by Gary Meehan
Megan recognized Clover’s voice. She let out a muffled grunt of indignation and relaxed a bit. The hand was withdrawn. “You’ve been spying?”
“I am a spy,” said Clover.
“It’s a hobby as well as a vocation?”
“I was worried about the Savior,” said Clover. “You’ve come for her?”
Megan nodded. “Have you seen her?”
“The soldiers drove me away before I had the chance.”
Megan noticed one of Clover’s eyes was half closed. She reached out, touched swollen flesh. Clover winced and drew back.
“I’m sorry,” said Megan.
“It wasn’t your doing.”
Maybe for once it wasn’t. “What’s going on here?”
“I don’t know. Soldiers suddenly appeared everywhere. They arrested people, declared a curfew. The Faithful have taken the city.” Clover shook her head. “The True would not turn on their allies. We keep our word.”
“Pity it’s not a very nice word.”
A look—shame? embarrassment?—passed across Clover’s face. “The cellar is this way,” she mumbled.
She led Megan around the edge of the mansion’s gardens, pausing every few yards as a patrol stomped by. They reached the west side and crawled under a bush, each of whose tiny needles wanted a scrap of Megan’s flesh. Clover pointed out across the lawn.
“There, Mother,” she whispered. “That indentation in the grass? See it?”
“Barely,” Megan whispered back. “We’ll have to hope it’s open.”
“It is open.”
“How do you . . . ?”
“I have used it before,” said Clover. “I wanted to see the Savior.”
Megan shuddered. “That’s not disturbing.”
“Lady Rekka’s servants drove me off before I could.”
That was something at least. Even though Clover would never hurt Cate, there was something skin-crawling about the idea of her worshipping Megan’s daughter. Something else too: a spike of jealous anger at the witch’s appropriation of her child.
Megan swallowed the emotion and concentrated on the immediate task. The cellar door was about twenty yards away. She wasn’t going to get to it without being spotted by one of the patrols.
“I’m going to need you to create a distraction,” she said.
“Whatever you need, Mother.”
“Haven’t I told you not to call me that?”
“Sorry.”
“Draw the guards off,” said Megan. “Then get away from here as fast as possible.”
“Where to?”
“I’ll leave that as an exercise.”
One pair of soldiers disappeared around the corner of the mansion, leaving only two guards on the side of the building where Megan and Clover were hiding. The men passed their position.
“Now!”
Clover rolled out from under the bush and skipped toward the house, her footsteps just loud enough to draw attention. The two soldiers whirled round and yelled. Clover veered away. They gave chase.
Megan scurried across the lawn. The trapdoor to the cellar had been covered in turf—were it not for the slight dip you wouldn’t know it was there. She felt around the edge. The fit was too tight to get her fingers in. She groped around in the grass and found a thin rope. She pulled. The door rose like a crocodile’s jaw.
“Hey!”
Megan’s head snapped up. Two more soldiers, thundering toward her. She threw herself down the trap and promptly slipped on the rickety stairs. Sharp edges punched her all the way down her spine to her ankles. No time to nurse the pain. She twisted, leaped and grabbed the rope. Soldiers’ silhouettes darkened the steps. Megan yanked. The cellar door slammed shut.
Muffled voices sounded above her head. “How do we get this thing open?”
“Stick your sword in the gap. Lever it up.”
There were grunts of exertion, then a nerve-shredding shriek as metal snapped. “Cheap piece of shit!”
“Hey, what’s this?”
The rope started to slither out of Megan’s hand. She pulled back, yanked out a knife and sawed away frantically. Out of sight above her head, the soldiers pulled harder. She resisted, putting all her weight against the rope, continuing to cut away.
The rope split. Up above, there was a thud followed by swearing. Megan scrabbled down the rest of the steps and, fast as she dared, made her way through the pitch black of the cellar. Crates and barrels rapped her shins; low-hanging beams clocked her in the head. If she could see at all, she’d be seeing double.
