Such privilege manifested itself in many ways, including the size of their estates and manses. Since the Greater Council estates were along the outer edge of the Avenue, they were, by necessity, much larger than their Lesser Council counterparts, which were all crammed together inside the Avenue’s loop with the parks. This was often justified by the fact that many among the Greater Council had also served among the Lesser Council in their younger days, and their rewards should match the effort spent. No mention was made of any particular achievements from said time, of course. Such was too much to ask.
The rain finally let up and breaks in the clouds began to reveal hints of sunlight as Yarid and Tirfaun neared the Nangrove estate. A handful of wealthy children played sailball in a park along the way, surrounded by pike-wielding soldiers with round shields on their backs, pretending to be surreptitious in their guardianship but fooling no one. Tirfaun had lingered to watch a moment, a gleam in his eye. Yarid had gripped his arm tightly, practically dragging him from the spot. The soldiers would be little problem for a Patterner of Tirfaun’s skills, but Yarid didn’t want him to get distracted. Much as Yarid complained about moralists, even he had his limits. Children were certainly beyond those limits. Sometimes he feared to think what Tirfaun did when Yarid wasn’t there to shepherd him.
“This way,” said Tirfaun, jabbing his thumb in the direction of a narrow pathway winding through a garden near the estate.
“You’re sure?” Yarid hadn’t heard of any breaches in the wall surrounding the estate.
Tirfaun gave him a look.
Yarid raised his hands. “Sorry I asked.” He waved him on. “Please, lead the way.”
They passed only a pair of gardeners along the brick pathways winding between the shaped hedges and ivy-wrapped statues of nude instrumentalists, trapped in various poses of performance. As bare of flowers as the gardens were, it was understandable why there were few people around to appreciate them. The rain likely hadn’t helped encourage visitors, either.
After a few twists, side paths, and obscured entryways, Tirfaun led him into a narrow, teardrop-shaped dead end, completely surrounded by thick hedges that were twice as tall as the two of them. Yarid looked around, but there wasn’t much to look at. “Is this where you take your dates?”
Tirfaun flashed him an amused glance before crouching down in the center of the dead end, his fingers brushing the bricks. “Perhaps.” Yarid remembered the park nearby and suppressed a shudder. He decided he’d rather think about the task at hand and stood behind Tirfaun, watching him.
Yarid could tell that the bricks had been shifted from their original placement. Clean red surfaces were exposed in places, a contrast to the dull brown parts that had been exposed to years of weather. And though in other parts of the walkway the bricks fit together tightly, here they were loose, bits of damp earth exposed here and there. Judging by the familiarity with which Tirfaun began his strange little ritual, this place had been prepared for a Patterning.
Yarid saw what Tirfaun was doing, even if he couldn’t make sense of it: each flick of his finger shifted bits of dirt around, sometimes drawing a light line of mud along the bricks’ surface, sometimes doing nothing but rolling a tiny clod over. Tirfaun did all this wordlessly, eyes focused intently on his strange task, jaw tightly clenched. Yarid had seen him Pattern before, and sometimes it was an extravagant affair, heavy lines scraped into the earth with a specially designed metal rod. Other times, like this, it was subtle. Yarid suspected that this was the purer of the two. Purposeful Patterning, devoid of any showmanship.
The shift was as subtle as the Patterning. Dead ahead of them, leaves in the hedges almost seemed to grow away from each other, forming a part in the hedge like curtains being drawn by invisible hands. By the time Tirfaun looked up from his task, a hole had formed at about eye-height, exposing a gray stone wall.
It was a few moments before Yarid realized he was gaping. He shut his mouth. “Is that the Nangrove estate wall?”
Tirfaun nodded, looking as spent as if he had run a mile. “Three of the stones are loose. Mind pulling them out?”
“Not at all.” It took a few prods to find the loosened stones, but once Yarid had pulled them out and set them aside, he had a clear view beyond the wall. Yarid clucked his tongue and shook his head. “I take back everything bad I’ve ever said about you.”
Tirfaun joined him at the hole, hands on his hips. “Everything?”
“Well, all the things you’ve heard at least.” Yarid leaned forward a bit to peer through the hole, but not too far. The hole was nearly as big as his face and he didn’t want to expose himself. It wouldn’t do to have a pair of faces sticking out of walls this early in the game. Someone might raise an alarm and spoil their fun.
Luckily, there weren’t too many people around this part of the Nangrove estate. They didn’t have much of a view, however. He could barely see the tops of two windows. The stables stood directly between their hole and the manse. Apple trees flanked the stables, blocking much of the rest of the estate.
“Couldn’t you have picked a better spot?” Yarid asked without looking at him.
“No,” said Tirfaun, amusement in his voice. “I couldn’t have.”
