Dragon Unleashed

by Grace Draven

  “Not that I’ve heard.” The man’s sly mien intensified. “If I do, I can tell you before I tell the cat’s-paw.”

  “For a price, of course.” Good thing Malachus still had a decent bit of coin in his possession. He suspected he’d be beggared by the time this was over.

  The rat’s face creased into a rotting smile. “Of course. And if you plan to stay in that free trader camp, I can find you. Then again, so can the cat’s-paw. Might want to consider stashing your woman somewhere else. No business with Gharek is ever good business.”

  Malachus flipped another coin to him. “To show my continued interest. If you do spot the man or the old woman from the drawings, see me. I’ll match the cat’s-paw’s reward. Tell anyone else, and I’ll sell your guts for garters.”

  The footpad pocketed the coin, bowed, and scurried away with his companion. Malachus watched them for a moment before abandoning his nighttime exploration and hurrying back to the free trader camp, plagued by a growing fear that he’d meet a terrified Saradeen waiting to tell him that Halani had gone missing just like her mother and her uncle, a prisoner of a vicious cat’s-paw with plans of his own.

  He’d been tempted to follow the pair, but they’d expect it and likely take him on a false chase through Domora that had him running in circles, or worse, lead him into a dead-end path where he’d be trapped and have to fight his way out. Besides, the urge to race back to the free trader camp won out. Even the wrench of the mother-bond on his senses succumbed to the need to assure himself that Halani was still in the camp, still safe.

  His heart pounded in his chest the entire way back, and not just from the sprint to get there. The camp was just waking, a few people out seeing to morning chores. When they saw him, they waved or called out a greeting, reassuring him that those in the camp paid attention to who entered.

  Emerging light through the clerestory windows in Hamod’s wagon illuminated the interior enough to reveal Halani still asleep, reclined on her side, her back to the door. Her hair tumbled to the floor in a waterfall of curls. Malachus thought his heartbeat might slow down once he ascertained she was here and unharmed, but he was wrong. It only drummed harder in his chest for another reason.

  Were circumstances different, he’d strip naked, crawl into bed, take her in his arms, and make love to her once more. He burned for her, body and soul, a fire unlike the draga’s imperative to be free but no less consuming.

  “Halani.” He ran a fingertip down her spine. She arched away, muttering a protest at the ticklish touch before rolling onto her back.

  She stared at him through slitted eyes. “You’re dressed.” Her eyes opened wider, gradually losing their sleepy squint. She blinked in confusion at her surroundings. “We’re in Uncle’s wagon.”

  “Yes to both,” he said. “I carried you in here before I left.” He didn’t have the luxury of joining her in bed, but it didn’t stop him from gathering her into his arms and kissing her, consumed by a combination of desire and relief: the first because she was Halani, the second because she’d come to no harm while sleeping alone and unguarded in her uncle’s wagon.

  She was the one to end the kiss. Her fingers were cool on his face as she traced the bridge of his nose. Her eyes rounded. “You’ve been out searching Domora, haven’t you? Did you find my mother?” Her fingers dug into his shoulders, hope chasing fear across her face.

  He wished he had such good news. “Not yet. Get dressed. We need to talk to Saradeen and the others. After you fell asleep, I left to scout a small part of the city along the royal avenue.” He smiled at her frown. “I was careful, Halani, and I’ve been in cities more perilous than Domora.”

  “I can’t help it,” she said, rising from the bed and giving Malachus a lovely view of her body before slipping on her shift. “I keep seeing you in the grass looking like a pin-poppet with all those arrows sticking out of you.”

  Her words filled him with warmth. And longing. What a fine thing it would be to claim this woman as his and declare himself hers. It wasn’t to be, but he’d hold the idea close during the years to come when he dreamed of her face and the grace of her in his arms.

  Once she was dressed, they left the wagon and she led him to Saradeen’s wagon. Most of the camp was awake and outside, packing up their wares to take to the market square, where Hamod had secured a space to hawk goods to buyers.