She bumped into some stone steps and clambered up them on all fours. Momentum carried her through a door and into a kitchen. Silence greeted her entrance, but her mind played back the last few moments. It hadn’t been silent before, something she realized just as a group of middle-aged soldiers looked up from their beer and dice.
“Um . . .”
“Why are you all wet?” asked one of the soldiers. The others looked at him, their expressions not sure this was the most relevant question.
Megan inched toward the exit. “Um . . .” As answers went, its ubiquity made up for its vagueness.
“Hey, aren’t you . . . ?”
Megan’s inching turned to mile-ing. She was out the door even as the soldiers were throwing chairs back and reaching for their weapons.
Floorboards squeaking beneath her soles, Megan charged down the corridor. Clomping up ahead forced a change of direction. She dived into the nearest room and found herself in the bedroom of one of Rekka’s children: a boy, if the detritus of wooden swords, toy boats and alarmingly stained underwear strewn across the floor was any indicator. Megan scurried across the room and squeezed under the bed.
The door was kicked open. Megan held her breath, as much to avoid breathing in boy stench as to avoid giving herself away. There was a grunt, then the sound of receding boots. Megan breathed a sigh of relief, then made the mistake of breathing in. She clasped her hands over her mouth and fought the gag reflex.
When she had recovered, Megan wriggled out from under the bed and considered her options. If the soldiers knew who she was, they’d know where she’d be heading. But if she didn’t go there, what was the point in all this?
She crept out into the corridor and got her bearings. Not too far away: just up the next floor and along a bit. She headed for the stairs but promptly scurried back at the sound of marching, hiding behind a door as a squad trooped past.
“Where’re we going now?” a weary Rekka demanded.
“Great hall,” replied a soldier.
“Couldn’t you at least have let me put a wrap on? Do you know how drafty that place gets, especially after the state the builders left it in.”
“Least of your problems.”
Their voices faded into the distance. More footsteps shuddered through the mansion. Megan got the impression—or hoped—they were heading for the exit. Everyone gathering in the great hall for the after-coup party? She waited until silence returned before scurrying upstairs. The first floor was deserted. She hurried along to her own room and eased open the door.
The room had been turned upside down. The bed was on its side, the contents of the wardrobe flung across the floor. Cate’s cot was tipped over and empty. There was no sign of Cate or Synne.
Aldred, however, was there: ripping the drawers out of the chest.
six
“Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
Aldred drew his sword and advanced on her. “Tell me. Now.”
Megan drew back, bewildered. Instinctively she reached for a knife. What the hell was going on? What was Aldred doing?
“Don’t,” said Aldred, flicking his sword at her descending hand.
“You wouldn’t really . . .”
“Where’s the bag I gave you in Staziker?”
That? Why did he want that? He’d shoved it into her arms the day the witches had come for Cate, but it had contained nothing more than old clothes. What was so speci
al about it?
“Tell me!”
There was a frightened intensity to Aldred’s expression that made Megan’s skin tighten. This was the man Eleanor had fallen in love with, who had fought with them, and now he was threatening her? “Afreyda . . . Afreyda took it.”
“Where?”
“The barracks.”
Aldred’s guard dropped. “The barracks?” he mumbled to himself. “There might still be time.”
Megan looked again at the room, or rather its remains. It was as if someone had eviscerated it. “Where’s Cate?” she asked.
“What?”
“My daughter. Where is she?”
“Don’t know, don’t care.” He sheathed his sword and tried to push past Megan.
She blocked his way. “I answered your question,” she said, this time actually drawing her own blade. “You answer mine.”
Before Megan could react, Aldred grabbed her knife hand and rammed it against the door frame, forcing the weapon out of her grip. Megan cried out in pain, then in alarm as he grabbed her by the throat. Her legs were hardly able to keep up as he marched her backward into the corridor. They tangled up in each other. She tripped, bringing Aldred down with her. He landed on her with an impact that forced the air from her lungs.