Bemused, Yarid glanced at him then. Tirfaun was twirling a leaf between his fingers, smiling as he stared fixedly at the stables. Tirfaun spoke. “They’ll come any minute now. Watch for them. They vary their meeting times. I bet they think they’re so clever, that no one would ever figure it out.” Tirfaun shook his head. “Didn’t even require any Patterning to find that pattern. Pathetic, really.”
Yarid didn’t know who they were, but Tirfaun’s cryptic words made the stable a lot more interesting. If something were to happen in there, Tirfaun was right: he couldn’t have picked a better vantage point. The door to the hayloft was open, the winch-operated platform that lowered the hay to the ground swinging gently in the light breeze. It was highly doubtful that anyone in the city would see what happened in that hayloft—unless, of course, they happened to be peering through a hole in the perimeter wall.
Which was quite a bit more visible from the stables. “Uh, Tirfaun.”
“Mm?”
“If someone did come to the stables, would they see us?”
“Most likely.”
“Can you do something about that?”
“Perhaps.” Tirfaun made no move, however.
“Will you then? Please?”
Tirfaun released a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I’ve never been one to neglect the needy.” He crouched down and began drawing a new design on the bricks, using the leaf he had been twirling as a pen and the dirt as the ink. “I disguised your horrid face already; I can do it again. It’s not much different from that.” He paused, looking reflective. “I guess I’ve given the world two reasons to thank me today.”
“How remarkably charitable of you, though my face was already obscured. Now, you’re just disguising the disguise.”
“Ah, thank you. I was almost worried I was on my way to redemption.”
“No need to worry. We’re here, aren’t we?” Yarid said with a sweep of his arm, indicating both their hiding spot and the Nangrove estate.
Tirfaun grinned wryly as he finished. Once he was done, he stood slowly. There was an audible popping sound in his knees. He grimaced. “Well?”
Yarid looked through the hole again. Rather than merely being open space, there was now a foggy sheen between them and the view beyond. “Not bad, though not your best work either.”
Tirfaun grunted as he took his place at Yarid’s side again. “It’ll have to do.”
They waited, but not for long. A handful of servants in Nangrove’s orange and blue began to spread out near the stable, peeking under bushes. Some disappeared into the stable. Looking for spies, Yarid realized. It was a little paranoid, but then the paranoia was justified, wasn’t it? He grinned. It just isn’t enough in this case.
No one even looked at the wall from where Yarid and T
irfaun watched. Once satisfied there were no lurkers, the servants left, including those in the stable. Yarid counted to make sure. As he did, he noticed the servants were all younger. He had seen Councilor Nangrove’s closest servants before and recognized none of them among those that were here. Interesting, he thought, shifting his feet to get more comfortable.
A few moments later a young woman appeared and Yarid rocked back on his heels. Jilliana, daughter to Councilor Nangrove and wife to Councilor Jacobs. Why was she here, at the stables? And why had she searched her own mother’s estate as if it were enemy territory? She wore a form-hugging green dress trimmed with white lace at the ends of her long sleeves. Red curls were bunched over one shoulder, tied together with a turquoise-beaded leather strap. She glanced around nervously, dry-washing her hands. It appeared that she wasn’t as convinced of her solitude as her servants were. Yarid’s breath caught as her gaze fell over them. She frowned as she studied the hole where Yarid’s and Tirfaun’s faces were. Yarid soundlessly reached over and gripped Tirfaun’s sleeve tightly but made no other move.
A noise he couldn’t hear made her spin suddenly toward the stable. A young man stood at the edge of the hayloft, looking down at her. His chest was heaving as if he had been throwing bales of hay around, and likely he had been. His white shirt, opened nearly to his naval, clung to his chest with sweat. His blond hair was damp, too, slicked back from his forehead. His skin was darkened, as if it had sought the sun at every opportunity, in contrast to Jilliana’s pale complexion. They watched each other for several long moments but said nothing. Then the stable hand vanished back into the hayloft. Jilliana glanced over her shoulder, her gaze falling upon their hiding spot once more, but she strode toward the door on the first floor, tension in her posture.
Did the stable hand have some sort of hold over her, some information about her alleged indiscretions? Or was he the source of such allegations? Yarid felt sweat dampen his palms.
“He chokes her,” Tirfaun said at his side, voice low though they were too far to be heard anyway. “She likes to be choked. A little anyway.”
She didn’t immediately close the door when she went inside. Instead, she first lit a glass lamp and hung it from one of the support posts, casting shadows throughout the room. With one more cautious glance outside, Jilliana shut the door.
