Lady of Mercy

by Michelle Sagara

  Renar stepped in, and Erin followed him. The door was firmly and quietly shut behind them.

  “Renar,” the man said, bowing. No surprise at all was expressed; no disbelief, no jubilation. Like his apartment, the man’s face was carefully empty.

  “Lianar.” Renar held out a hand.

  The older hand gripped the younger hand firmly, and then fell away. “You look well.”

  “You look terrible.”

  Lianar smiled for the first time. “Still a Cosgrove, eh?”

  “If you’re still serving them.”

  “Yes,” Lianar said softly. He waved toward two chairs. Renar shook his head.

  “We haven’t the time to stay.”

  “Ah. Message, then?”

  Renar nodded.

  “And?”

  “I wish an audience with Lord Cosgrove. If he is willing, it must take place within a three-day.”

  Lianar nodded. He gestured, his fingers brushing his chin.

  Renar smiled wearily. “Of course. Erin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come. We’ve more to see in this quarter yet.”

  She looked back at Lianar, who hardly seemed to have moved at all. Then, shaking her head, she followed Renar out into the corridor.

  “Who was he?” she asked, her voice pitched low.

  “Was? He is Lianar; he serves the Cosgrove merchants in this quarter.”

  “And Lord Cosgrove?”

  Renar was silent a moment before answering.

  “My grandfather.”

  She swallowed. “Was this wise, then?”

  “Wise?” He started to speak, and then shook his head; he knew well what her concerns were—in her position, he, too, would have been worried. As he was. “No. But my grandfather will not betray me without first offering me a chance to speak.”

  “He’s a Lord of Illan, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” He lifted his hand stiffly, palm angled toward her lips. She fell silent.

  The list that Tiras had penned saw the light briefly before Renar returned it to the inner pocket of his jacket. His breath, a heavy sigh, frosted the air around his face. His eyes were lost in that mist for a moment.

  Erin touched his shoulder. She’d done it often enough in the last few days that she’d made a place for herself there. The prince did not pull away.

  “A horse,” she mouthed. “Pulling a carriage.” She nodded toward the alley.

  Renar only smiled. “I’d give much for your hearing, Lady.” He looked up at the sun; it was still high enough. “Come.” He walked forward into the street.

  Erin shook her head and followed, her eyes sweeping the empty street. There was too much that she didn’t understand about being in this city—about being, truly, in any city. Her hand brushed her sword hilt as she waited; the sound of the horse drew nearer.

  From around the farthest corner her eye could see, she caught sight of it. It was dark, but flashes of white touched its chest and forelegs. Air left a cloud past its nostrils as it pulled against a wooden carriage. The carriage was not a fine one, and seeing this, she relaxed.

  Renar raised his arm.

  “What are you doing?” Erin asked.

  “Hailing a cab,” he replied, his voice wry. “Haven’t you seen it done before?”

  His arm went up and down in a fluid motion.

  Erin shrank inward as the cab rolled, slowly, to a stop.

  The man behind the reins looked down at them, his eyes the only thing visible between the layers of wool that covered his face. They widened.

  “Where’re you going?” he said loudly.

  “We’re staying in the lower quarter.” Renar walked to the carriage door.

  “Lower quarter’s a big place,” the man replied. “And I’m almost off-duty as it is.”

  “Really?” The door swung open. “Well, then, we shall be careful not to take you too far out of your way. Lady?” He held out a hand.

  Erin looked dubiously at the inside of the carriage and then at the driver’s seat. The latter looked far more comfortable.

  “Lady?” Renar said again.

  She sighed and clambered up through the open door, thinking that a new word had to be invented for something so small and awkward. She settled against the wooden bench that creaked beneath her weight and wondered how on earth two people were meant to ride in the cabin. Not comfortably, that was certain.

  Renar joined her, lurching into a wall as the cab began to move. He grimaced and began to straighten out the crumpled folds of his jacket while his elbows jogged against the wood.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the yards, I think.”

