Rose & Thorn

by Sarah Prineas

  She looked them up and down, then scowled. “Watchers.”

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Griff said quietly.

  The keeper folded burly arms. “Oh, sure you don’t.” She pointed at the row of bottles on a shelf behind her. “An’ if you’re going to take up space here, you’d best order something.”

  Griff nodded. “All right.” Turning to keep an eye on the room, he rested an elbow on the sticky surface of the bar. “What’ve you got to drink?”

  “Gin,” she answered. “Small beer, cider.”

  All of it watered down, Griff knew, and foul-tasting. “Two ciders, then,” he said.

  With a nod, the keeper turned away to get the drinks. When she turned back, Griff held out two of the wooden tokens that the Watchers used as currency. Seeing them, the keeper’s scowl deepened, but she didn’t protest, just set two mugs of cider on the bar, and took the tokens.

  Griff handed one of the drinks down to Quirk.

  “She probably spit in this,” Quirk grumbled, examining his mug.

  “Maybe,” Griff answered, taking a sip. Ugh, it was foul stuff, more vinegar than cider. Quirk said something else, but Griff ignored him; his ears were listening to the low talking between the men and women sitting at the tables. Absently, he nodded to Quirk and took another sip of his drink.

  In the shadows at the back of the room, a burly man caught the eye of a young woman and gave a tiny nod; she stood up from her bench and made for the back exit. She had on a knee-length coat, but beneath it, Griff caught a look at a long, slim shape: a sheathed sword.

  Griff let her get out the door, then he set down his drink. “I think we should go after this one, Quirk.”

  “Oh, all right,” Quirk said with a sigh, and stood on tiptoe to put his mug of cider on the bar.

  As they headed for the back door, the burly man, who wore the gray overalls of a foundry worker, pushed back his chair and stood up, blocking their way. Griff tensed, his fingers itching to reach for his knife. But a fight here was not what he was after. “Let us pass,” he said evenly.

  The worker glared at Griff from under one bushy eyebrow. “Stinkin’ Watchers stinkin’ up the place,” he slurred. Griff stepped to the side to go around him, and the man followed. “Scum,” he repeated, and loomed with rather convincing menace.

  His breath, Griff noted, did not smell of alcohol; he was not as drunk as he was pretending. “The Hammer, Quirk, if you’ve got it handy?” Griff suggested.

  “Better not, junior,” Quirk answered.

  But Griff was determined not to let the young woman with the sword get away, or at least to get a better look at her, or trail her to wherever she was going. As the worker made a fist and took a ponderous swing at him, Griff ducked it, elbowed the man in the gut, and made for the exit. He was almost at the door when the man roared and made a grab for him, catching his arm and starting to drag him back into the tavern.

  Quirk shrugged, drawing his truncheon from his belt. “Off you go then.” He stepped up and kicked the big man in the shin, following it with a punch to the groin. The man howled and let Griff go.

  With a nod of thanks, Griff squeezed past the doubled-over man and made it to the tavern’s back door. Quirk enjoyed knocking heads together; despite his small size, he’d have no trouble handling the tavern.

  The door opened onto a dark alley choked with old beer barrels, broken bottles, and trash. The air was heavy with the stink of a privy. The woman was gone. Griff paused, listening, and caught the faint sound of receding footsteps. Silently he followed, avoiding a pothole full of muddy water, staying to the darkest shadows. Picking up speed, he trailed the footsteps around more corners and down a winding, deserted street that led to the river, and over one of the bridges that had, many years ago, been airy and beautiful and was now stained with soot and missing its elegant stone filigree. As the woman he was following passed a lighted window, Griff got a better look at her; she was wearing a hooded sweater under her coat and finer boots than a patron of that tavern could afford. That alone was suspicious.

  As if sensing a presence behind her, the woman paused and cocked her head, listening. Griff froze. More slowly, the woman went on; after a moment, Griff followed, all his senses alert. Abruptly she went around a corner. Quickening his steps, Griff made the same turn, finding himself in an ill-lit, narrow alley blocked at its other end with a rusted iron gate. A trap. Before he could reach for his sheathed knife, the woman was on him, slamming him into a brick wall. Instinctively, Griff ducked and heard the hiss of her sword passing through the air over his head and clanging into the wall. Lowering his shoulder, he plowed into the woman, sending them both staggering across the alley until they crashed into the opposite wall. As Griff recovered his footing on the slippery cobblestones, he drew his knife.