  Malachus recounted his jaunt through the city and his unexpected meeting with the two footpads. “I don’t believe he was lying when he said there’d be a line waiting at that pub of people who saw Halani. They’ll be wanting the reward money, even if it’s only enough to purchase a tankard of ale. This lookout was either a little smarter, a little greedier, or a little more reckless in approaching me with the information he had.”

  “Double his take and maybe more by telling two interested parties.” Anger darkened Halani’s eyes. “Do you think this Gharek is the one who has my mother?”

  “There’s a good chance, and he just hasn’t said anything to anyone about it yet.” Malachus prayed such was the case. Another person holding Asil captive with the hopes of extorting the cat’s-paw would make things even more complicated.

  “It burns my guts that someone’s been spying on us the whole time we’ve been in Domora.” Saradeen downed the rest of his tea as if it were hard spirits and reached for the teapot on the brazier grate.

  “Maybe not the whole time but probably since Hamod went to ground.” Malachus gestured to the camp as a whole. “Your setup here discourages visitors from trying to creep about unnoticed, but all this cat’s-paw needs to do is place a watch or two at the city gates and outside the camp to see who comes and goes. My guess is lookouts at the gate reported our arrival. Any outside the camp now are just keeping an eye on Halani and will report back if she goes anywhere.”

  “Did the footpads say anything else to you about Mama?” Halani’s voice was calm, but she couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes.

  Malachus hugged her against his side. “Nothing other than no one had yet spotted her or Hamod. I’d have kept searching through the night, but after what the one told me, I wanted to come back here, check on you, and let you all know what you’re dealing with in Domora, and it isn’t just finding Hamod and Asil. We aren’t the only ones looking for them. This Gharek is also searching for you.”

  She shuddered. “I don’t like being hunted.”

  He damn well didn’t like it either. He addressed Saradeen. “I’d hoped we could split into two search parties today. I’d go alone on one route, Halani and a few of you on another, as we searched for Asil. That’s no longer a reasonable plan.” Nor was a methodical, unobtrusive search through the city’s upscale neighborhoods. Malachus decided a more direct approach was needed. He had a pub to visit and a proctor to chat with this morning.

  “You want me to stay here.” Halani wore a resigned expression now. “You can’t search for Mama if you’re too busy keeping me from getting captured as well.”

  A thoughtful, practical woman, his Halani. Malachus kissed her forehead. “I know you want to find your mother, and sitting here waiting for news will test your patience, but you’re right. Staying in the camp with the others so they can keep watch is the better plan. If you were taken like Asil . . .” He paused, the idea of that very real possibility making the draga inside him bristle. “I’d level Domora to find you.”

  “Far too much effort for one woman,” she said, leaning harder into his side. “Just find my mother and bring her back so we can leave this accursed place.”

  Malachus noted she said nothing of Hamod. He turned to Saradeen. “I need to borrow a crossbow and a couple of quarrels.”

  He left the camp armed with his own weapons and the borrowed crossbow with bolts. His lips still tingled from Halani’s hard kiss. “Good fortune, Malachus. Be careful,” she said.

  Finding the Dead Hound Pub was easy enough. An estab
lishment located in Domora’s poorer quarters, it catered to patrons for whom a belsha or two meant one could eat something better than a baked onion or weevil-infested bread for supper. A few citizens had pointed him in the pub’s direction, with one offering advice.

  “If you’re going for a reward from the cat’s-paw’s proctor, you best walk fast. There’s already a line going out the door waiting to see him.” Considering why they were lined up, Malachus wasn’t cheered.

  Even with dawn no more than two hours behind them, the inn was a bustling place, and the man who’d described the turnout for a monetary reward hadn’t exaggerated. The line did indeed extend out the door and into the stable yard. Those who’d only come to buy an ale or time with a serving wench had to shoulder their way across the threshold. He needed to get inside long enough to familiarize himself with the interior and discover where the proctor had set up his money table. He’d have a hard time of it without being noticed. Loading a crossbow in front of a crowd was guaranteed to draw attention.