  “Yards?”

  “Never mind. I can’t hear you over these wheels, but you’ll find out soon enough.” He grimaced. “If we survive the ride. Borins never used to be this horrible a driver.”

  What am I doing here? Erin thought, when the bumps didn’t provide enough of a distraction. I should have trusted that Renar would avoid trouble. He doesn’t need me.

  She glanced around at the buildings that raced past. It wasn’t like being in the forest, and it wasn’t like being in Rennath. If Rennath had been shadows, those shadows still had the feel of life about them.

  At least they had when Stefanos rode at her side.

  She bit her lip, and her teeth pierced it as the carriage ran over something. She didn’t want to think of him. Not here, not now. The decision had already been made. But it was impossible not to; his face hovered at the corner of her eyes, wearing the human profile that he had almost always chosen.

  She stared blindly out of the window again, refusing to turn at the memory. She was unsure whether she refused because she didn’t want to face it, or because she didn’t want to know he wasn’t there.

  The cab rolled to a stop. Erin shook her head, cleared her eyes, and tried to smile at Renar.

  He looked at her oddly before touching the handle of the door. He waited until she shook her head before shaking his own and leaving.

  The smell of the yards was enough of a distraction. The smell, and the three armed men that waited beside a large, wooden building. They didn’t look friendly, and they didn’t look clean, but they obviously had enough money to arm and armor themselves reasonably well.

  Erin reached for her own sword and Renar caught her hand. She looked down at his fingers and he immediately removed them. They stood a moment, staring at each other.

  “Not here,” Renar said at last.

  She nodded uneasily. She tried a smile and was surprised to find that it held.

  “Do you know them?”

  “Them? Not likely.” He pulled his shoulders back until he looked every bit the proud peacock. “Does it matter?”

  Her smile widened. “If I’d half your ability—”

  “You’d have rather a lot more bruises or scars.” But his own cheeks dimpled. “Do let me handle these ruffians, lady.” With a flourish of movement that could almost be called a bow, he turned, hat in hand.

  Erin thought his head must be getting rather cold. She followed, looking as demure as possible, until she bumped into his back. Then she wondered, as she blushed, how anyone could possibly walk with their face constantly turned toward the ground.

  “Good day to you all, my good men.”

  The guard in the lead crossed his arms. “What’s your business?” he asked, his voice soured by boredom and chill.

  “Business?” Renar asked. “Ah. I see you are men with strong dedication to duty, so I shall force myself to dispense with idle pleasantries.”

  “Good.”

  “Really, my dear man, don’t you think that you might at least struggle with a friendly smile? My companion and I have come all the way down to the yards, at considerable discomfort and inconvenience to ourselves, and I believe we are owed at least that. It’s common decency.”

  The guard snorted and took a step forward, one large hand outstretched.

  Renar’s surprised little hop di
d nothing to rescue the collar of his jacket. He managed a rather good imitation of a fish out of water as the guard yanked him almost off his feet.

  Erin’s eyes went to the other two guards. They were watching their leader and Renar with a trace of amused contempt, but their stance had relaxed.

  “Easy with him,” the cab driver said, appearing from behind the heaving flanks of his horses. It was as much of an interruption as he cared to make, however, as he began to lead his horses to the large building that served as their stall.

  “Be careful with that!” Renar shouted. “Good heavens, do you realize how much a jacket of this style is worth?” He took a breath, stopped, and then added, “Well, no, I don’t suppose you would.”

  “No, he probably wouldn’t.”

  Erin’s head jerked to the side, and she felt a mix of embarrassment and respect for Renar. Even she had been taken with his spectacle, so much so that she had forgotten to keep her tentative watch.

  A man had stepped out of the building. It was obvious that the noise that Renar had made had attracted his attention; he wasn’t dressed for the cold. A light jacket, unbuttoned, had been thrown on over a large sweat-stained tunic that was so thick it looked almost like burlap.