  “Bouchet,” the young woman shouted, her voice urgent. “Here!”

  Griff whirled as the burly man entered the alley; he saw the glint of a knife being drawn. Sensing movement behind him, he twisted aside and felt a line of fire along his ribs, the woman’s sword. Without hesitating, ignoring the pain of the cut, he reversed his grip on his own knife and struck, feeling a solid thunk as the hilt connected with her jaw; she grunted and staggered back. Griff faced the man, flipping his knife back to block the man’s sword thrust; he flowed into his next move, a blow aimed at the man’s head. With surprising speed, the big man ducked and turned, and had Griff cornered, his back to the rusty gate.

  Panting, they faced each other. The big man’s face was in shadow; his shoulders were so wide he almost filled the alley.

  “He got a good look at me,” the young woman said in a muffled voice.

  “Right,” the big man said. “I’ll do him, then.”

  Griff tensed. He’d been holding back, assessing the fighting ability of his opponents, but if they were willing to kill, he would be ready for them.

  From the street came the sound of running feet, then Quirk’s hoarse voice. “Hammer, this way! Come on, Anvil!” He appeared at the mouth of the alley, a short, dark shadow.

  At the same moment, the woman lunged past the big man, striking at Griff with her sword. Griff blocked it easily.

  “Here now,” Quirk panted as he started toward them. “Asking for trouble, killing a Watcher.”

  The big man turned, staring down at Quirk. A subtle signal seemed to pass between them, and the man gave a huff of annoyance. “Right.” Grabbing the young woman’s arm, he dragged her past Quirk and out of the alley, and they raced away down the street, their footsteps echoing from the dark buildings.

  Griff gripped his knife. “We should go after them.”

  “No,” Quirk ordered, and reached up to put a restraining hand on Griff’s arm. “We were only supposed to observe, remember? Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

  “Maybe,” Griff answered. Carefully he resheathed his knife, wincing as the movement pulled at the cut across his ribs.

  “Hm.” Quirk eyed him. “You all right, junior?”

  “Fine.” Griff could feel blood seeping into his uniform. Not much blood, though; it wasn’t serious. “The shorter one, the woman, had a sword.”

  “I suppose we’d better report it,” Quirk said morosely. He knew the implications of the sword. Weapons—except for Watchers’ knives—were illegal in the City; a sword would be very difficult to obtain, and the woman had clearly known how to use it.

  Griff gave a grim nod, and they started up the dark street that led toward the citadel. Hearing Quirk’s resigned sigh, he added, “I’ll take care of it, if you like.”

  “Good lad,” Quirk said, relieved. They walked in silence through the darkened streets of the City until the wall of the citadel loomed up before them. Long ago, it had been a castle with four graceful spires and a central tower. Since then the spires had been lopped off, leaving a squat, ugly stone building that served as the City’s center of government, and the headquarters of its Watchers.

  Going through the g
ate, they nodded to the Watchers on guard. “I’ll save you some dinner,” Quirk said as he headed for the barracks.

  Without answering, Griff crossed a courtyard and went into a side door of the citadel, then up a narrow, poorly lit stairway to a stone-paved hall that ended in a double door. Two Watchers, the Lord Protector’s personal guard, were leaning against the wall beside the door; at Griff’s approach, one nudged the other and they straightened. On the left was a sly, harsh-faced, black-haired woman named Taira; the other was a smoothly good-looking man named Luth. They were both tall and well muscled.

  Luth folded his arms and leaned against the door, blocking it. “Oh, look who it is,” he sneered.

  “Hello there, pretty boy,” Taira said, pressing close to Griff.

  There was no point in engaging with them; Griff tried to lean past Luth to knock at the door, but the bigger man grabbed his arm. “Oh, look. The junior’s been in a scuffle.”

  “Ooh.” Taira poked at Griff’s side, right over the sword cut, then inspected her finger. “Blood, even!”

