But could it make her see things that weren’t there? She didn’t know if that was a symptom or not.
She watched the silver lights as they grew larger.
And then they blinked.
“Rascal?” she whispered, and her voice seemed very loud in the silence. But that was stupid. How could it be Rascal?
The silver orbs blinked again.
Tears filled her eyes then, though she couldn’t have said why. Relief? Terror? Simple happiness at seeing the kitsper again? The scrapes on her face stung as her tears ran over them, bringing her more fully back to herself.
“Celine told you to fly,” Emily hissed as softly as she could. “It isn’t safe for you, boy. You need to go. Go.”
Rascal’s eyes grew closer, and then she felt his cold nose against her cheek.
More tears flowed, and she tried desperately to keep the sobs from racking her body and waking the others. The kitsper’s rough tongue caressed her face, kissing the tears away.
“You have to go,” she whispered again.
The eyes disappeared from her view, and she thought he’d heeded the command. She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.
Gradually, she became aware of something pressing into her stomach through the netting. She tried to crane her neck to see, but there was only blackness.
Slowly, she shifted her weight onto one side and managed to get her hands under her. There was something definitely poking through the netting.
Ouch!
She inhaled sharply as pain, amazingly fresh and present, bit into her fingers.
Then something was forcing its way through the gap in the netting and into her hand—something thin…and cold…and hard…
Carefully, she took hold of it and pulled it the rest of the way through. She knew what it was by touch, despite the cold. The pain had wakened the nerves in her fingers somewhat.
It was one of Maddy’s daggers.
She heard a low “meow”, and the gentle flapping of leathery wings, and she knew Rascal had gone.
For a long time, Emily just lay there in the darkness, running her fingers over the weapon. It seemed so small now. Could it be of any real use?
Slowly—carefully—she sat up, gently extricating herself from her friends. The net swayed, the cables scraping against the wall of the crater and sounding like the insectile rasp of the Reavers’ voices. Maddy muttered in her sleep; Corbbmacc stirred but did not wake.
She thought about rousing him—rousing all of them—but finally decided to let them sleep. They would need their strength.
As she sat their in the dark, running her fingers along the blade and its leather grip, a plan began to slowly take shape in her mind. It was desperate; it was possibly—no, probably—stupid. But it was their only chance. Still, it was a chance…and that filled her heart with hope.
Reluctantly, she slipped the dagger under her tunic, shuddering at the feel of the icy steel against her stomach. It would be okay there. It wasn’t as if she would be moving around enough to jostle it free…not in this net, and there was nothing more she could do until dawn.
She reached up to wipe the tears from her cheeks and was surprised to find they were gone.
As gently as she could, she lay back down between her friends. She turned toward Corbbmacc, making the net sway again, and managed to wrap one arm around him, holding him to her. She nestled her face into his shoulder, savoring the warmth of him against her skin. She wondered if this was the last time she would lie beside him in the dark. She suspected it would be, no matter which way her plan panned out. Still, her friends would be safe, and so it would be worth it.
“I love you,” she breathed into the silence, and gently kissed the side of Corbbmacc’s neck.
He did not stir, and Emily, at last, slept.
CHAPTER FORTY
The sun had set, but the streets blazed with colored lights from paper lanterns hung from fenceposts and awnings. Candles flickered inside grinning skulls carved from hollowed out turnips, pumpkins, and other suitable vegetables on porches and window sills. One by one, stalls were opening along the streets, and the air was beginning to fill with the smells of popping corn, sweet cakes, roasting meats, and a thousand other delicacies of the autumn harvests. Children laughed and screamed, running through the streets donning black cloaks or capes painted with autumn leaves. They leapt from the shadows to scare one another or passersby, paper masks on sticks clutched in their tiny fists. It was impossible to tell if they were human or flyer or Sarqin; in the dark, they were all just children.
“…First we make a ghost of the man we love the most…”
Marcom stood alone on a street corner, watching it all play out before him. Vuc and Elijah were scouting elsewhere in Coalhaven, and Marcom had taken a page out of Elijah’s book, removing the insignia of Marianne’s guard from his shoulder. He wanted to blend in with the crowds. He definitely did not want Astus to know that they were here. They’d have a better chance to learn something useful if they could move through the city without attracting attention.
He wondered if arriving now, on the first night of Samhain, would help or hinder their mission. It would certainly be easier to blend in with the throng of revelers, but that was true for the Broodsmen as well. Absently, he rubbed the sore flesh of his forehead through the rag still hiding the mark of the dragon that had been branded into his flesh. Belatedly, he realized what he was doing and forced his hand back to his side—that was another symbol he ought not risk calling attention to.
He made his way slowly through the crowd milling by the side of the thoroughfare. Children dodged around him, teens pushed past him, and in the distance he heard a snatch of an old Samhain song that he hadn’t heard since his youth. To his surprise, his lips mouthed the words along with the minstrel’s booming baritone, as if it hadn’t been two dozen years or more since he’d sung them himself. “…The dead man’s voice in the ghost ship’s hull, echoed from his yellowed skull…”
Coalhaven had not suffered the way Seven Skies had in the wake of the recent attacks, and the difference was palpable in its atmosphere. Here, the festival was as lively and expansive as Marcom had ever seen it, and somewhere, amidst the exuberant citizenry, were Broodsmen—hiding in the shadows alongside the souls of the dead.