  The narrow sliver of alleyway between the pub and the opposite building provided a means for him to access its kitchen. He barely avoided a dousing from a chamber pot emptied out of one of the adjacent structure’s second-story windows and hop-skipped over reeking puddles of human and animal waste that traveled in rivulets toward the main street. The smell, mixed with that of food frying in hot tallow, turned his stomach.

  A blast of hot air struck him when he reached the threshold of the pub’s kitchen. Someone had propped the door open in an attempt to cool the room. A fire roared in an open hearth positioned in the middle of the floor. It was crowded with spits of roasting meat and cauldrons suspended from tripods, their contents boiling or frying and tended by a bevy of scullions and undercooks.

  He searched for the head cook, spotting her near one of the big prep tables, spatchcocking chicken carcasses. She noticed him at the same time. Her eyebrows, and the meat cleaver she held, rose threateningly.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in here?” At her question, work in the kitchen stopped and all gazes landed on Malachus, none of them friendly.

  This wasn’t the more polished staff of a nobleman’s household. They were laborers in a rough pub in one of Domora’s more lawless neighborhoods. They’d know a thing or two about fighting, and at the moment, they all looked more than ready to deal with this unexpected intruder.

  Malachus wasn’t here to brawl with scullery maids and cooks. He fished out a handful of half belshas and laid them on the table closest to him. “No trouble,” he said. “You can’t get through the front door to order an ale or woo a maid. I just want to see if it’s worth my time to fight the crowd to the barkeep.”

  Greed, he’d discovered early on, was the most predictable of all human failings. As much as he despised the trait, he wasn’t above using it to his own ends, and once again it worked in his favor. The cook scooped up the money and dropped it in her apron pocket before giving him both a nod and a blind eye. Her staff, no longer interested in Malachus, turned their focus on their mistress. He wondered if there’d be a brawl in the kitchen after all.

  He made his way to the pass-through between the kitchen and the common room, keeping out of sight but with a view to the room’s layout and especially the location of his quarry. Like most alehouses of its type, this one was dark and smoky and smelled of sweat and sour ale. Benches and stools filled the space, with a patron perched on every one, even at this early hour. Ale wenches wove through the crowd, bearing pitchers and tankards. Through a break in the crush of people, Malachus spied his mark.

  The cat’s-paw’s proctor, a portly man dressed in shabby finery, sat in a back corner, the table in front of him a barrier against the other occupants. A pair of brutish guards stood on either side of him. He picked a small pouch from a heap of identical pouches in front of him and handed it to the man standing across from him. Behind him, the line of people snaked out the door.

  Any notion of slinking about trying to obtain the cat’s-paw’s whereabouts through subterfuge flew out the window the moment he and Halani had passed through Domora’s gates. Now he’d have to depend on the elements of shock, speed, and brutality to get what he wanted.

  With his prey in sight and the lay of the land noted, he stepped back from the entrance and shrugged the crossbow off his back. The kitchen staff watched him curiously but didn’t interfere. Only after he slid his foot into the crossbow’s stirrup, drew the string back behind the locknut, and slipped a bolt into the rail did anyone react, and only then with a disbelieving gasp.

  Malachus charged into the common room, shoving patrons aside and knocking over stools. The proctor’s two guards didn’t have a chance to react before he aimed the crossbow at the guard closest to him and shot. The bolt slammed into the man’s boot and through his foot, pinning him to the wooden floor. His eyes bulged before he let out an unearthly howl of pain that sent half the pub’s crowd stampeding for the door and the other half flattening themselves against the walls to get out of the way.

  Malachus didn’t stop, using that split second of his opponents’ stupefaction to shove the table hard against the proctor with one hand, trapping him in his corner. The mound of money purses fell to the floor. He flipped the crossbow around with his other hand, swinging the stock like a mace. It caught the second guard in the head, felling him.

  The cowering proctor slid off his chair and crawled under the table in a futile attempt to escape. Malachus waited for him to emerge before yanking him to his feet by the back of his robes. Malachus kicked the foot of the guard pinned to the floor by the crossbow bolt, making the man set up a new round of howls. Pain like that would keep him from concentrating on anything else but trying to get the bolt out of his foot.