  “You know,” Luth drawled. “I’ve been thinking.” He leaned closer; Taira gripped his arm, and Griff held himself still. “I’ve been thinking,” he repeated, “about requesting your transfer into my cohort.” His cold eyes raked over Griff. “We would have so much to teach you, don’t you agree, Taira?”

  She smiled nastily. “Oh, I do.”

  “I am sure,” Luth went on, “that the Lord Protector could be brought to see the merit in such an assignment.”

  He probably could. Griff gritted his teeth against a cold surge of fear. In addition to guarding the Lord Protector, Luth’s cohort served as the wardens of the prison cells on the lowest underground level of the citadel. Prisoners tended to disappear into those cells and were never seen again; the Watchers who guarded them were a secretive group with a reputation for viciousness. The Lord Protector seemed to think Luth’s cohort was necessary; Griff just tried to avoid them.

  “What do you think, junior?” Luth asked. “Afraid to get your hands bloody?”

  Griff jerked his arm out of Taira’s grip and managed to knock on the door.

  “Come,” answered a deep voice from within.

  Luth gave him a venomous look and stepped aside.

  Steeling himself, Griff entered.

  The Lord Protector was sitting at his desk, reading some papers; at Griff’s entrance he didn’t look up. He was an angular man with hooded eyes and a fringe of gray beard along his jawline; he was dressed in a gray uniform similar to the one that Griff wore, with no indication of his rank. With bony, ink-stained fingers he turned over a page and continued reading; after a few minutes, he picked up a pen, dipped it in an inkpot, and started writing.

  Griff stood quietly, waiting. The tension from his confrontation with Luth and Taira ebbed. His stomach growled, not loud enough, he hoped, for the man at the desk to hear it. Much longer, and he’d miss dinner entirely. The sword cut along his ribs stung; the blood had congealed, and the cloth of his uniform was stuck to it, pulling with every breath he took.

  The room was bare of all ornamentation, the desk a plain square, the walls plain stone, no rug on the floor. Despite the growing chill of the night, the hearth was empty, swept clean of ash.

  At last the Lord Protector set down his pen, picked up a handkerchief, and began to methodically wipe his fingers. He glanced up. “Report.”

  Griff outlined what had happened at the tavern, and the chase that had ensued, including every detail. As he spoke, the Lord Protector finished cleaning his fingers, then sat listening, his hands folded neatly on the desk before him.

  “Analysis,” he ordered. “They were Breakers? Spreading their seditious stories?”

  Griff considered the sullen silence that had fallen when he and Quirk had entered the tavern, the sense that its patrons had been leaning toward one part of the room, their ears open, listening. The young woman with the sword—she would have been the one speaking. But he hadn’t heard anything specific, no betraying words. “I suspect they were Breakers,” he said slowly.

  The Lord Protector frowned. “Your response lacks precision. I expect clearer reports. I require evidence. Continue.”

  “They’re getting better organized,” Griff offered. “Now that we’ve identified their meeting place, they’ll change it.” He paused to consider his next words. “I’m certain that the young woman was from outside the City.”

  “You know how unlikely that is.”

  “Yes,” Griff said.

  “Hm,” muttered the Lord Protector. “Go on.”

  “The man she called Bouchet was dressed as a worker.” Griff gave a slight shake of his head. “But I don’t think he was. He was well trained, a kind of bodyguard.”

  “Two of them in the alley. Could you have taken them?”

  Griff knew he could not lie. “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you?” The Lord Protector’s voice was cold.

  “I thought—” Griff started.

  “You thought?” came the knife-sharp interruption.

  “Our orders were to observe,” Griff said carefully.

  “Mm. And yet you chose to pursue them.” The Lord Protector leaned back in his chair and studied Griff during a long silence.

  Under that assessing stare, Griff had to control his every breath, his every twitch. The room grew colder, and he tried not to shiver. He kept his mouth shut, too. To attempt to excuse what he’d done would be to invite more criticism. Or make it more likely for Luth to advocate for his transfer into a new cohort.

  At last the Lord Protector spoke again. His voice betrayed no concern. “You were injured in the fight.”