“…The treasure’s buried in a deep dark hole, and the devil’s got my bleak black soul; he took the chest of loot I stole…”
Life-sized wooden skeletons dangled from street lamps, swaying in the autumn breeze. Tonight, the lamps remained unlit; the shadows added to the atmosphere, and the paper lanterns gave off light enough to see.
“…but I’ll get it back my cull, my cull, I’ll get it back my cull…”
Marcom paused at a broad crossroad where a noisy gaggle of children were playing Gallows Grab. It was an impressive display compared to most he’d seen as a child. The gallows themselves were surprisingly realistic, erected in the center of the square. A man and a woman, clad in little more than dirty rags, dangled limply from a pair of nooses, their faces dusted with flour and soot to give them the appearance of corpses. He supposed there must be some kind of harness under their clothes, but the illusion was remarkably convincing. From here, he’d have sworn the actors really were a pair of condemned murderers hanged for their crimes.
“Who’s next then?” a man across from Marcom, dressed in an elaborate executioner’s getup, called out, and a dozen children all rushed forward.
“Ah, how about you, young fellow!” the executioner bellowed jovially, pointing with his scythe at a boy of about six or seven years. The boy bounced excitedly, staring up into the man’s face with anticipation. He was a flyer, Marcom thought, judging by the extra bulk that was just visible beneath the heavy fabric of his Samhain cloak.
“Blue!” the executioner cried, and the boy rushed off toward the gallows as his mates watched.
Marcom watched too, his heart full of nostalgia. Oh, to be that young again…oh, to have not yet
seen all the things that jaded and embittered and broke one’s heart…
The boy reached the gallows and circled the make-believe corpses warily, and then he stopped. The stick, painted blue, was sticking out of the pocket of the hanged woman’s trousers. He’d spotted it, but now he hesitated, delight and terror warring for control over the expression on his face.
“Eight…seven…six…” the executioner counted down, and with a lunge, the boy leapt and snatched at the blue stick.
The corpse of the woman came to life then, swiping at the boy wildly and giving voice to a unearthly wail that caused the boy to shriek in terror and scamper away—but he had the blue stick clutched in one hand. His shriek turned to shrill laughter as he reached his mates.
“Excellent!” the executioner cried. “Your prize!” He took the stick from the boy, who was brandishing it around like a ridiculously undersized club, and gave him a shiny red apple. Happily, the boy melted into his group of friends, his teeth already digging into the treat.
“Who’s next…”
With a small smile, Marcom turned the corner and continued to push his way through the press of bodies. What he really needed was to find an inn or tavern where he might overhear some gossip—or be able to buy some.
For a while, he wandered aimlessly through the streets, instinctively following the subtle signs that would take him into less reputable quarters. It was easy once you knew how to recognize them, and he’d policed the streets of Seven Skies long enough to know them very well. There were the streets that, one by one, became more and more deserted; the alleys where the shadows fell ever thicker between the growing mounds of refuse; the broken windows whose jagged teeth glinted in the moonlight; the dark figures in doorways.
As he turned down another dark and narrow street—little more than an alley, really—he suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. Was he being followed? He thought perhaps that he was.
As casually as he could affect, he slowed and stopped, turning to scan the buildings to his left as if he was searching for a particular place. He listened, but he heard nothing.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, feeling ridiculous miming this little charade, and continued to turn, letting the street behind him slowly enter his field of vision.
A man, dressed in dark clothes and, apparently, some kind of fancy hat, was standing back at the last corner Marcom had turned. It was hard to be sure in the dark, but Marcom thought the man had his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
Before Marcom could decide what to do next, the man seemed to realize he’d been seen. He gave a theatric little start, and then started walking away—not running, but definitely in a hurry.
Just a pickpocket? A common thug? That hat sure didn’t look like something he’d expect either to be wearing.
Abandoning any pretense, Marcom started after the man. It was doubtful, what with the head start his quarry had, that Marcom could catch up with him, but he wanted to know what the man was doing. Call it a hunch, simply his gut, but he had learned over the years to trust that feeling when it came.
As he turned the corner, he caught a glimpse of the man ducking into the space between two dark and crumbling stone buildings. He picked up his heels and gave chase.
The passage into which the figure had disappeared was littered with mounds of garbage and autumn leaves that slowed his progress considerably. Light blazed at the far end, and he caught only the briefest of glimpses of the man’s silhouette against it. How the devil had he reached the far end that quickly? And yes, he did seem to be dressed in fine, if rather eccentric, clothing. A rich merchant, perhaps?
Marcom reached the light at last and had to pause, blinking in the wash of bright street lamps. Here, only the most perfunctory of Samhain decorations had been put up, and while not exactly the city center, the street appeared to be a bit cleaner—and safer—than the ones he’d left not a hundred paces behind him.
He looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of the man he’d been following. In fact, at the moment, there was no one at all.