  He was a thin man, almost wiry, which made the effect of the clothing even more unfortunate. Nor was he young, although the graying line of his hair had not receded. The line of his brows were drawn tightly together.

  “Duram?”

  The guard closest to the door shrugged. “Just came down with Borins.”

  “Stretch?”

  “Wouldn’t answer my questions.”

  “I was attempting to answer this rather rude man’s question,” Renar said. His cheeks were quite red, and his eyes were almost circular. “He didn’t give me even the chance to do so before beginning his assault.”

  The third guard snorted. “‘Assault,’ is it?” The quick shake of his head made his opinion of that quite clear.

  “I see. Well, best release him, then.”

  “Release him?”

  “That’s what I said. Problem with some of the words?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Renar’s little yell came a moment before he hit the ground.

  It didn’t impress the thin man who appeared to be in charge. “Well, don’t just sit there yowling. Get up. Get in. It’s a damn sight colder out here than it is inside.”

  “But my jacket!”

  Erin shook her head and slid her hands under Renar’s armpits. With a little heave, she pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” she said. “You heard the man.”

  Renar continued to mutter to himself, throwing a disdainful glance at each of the guards as Erin guided him in through the doors. Only when they closed did he stop, but his face was still red with annoyance.

  The man brushed sturdy hands through the short length of his hair. “Bright Heart, Renar. Don’t you ever stop?” The lines of a perpetual scowl gave way reluctantly, but his smile was weary and shadowed.

  “Every now and then. But I forget myself. Erin, this is Morgan, the owner of this illustrious pit. Morgan, this is Erin.”

  “ ‘Pit’?” The smile deepened.

  “Yard. Whatever you call it.”

  Morgan’s hand was already out. Erin took it firmly, shook it, and let it drop; the yard owner was obviously not paying any attention to her.

  Morgan’s hand then spun around and slapped Renar lightly on the shoulder. “What are you doing back?” It was a simple question, but unease colored the words and weighted them with suspicion.

  “Freezing.”

  Morgan laughed. “Right. My study.”

  “How can you have a study in a place like this?”

  “Nobody bothers me here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Almost nobody.” The tread of his steps in the empty building came more quickly. “I take it you met no guards?”

  “No one followed us, no. Not the way Borins drives.” Renar walked into the door that Morgan held open. “No one looks for us here; not yet. I believe word will come soon, so time is of the essence.”

  “And in your case that means what can be said by a normal man in a minute will only take twenty instead of an hour.”

  “Very droll.”

  Morgan’s chair scraped across the floor as he pulled it free of the sparse and simple desk and sat lightly on its edge. Erin wondered that he sat at all; he seemed to rest an inch or two above the seat at any time. His face, taut with tension, was the only part of him that remained still. “What have you come for?”

  “I—we—need your help.” Renar looked around for another chair, frowned when it became clear that there wasn’t one, and continued to speak. “There isn’t a driver in the city that knows it as well as you do.”

  “Not any more.”

  Renar’s lips turned down a fraction of a second. He nodded, almost grim.

  “We stay out of the way.” It was as much an explanation as Morgan could give. “The merchants that’ll come this far north have a use for us, so we’ve been left pretty much on our own.” He shrugged as heavily as Renar had frowned. “Taxes are higher.”

  For a moment he looked like the building he owned; worn with use and care, empty except for a flicker of lamplight and a sheaf of accounts on a weathered desk. “I do as I’m able. I’ve sent money down Kaarel’s way, and I’ve sent the odd message, the odd warning.”

  Renar’s body trembled slightly. “You’ve seen Kaarel, then?”

  “Not myself, not much. Too risky.” He seemed to shrink further. “Too risky, after the riots. After the fires.” He glanced over his shoulder, although the room’s solitary window was boarded up. “It’s good to see you, Renar, but I’ll be honest. Can’t help you much.

  “You seen the city? They burned the Tin Canteen to the ground; they took out the Wayward Son.”