  Griff glanced down at the front of his uniform. The gray wool of the tunic was slashed, and blood had soaked into it. More blood than he’d realized before.

  “You should have had that stitched up and bandaged before you reported,” the Lord Protector said.

  Griff didn’t answer. He knew that if he’d visited the infirmary in the barracks first, he would have been chided for not reporting immediately.

  The Lord Protector picked up a pen. “A rational report, on the whole,” he pronounced, and added a platitude. “Right thinking will prevail over Story.” He glanced down at his papers again. “Dismissed.”

  Stiffly, Griff turned and left the room. After evading Taira and Luth, he made his way to the Watchers’ barracks, where Quirk was waiting for him in a nearly deserted, nearly dark dining room. Its stone floors had been swept and lights put out, but Quirk was sitting at the end of a bench at one of the long tables, his short legs dangling. As Griff sat down, Quirk pushed a half-full bowl across the table to him. “All right?” he asked.

  Griff hesitated, considering whether to tell Quirk about Luth’s threat. No point, really. “All right,” he confirmed, and sniffed at the bowl. Fish soup. He picked up the spoon and took a bite. Cold, and made from lentils, moldy potatoes, and the bottom-feeders from the river that were more mud than fish.

  “Let me guess,” Quirk said, handing him half a piece of stale bread. “The Lord Protector saw that you’d been injured and asked if you were well.”

  Griff dipped the bread into the soup and took a bite. “You know he didn’t.”

  Quirk shook his head, as if disgusted.

  The Lord Protector, Griff knew very well, was a true believer in his mission to keep them free of Story, which once fifty years ago, and again more recently, had come so close to destroying the City and all who lived in it. He was incorruptible and absolutely committed to his purpose. “He’s a rational man,” Griff tried to explain.

  “And a hard one,” Quirk shot back.

  Yes. His father was a hard man. Griff had known that for a very long time.

  CHAPTER

  3

  WHEN I CAME OUT OF SHOE’S ROOM, THE HEALER, MERRY, was sitting in the rocking chair. A fresh fire was burning in the hearth, and a bucket of goat milk was sitting on the table next to her wooden box.

/>   “He’s gone?” Merry asked.

  Wordless, I nodded.

  “Hmm.” Her face set in a frown, Merry looked me up and down again. What did she see? I knew, vaguely, that I had wavy blond hair and blue eyes that were swollen from all of my tears, but I’d never seen an image of myself in a mirror. Whatever she saw, she didn’t approve. “I suppose you can’t help it,” she muttered.

  “Help what?” I asked. My voice was hoarse from crying.

  She shrugged and waved a hand as she got out of the rocking chair. “Well, I’d better be off home,” she said. “I’ll send some men with shovels from the village to take care of that for you.” She pointed with her chin at Shoe’s door.

  Burying, she meant. At the thought Shoe’s body being put into the ground, my well of tears overflowed again.

  “He said . . . ,” I sobbed. “Shoe s-said I shouldn’t stay here, now that the boundary is broken.” He’d said something about a spindle, too. A warning? I wasn’t sure what a spindle was, or what exactly I should be afraid of.

  “Tcha,” Merry tutted with annoyance. “You’ll have to come with me then.” She wrapped the shawl about herself. “Go pack up your things. I’ll have the men bring the goats and the hens back with them. And they’ll deal with that body we passed on the way up here, too.”

  I could only nod, and cry. I cried while folding my other dress, and choosing my three favorite books, and the three pairs of shoes that Shoe had made for me, and packing them all into the leather knapsack that Shoe had used to carry supplies back from the village.

  Still crying, I stumbled after Merry all the way through our valley, and past the dead man, and, at last, onto the dirt road that led through the village. There, she stopped and gave me her shawl to put over my head. “We’ll keep you hidden for as long as we can,” she muttered, as she pulled a corner of the shawl lower to shadow my tear-stained face. “Come along,” she added crossly.

  When we arrived at her cottage, she brewed some tea that made my eyes heavy with sleep. “You can lie down there, for now,” she said, pointing to a low bed behind a curtain in the corner of the cottage’s one room. “It’s my bed, so don’t expect to take it for your own.”