“Damn,” he muttered, feeling more chagrinned than anything. The chances were good that the man hadn’t been deliberately following him anyway, he told himself—but that nagging feeling in his gut remained.
There was, however, a likely-looking tavern not fifty feet down from where he’d emerged. It had the look, more or less, of the type of place he’d been looking for. It was as good a place to start as any, and so he started toward it, still wary in case his prey was nearby. But the man in the hat seemed to be gone. Perhaps he’d entered the tavern.
A sign above the batwing doors simply read THE DEN. It hung from a rusty chain that looked as though it would crumble at any moment. The ghost of some image, long ago faded to a dusty yellow, was just visible behind the letters, looking a bit like a giant letter M. The paint on the doors—a color that may have once been white—was peeling and chipped, but the doors themselves seemed reasonably well cared for.
With one last look at the empty street behind him, Marcom pushed his way inside.
The Den was larger than it appeared from the outside, with a long dusty bar running the length of one wall to the right of the entrance. It was also packed with every sort of person imaginable. There were flyers, Sarqin, and even a few Reavers seated in groups around tables. There were smartly dressed humans and beggars in rags. At the far end of the bar, Marcom even caught sight of a wraith having an animated conversation with a skeletal old crone of a Satyrian in a pink dress. If the man had come inside here, trying to locate him would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack.
Shrugging to himself, Marcom made his way to an empty stool at the bar. It was, at least, exactly the right kind of place to hear some gossip or ask some questions.
“What you want?” the hulking Sarqin behind the bar grunted, glowering at Marcom suspiciously from deep-set eyes that were nearly lost in the thick gray fur and hair that covered his face.
“Whiskey will do,” Marcom told him. The Sarqin studied him intensely for another few seconds, then shrugged his mammoth shoulders and lumbered off to retrieve a glass.
Marcom swiveled on his stool to study the room, leaning back casually against the bar. It was something he’d done hundreds—perhaps thousands—of times before, but now the familiar routine brought a bitter taste with it. He remembered taking Emily out the day the Dragon’s Brood had destroyed the Stay Inn. He remembered sitting with her at the bar, just as he was sitting here now, and watching as she’d tried to look without seeming to, as he’d taught her. She hadn’t been bad, either—not great, mayhap, but he had seen the potential in her.
Angrily, he pushed the memory aside and tried to focus on the task at hand, but before he could, a new thought came to him—one that had never quite reached the surface of his mind: if Emily had been part of the Dragon’s Brood, why had they targeted the Stay Inn while she was inside? Why risk losing one of their own after taking all the trouble to plant her at Seven Skies?
Firmly, he forced the thoughts away. There was no point in contemplating the details of her betrayal. He’d seen her climbing down the mountainside with a whole group of Broodsmen. He’d seen that for himself. Until that moment, he’d held out hope that she’d been taken against her will somehow—a stupid hope, a pointless wish. He still felt the bitterness and anger that had welled up inside of him when he’d seen her. He could still feel the vicious, if fleeting, satisfaction he’d felt when he’d tossed the little bag of her things he’d collected at Seven Skies off the mountain. Let her fish those out of the goddamned lake, he’d thought.
But why? Why had he cared so much? Why did he still?
There was a thunk behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see that the bartender had placed a dingy glass filled with amber liquid on the bar.
“Holder,” the Sarqin grunted, and Marcom dug out a coin and flipped it to him before picking up the glass and downing it in a single swallow. The whiskey burned as it we
nt down his throat, and he resisted the urge to cough. It was terrible—closer to liquified pitch than whiskey.
He kept the glass in his hand and turned back to the room, determined not to think anymore about Emily. His gaze fell upon an unlikely group sitting at a table in a far corner.
There were a number of things remarkable about this group: first was the sight of a Karikis sitting with two humans; Karikis rarely socialized with other races, particularly humans. In general, they limited their interactions with the other races as much as possible. Not only was the Karikis drinking with a pair of humans, he was not dressed in the traditional robes of his kind, but rather in heavy armor and leather garments that were clearly custom made to fit his bulk and unmistakably human in style.
Beside the Karikis was a young man with the beginnings of a beard upon his chin and a veritable mane of shaggy hair framing his face. Marcom thought he looked vaguely familiar, but there were hundreds of young men who looked just the same among the troops assembled at Seven Skies.
Across the table from the pair was a third man who Marcom would bet his life was a drunkard. He was dressed in a patched and ragged coat and trousers, and his graying beard was scraggly and unkempt. His mismatched eyes were so bloodshot they made Marcom’s want to water in sympathy, and there were festering sores at the corners of his mouth.
The Karikis and the old drunkard seemed to be having an argument, but they were keeping their voices low enough that Marcom couldn’t hear what they were saying over the roar of the rest of the crowd.
Despite his appearance, the old man didn’t seem to be particularly intoxicated, and by the gestures he was making, Marcom got the impression that they were haggling over something. Information perhaps? Drunks were often one of the best sources of just the kind of gossip Marcom himself was here to find.
Making up his mind, Marcom turned back to the Sarqin behind the bar.
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