  Malachus hauled the proctor closer to the kitchen, pausing long enough to survey the stunned crowd. He nodded toward the table. “You all might want to see to those pouches on the floor before the second guard comes to.” He dragged the proctor with him, leaving behind a common room that erupted into greater chaos as those still inside surged toward the belshas he’d left behind.

  The proctor alternated between pleas and threats as he stumbled through the kitchen, tethered to his captor by the unyielding grip Malachus kept on his tunic. “Why are you doing this? Let me go, and I’ll pay you what you ask. My patron is wealthy and considers me his friend. He’ll avenge me if I come to any harm, and he’s greatly feared in Domora.”

  They paused by the table where the head cook had been working. She and her staff were gone, either fleeing the pub or joining the pandemonium in the common room. Malachus changed his grip on the proctor, grabbing the man’s thick wrist. “As the cat’s-paw is your dear friend, you can tell me where he lives.”

  The man twitched, his eyes shifting toward the open door that led to the alley. “I have no idea.”

  Liar, Malachus thought. The shifting gaze told him what he needed to know. He didn’t bother with cajoling the man to spill his secret. He set the crossbow on the table, tightened his hold on the proctor’s wrist, and yanked it down until he’d forced his hand flat on the table next to the chicken carcasses. The cook hadn’t bothered putting away her meat cleaver. Malachus snatched it up and brought it down with a solid whack, chopping off the tip of the proctor’s little finger to the first joint.

  The man screamed as blood spurted from the wound. Malachus held up the severed tip, showed it to his screeching captive, then tossed it into the open hearth. He seized the proctor’s face, squeezing his jowls until his mouth closed and his cries became muffled.

  “Had I time, I’d work my way up your arm until you told me what I wanted to know.” Malachus kept his voice low, pinning the proctor in place with a hard stare as imprisoning as the hand on his wrist. “But I don’t have the time, so I’ll skip to the important parts. I’m going to ask you the same question. If you don’t give me the answer I want, I’m going to carve out yo
ur right eye and then your left, and if going blind to protect your friend is acceptable to you, I’ll go low and cut off your balls and then your prick.” While he spoke, the proctor’s face turned a ghastly shade of gray. “Now, tell me, where is the house of the cat’s-paw who calls himself Gharek?”

  The proctor’s loyalty and friendship to the cat’s-paw died a quick death in the fires of fear, pain, and survival instinct. Malachus released his face, and the words tumbled from his lips faster than river rapids: where Gharek lived, the knock to use to alert a servant of an approved visitor, and how long it would take him to reach the man’s residence on foot.

  Malachus shoved the proctor away and retrieved the crossbow. “You’ve signed your death warrant by giving me such information. I suggest you see to your wound, pack your necessities, and leave Domora. If I find you’ve lied to me, you’ll have two of us hunting you with the sole purpose of taking your head.”

  The proctor whimpered, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest and backing away from Malachus as far as he could get and still not fall into the hearth.

  Heart racing with the first triumph after a series of setbacks, Malachus bolted from the pub’s kitchens and into the alley, his destination a deadly opponent’s home, and with any luck, the place where he’d find Asil and bring her back to Halani.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Halani gripped the bat with both hands and swung as hard as she could at her target. The impact sent jitters through her hands and up her arms when the bat connected with the hapless carpet. A cloud of dust burst from the weave, and the carpet rocked back on its line. She hit it again, this time imagining the textile was the face of the man who hunted her.

  If a grave robber sat on the lower rungs of the social hierarchy, a thug for hire like a cat’s-paw was the stool on which the grave robber stood to climb higher. Thwack. Gharek was the reason she was trapped here, unable to help look for her mother, stuck with nothing to do but take out her frustrations on the rugs in need of a cleaning. Thwack. He was probably the one who’d taken Asil for his own nefarious purposes. Thwack, thwack, thwack.