  Renar nodded.

  “Cospatric’s about, in the lower city. Wily man, but bitter now; it took a lot of years to build up the wreck of the Tin Canteen. Merilee—Merilee died in the fires. Her and her son.” He seemed lost for a moment in the words and the images they conjured, too private, and too near. Then he raised his head. “What can I do for you?”

  It was as much a plea as he could make. And at any other time, Renar would have heeded it; he understood it very well.

  “Maybe die.” Stark words. Erin glanced at Renar to be sure that it was his lips that had passed them. “Maybe not. But you know the city, and we’ll have need of your knowledge.”

  “For what?”

  Renar smiled. “One way or the other, I’m here to stay. Upon the throne, or beneath the ground, I’ve returned to Dagothrin. To Marantine.

  “I would, of course, prefer to be on the throne. But there are a few things that stand in the way.” He paused to allow Morgan to comment, and then kicked himself mentally; Morgan would speak only after he’d heard what Renar had to offer. That was his way. “We’ve got to bring men through the south city gates.” He lifted his hand as Morgan’s brows approached the line of his hair. “Don’t ask how; that isn’t your problem. But assume that we manage it. We still have to get them to the palace, as quickly as possible.” He turned and began to pace the length of the shadowed room. “We have to get them there before warning can be sounded.”

  “Horsed?”

  “Some. Not many.”

  “How many?”

  Renar’s lips pressed together in a tight line. He did not answer.

  Morgan nodded stiffly in approval and walked over to a cabinet against the north wall. Like the room, it was old and dark; Erin wondered if anything other than cobwebs would be found within. But the cab owner was familiar with what little he retained; his hands pulled out a large rolled map.

  With care he began to unfurl it. “South gates?”

  Renar took a breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head. “North.”

  “Ah. Harder than the south.”

  “Not as carefully patrolled.” There was more to it, of course,
but Morgan was not a stupid man; he didn’t demand a better explanation.

  “Right.” Black lines with fine, faded writing covered the desk. It was like Tiras’ map, but infinitely more detailed. Morgan’s finger began to move from the north gate to the city’s heart: the palace. “Best route here. But here”—his hand paused—“you’ve got a plethora of city guards. They never stop the patrols. And some of them have brains about ’em—most likely they’d arrow for the palace.”

  Renar nodded, leaning over the map until his shadow touched its farthest end. He reached out and caught Morgan’s hand.

  “Cospatric, you said?”

  “Aye.”

  “Morgan.”

  The old man shook his head almost fiercely. “You ask a lot, Renar. I took a risk when I got you out of the city—but that was years ago. Things change.” The map seemed to suddenly devour his entire attention; his eyes flickered over its surface. His breath was so shallow it was almost nonexistent.

  Renar waited. It was all that was left him to do.

  “You had to come back, didn’t you?” Morgan said softly. He didn’t look up. “You couldn’t stay away and cause trouble at a distance—you had to come here.

  “My wife’s still alive. My boy’s a free man, looking to take over this business. I’ve got grandchildren.” He lowered his head. “We’ve had to be so careful. I can’t ask them to throw that away for a fool’s game.”

  Renar nodded stiffly. “No. We’d best head out, then. But, Morgan—don’t tell them unless they ask?”

  Morgan swallowed. Nodded. “That much, I can do.”

  Renar walked out of the room, Erin close at hand.

  “Hey, Renar?”

  “Yes?” He turned a little too quickly; hope caught in his throat.

  “Here.” Morgan held out a thick roll of vellum—the map that had been his pride and joy. “It’s got your routing information. You should be able to follow it. Dotted lines are the heavily patrolled routes.” In the poor light, Morgan’s eyes were shining just a little too brightly. He looked away as Renar reached for the map.

  “Morgan, I—”

  “It’s not free. You’ll have to do me a favor or two in return—and when you’re finished, that map comes back. Understood?”