“Do you really think your brat’s worth this?” he spat. “If it wasn’t for her, she’d be alive.”
Megan gasped for breath. Eleanor? This was all about Eleanor? She could almost understand the rage: she had directed enough of it at herself. “Eleanor . . . Eleanor thought so.”
Aldred grimaced and snorted. He clambered off Megan, looked down at her as if she was some tramp who’d drunk herself into a stupor on the streets, then headed for the stairs. Megan rolled over and scrambled for her dropped knife.
“I won’t let you hurt Afreyda,” she called out after Aldred.
“Not much chance of that,” he said. “They’ve taken her to the great hall. She’s going to be tried for murder.”
Megan rushed after Aldred, but by the time she reached the front doors of the mansion he’d disappeared. There was still a guard on patrol. She ducked back into the house, waited until he had passed, then scurried across the lawn and into the darkened streets.
Where was Cate? What had happened to her? Scenarios played out in Megan’s mind, some that left Cate safe, some . . . not so safe. There were any number of places between the Lord Defender’s mansion and the hot springs; Synne could have sought sanctuary in one of them when trouble erupted. Megan could check them all, given time, but she was likely to draw unwanted attention to herself. The soldiers had been coming after her and Afreyda—did they know about Cate too? Her importance to the witches?
There was a commotion in the street. Megan’s instinct to hide was well-oiled by now. A squad of soldiers hustled a group of Hilite electors—old and middle-aged men for the most part—past her position. One of the Hilites snapped and rammed his elbow into one of the soldiers’ faces. The rest of the soldiers pounced on him, reducing him to a pulp with their fists, boots and sword hilts. They left him a bleeding, groaning lump on the ground and pushed on toward the great hall.
Megan slid in behind them. If the soldiers had Cate, they might let slip where they were keeping her; if not, Cate was safe for the time being and it was Afreyda who needed her help. When they reached the great hall, however, Megan didn’t have a clue how she was going to provide that help. The place was swarming with soldiers—at least a hundred of them.
Smoke curling through the gaps in the thatch gave her an idea. The builders’ ladders had been kicked away and lay scattered on the ground, as if they were part of some giant child’s game, but there was more than one way up. Megan slunk around to the back of the hall. It was quiet here—no patrols; there was no way in, just solid wood and small windows of smoky glass set high in the walls. Megan spotted what she was looking for: a series of spikes hammered into the timbers; emergency access to the roof. She looked up and swallowed. It wasn’t that high—three, maybe four, stories. A fall might not even kill her. Unlikely to leave her in one piece though.
She threw herself up the makeshift ladder, initial enthusiasm giving way under the tyranny of gravity. Keep going, she told herself. If she paused she’d only think about the iron digging into her fingers, the strain on her muscles, the icy wind freezing her sodden skin, which got icier with every foot she climbed.
A gull squawked at her as she clambered on to the roof, protesting the invasion of its realm. Megan shooed it away and made her way across the steep thatch. Despite her efforts to keep her footsteps as light as possible, scraps of dried grass broke away and fluttered off in the breeze. She prayed no one below would notice.
Megan reached one of the holes in the roof and peered in. Through the clouds that wafted past her from the fires below, she could see nothing beyond the crisscrossing beams apart from a sea of heads, both helmeted and bare. Soldiers, refugees, Hilites. Megan needed to get closer. She considered the beams. They were thick and looked strong enough to hold her weight, and this high up it’d be dark and smoky enough to cover her.
She slithered inside and wrapped herself around the tarred timbers. Down below—a lot more down below than she liked—three priests were congregating around the high table. Father Broose and his acolytes. Where was Father Galan? Was he part of all this?
