her eyes shied from the sword at his hip. “Is something wrong?”
Yes, he wanted shout. Your sister is a stone-cold psychopath who’s tried to have both our lives taken. And now she’s taken Justin!
But he couldn’t say it. Not with her looking at him like that. “My…” he began, shaking his head to begin again. “Keeper Justin has been kidnapped.”
Her hand flew to her mouth and she jumped like she’d been pinched. Round eyes implored a denial he couldn’t give. He nodded, his face feeling wooden.
She straightened purposefully.
“What can I do to help?” she asked, clutching a determined fist to her chest.
He took a deep breath. This was what he’d hoped for. “I need to leave for a while,” he told her. “The masha’na have found a trail,” he lied. “I’m on my way to go join them now. But things are… volatile. I’m afraid, if we were to observe the diplomatic process, we’d lose our best opportunity at getting the keeper back. We need a head start. We need the Renali investigation delayed.”
She blinked at him, “I can do that.”
He suppressed his sigh of relief. He took a step closer, his voice unintentionally dropping an octave.
“Highness. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, or even if I’ll be coming back.” That sounded more dramatic than he’d intended and he winced. “You must take extra precautions while I’m away – this will be the perfect opportunity for the assassin to try and get to you again.”
Her eyes widened but he knew better than to think her fear was for herself.
“Where’s Luvid?” he questioned. Much as he detested the man, the princess should not be alone right now.”
“Out on an errand,” she waved the question away. “Can’t you stay?” she implored. “Your temple soldiers seem very accomplished. Can they not spare you?”
His jaw set stubbornly. “I have to go – they need me.”
“But why?” she demanded, brimming eyes at odds with her clenched jaw. “I know of your masha’na. Father used to tell us bedtime stories about them – terrible and fierce, he said. If they can’t get your keeper back alone, what help will one more scribe be? You’re needed here.”
He could tell her the truth. But he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the revulsion on her face when she learned he was some unholy aberration. He hesitated, biting his lip. “You know the keeper is a mystic?” he confirmed, using the closest Renali translation of ‘streamer’ he could think of. She nodded – the whole court knew, thanks to him. “I’m what you might call his apprentice,” he hedged, hating himself for a coward. “The bond we share is deep,” he struggled, stringing together fragments of truth. Enough to answer her question. He met her eyes. “I can find him,” he promised.
I will find him, he amended.
“Are you sure?” The question encompassed not just his statement but his determination.
He nodded again, “The kidnappers took to horse outside the city. We’re setting out in pursuit at first light.” He glanced out the window. The distant peaks, muddled by the sub-standard glass, were backlit in pink. He had to hurry.
“Does it have to be you?” she whispered, blinking irritably at her misty eyes. “Can’t someone else do it?”
He shook his head, “I’m the only one who can.”
Her eyes dimmed in calculation. He’d seen this dozens of times, moments before she came up with some brilliant idea that appeased ruffled nobles or calmed strident guilds.
“Then,” she rallied magnificently, “you will need the shortsword Father gave you.” He followed her as she turned toward the small library by the window.
That would be good. The sword at his side was unfamiliar and untested, whereas the ancient orin had been protecting the priesthood since millennia before he was born. Having it along would be a godsend.
“There,” the princess gestured. The wooden box sat upon a spindly lectern by the window. “I’d hoped to return it to you myself when you resumed your duties,” she informed him.
He walked over. It was not the same box the orin had originally been presented in. He reached for the lid.
It was like being struck by lightning.
The moment his fingers touched the smooth, glossy wood, all the muscles in his body seized. He stood, solid as stone. He would have loosed a startled yelp but his locked jaw and drawn throat defeated him. His shouted warning was reduced to a twitch. Frozen, he couldn’t even collapse.
He understood in a flash. He wasn’t supposed to be here. She wo
uld have been alone during these early bells. And her sister, who knew everything that went on in the palace, would have known that too. Her sister had set this trap for her and he had sprung it by accident. The assassin must be close by, if not already in the room. With a monumental effort, he rolled his eyes, searching the dark corners.
Oblivious to the danger, she hovered behind him, peering over his shoulder. He strained against his own muscles. Please, merciful goddess, he prayed, let her realize what’s going on! Let her run before it’s too late!
“You know,” she whispered languidly in his ear, “it truly is a shame it had to come to this.”
His fruitless struggles stilled beneath the unfamiliar edge to her voice.
“I’ve grown quite fond of you,” she chuckled huskily. His neck muscles strained away from the invasive sound. “And of course,” she added in a softer tone, “you did save my life...” He would have jumped at the hand, settling on his back, were he able. “That assassination attempt…” again the unfamiliar chortle, “…was a long time coming. Powerful people garner powerful enemies. I’m only surprised it took this long.” She pressed up against his back, soft curves flattening against his rigid muscles. Her arms curled around to settle palms on his chest, hugging him to her in an intimate embrace. Her cheek flat against his shoulder, she continued. “But then,” she sighed, “I’ve always been very good at hiding my hand. It makes for a–”
One of her hands followed the curve of his stomach and down the front of his britches.
“–smaller target.”
His mind railed. No, no, no, no… This was wrong, this was all wrong!
“Still, I might have died that night if it had not been for you.” She traced lazy circles on his flesh with a fingernail. “And to think! I’d intended for you to be nothing more than a distraction for my darling sister.” He caught his laboring breath at the venom in her voice.