There was a shout from the floor. Before Megan knew it there was a crack, and a crossbow bolt was quivering in the strut next to her head. She clung to the beam as if it were her grandfather. The commotion increased. More bolts were fired. The last one was met by a pathetic squawk and a cheer.
“Got you, you bastard. You won’t nick my bread again, will you?”
Megan’s hug of terror became one of relief as the shot gull hit the floor. The beam remained unconcerned in either case.
Father Broose rapped on the table. The hall fell silent. “Today marks a turning point in the history of the Faith. By returning this city to the Realm we have—”
“Oh, please,” said Rekka, her scorn cutting through the room. Megan shuffled along so she could see her. She stood amidst a phalanx of guards, hair shining like copper in the firelight, body stiff and imperious. “There is no Realm. The True control New Statham, the Sandstriders have Ainsworth, the north has emptied itself, and what remains of your army cowers in Janik waiting to be annihilated. You have no leaders, no ideas and, after this display, no hope.”
“We have God and the Saviors.”
Rekka sneered something in Hilite that made her compatriots laugh. Father Broose went puce just from her tone. He barked an order. A soldier smashed his boot into the back of Rekka’s knee. She cried out and crumpled to the floor. The Hilites shouted out their discontent and edged forward. Flame caught on steel as the soldiers brandished their weapons. The Hilites stepped back.
Father Broose rounded the table and advanced on Rekka. “Those of you who wish it will be readmitted to the Faith. Those who do not . . .”
“Will be murdered?” said Rekka. She tried to stand but her leg gave out from under her.
“Those who reject the Faith can cross the Kartiks. It is a fate to which you were willing to condemn others. Meanwhile, this place will be a sanctuary for true believers.”
“Sanctuary? The witches are coming, whoever controls the city.”
“They won’t come if we give them reason not to.”
“And what reason would that be?” asked Rekka.
“We know about the child.”
Fear scraped across Megan’s skin like a thousand razor blades. “Child?” said Rekka.
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
“Vegar always likes it; especially when I—”
“Where is she?” snapped Father Broose.
“How should I know?” said Rekka. “With her mother, I assume. I’d be careful about tangling with her if I was you.”
That was something, at least. Father Broose didn’t have Cate. Megan offered up a heartfelt prayer
of thanks.
“I suggest you persuade your husband of the correct course of action.” Father Broose considered for a moment. “Once he has recovered.”
“If he’s—”
“He was given the opportunity to surrender peacefully. Talking of which . . .”
He motioned to someone blocked off from Megan’s view by more beams. There was a familiar cry of indignation and Afreyda was shoved forward until she stood next to Rekka. Fury burned within Megan at her mistreatment.
“You slaughtered two men of the Faith,” said Father Broose.
“They attacked me,” said Afreyda, her voice calm and matter-of-fact.
“They were sent to arrest you.”
“I did not want to be arrested.”
“You show no repentance for what you did?”
Now a little emotion did creep into Afreyda’s tone. “I am not the one who should repent.”
“I believe all Diannon citizens have the right to resist arrest,” Rekka said to Father Broose. “Some weird custom. She doesn’t understand. Go easy on her.”
“That is not true,” said Afreyda.
“I was trying to help you,” hissed Rekka.
“Oh.” Afreyda turned to Father Broose. “I obey the laws of the legitimate authority. You are not the legitimate authority.”
“Do not question me”—even from her high position, Megan could see saliva splutter from Father Broose’s lips—“heathen!”
“Heathen?”
“It’s Stathian for someone who thinks for herself,” said Rekka.
Father Broose jabbed a finger at Afreyda. “For the crime of murder you are hereby sentenced to death.”
Megan gasped. It took all her self-restraint not to drop from the ceiling like an avenging raptor and plunge a knife into Father Broose’s heart. She stopped herself in time. That would only get them all killed. She had to bide her time, wait for her opportunity, even if every fiber of her being cried out in outrage and terror.
Father Broose turned to one of his priests. “I take it you have a gallows here.”