A moment later two shadows appeared in the hayloft, forms entwined among stacks of hay. Yarid couldn’t quite tell who was who in the darkness, but the one on the bottom moved more sensually. Probably Jilliana. They shifted positions slightly, the young man’s head seeming to disappear between her thighs. His hands pushed the dress up slowly, Jilliana arching her back. Though he couldn’t see much, Yarid suddenly wished he were alone. What would it feel like to wrap his fingers around a woman’s throat? Choke her? He found his fingers clenching at the mere fantasy of it. Maybe he could make an alliance of his own with Jilliana.
Dress removed, the stable hand’s hands found her neck. His head rested on her stomach, but Yarid couldn’t see where he was looking—into her eyes? It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the hands.
Jilliana tensed, seeming to struggle—though not with him. Rather with herself. Arms spread wide, she kneaded the hay with her fingers. She shuddered visibly.
Yarid was entranced. The implications of this were staggering. “Jacobs isn’t clever enough to set this up on his own,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “He must’ve had help from the Rafting Guild. Discredit Councilor Nangrove’s daughter, and you discredit Councilor Nangrove. And get a pretext for divorce in the process. If, of course, anyone finds out before Jilliana wises up.” Someone would likely insist on visiting the Nangrove estates unannounced. If not during this particular liaison, then during another. As Tirfaun said, the pattern of their meetings wasn’t that difficult to figure out, and likely known by the Guild. It could’ve even been arranged by them.
“Politics, politics, politics. Is that all you see in an opportunity like this?” Tirfaun crouched down again and began drawing something new with the stem of his leaf.
“No.” Yarid sounded pathetically defensive even to himself. He watched Tirfaun for a moment. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing political. You wouldn’t be interested.”
“Shores take you, tell me.”
Tirfaun paused and peered up at him. With a little smile, he held the leaf up for Yarid to take. “Fancy yourself a Patterner?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what to do.”
“Just this.” Tirfaun mimed the motion with the leaf an inch above the ground. It was simple enough, hardly more than a straight line.
Yarid hesitated. “What will this do?”
“Just what you wanted,” Tirfaun said. “It’ll break some eggs.”
Yarid stared into those shadowed eyes of his, wondering how much he could really trust this man. Well, there were many different kinds of trust, one for each situation, and there was one thing Yarid did trust Tirfaun to do. And that was make the day a little more interesting.
He took the leaf in his hand.
“Come on now.” Tirfaun swirled his hand in a hurrying gesture. “The longer you wait, the less likely it’ll work.”
Yarid took a deep breath. Held it. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he drew the line and dropped the leaf as if it were a viper.
It was done. Whatever Tirfaun had wanted him to do, he had done it. It wasn’t like he could’ve changed the outcome, whatever it might be—Tirfaun did what he wanted to do.
Besides. It wasn’t like there were any children around. Whatever happened, Yarid wouldn’t have that on his conscience.
Once he caught his breath, he spun back to the hole and watched. He half-expected the stables to be ablaze, or a sudden gust of immensely strong wind to rip the roof off and expose the lovers within for all Garoshmir to see.
But there was none of that. Jilliana and the stable hand were still in the loft, the movements becoming more urgent. Yarid thought he could make out the stable hand’s hoarse moans, but the sound was too quiet to be certain.
Then it stopped. The stable hand’s body was frozen in place, but Jilliana’s was still moving. It took Yarid a moment to understand. These were no longer the sensual motions of lust. She was struggling, her hands pulling at his, legs thrashing.
“Jilliana?” came the young man’s voice from the loft. “Jilliana!”
He stood quickly, yanking Jilliana up by the neck. He began to shake her—violently, panic-stricken groans coming from his lips. “Jilliana!” It was almost as if he didn’t know he was killing her—or he simply didn’t know how to stop.
“I can make vines grow,” Tirfaun muttered at Yarid’s side, “twist among themselves, grip things. Hold them there forever. All it takes is a little understanding of the fundamental nature of reality and a little dirt on some bricks.” He chuckled quietly. “All told, fingers aren’t so different from vines, you know.”
“You’re a monster, Tirfaun.” Yarid’s voice was flat. It wasn’t a condemnation, but an observation.
“Well, today, we are the monster.”
Yarid nodded, transfixed by the scene in the hayloft. The stable hand suddenly lurched into the daylight, stark naked, dragging the blue-faced, limp body of Jilliana behind him. She was dead already. The stable hand, still unable to let go of her neck, was frantic, almost insane-looking. He stood on the ledge, glancing side to side.
Then he stepped out into the open air.
The corner of the platform caught his face as he and Jilliana fell. The platform jolted wildly, straining the winch. The stable hand spun halfway before he and the body of his lover thumped to the ground. The right half of his face was crushed. His eye was missing. He wasn’t moving.
Still watching through the hole, Tirfaun swept his foot backward, obliterating the Pattern they had made.
The dead man’s hands finally released Jilliana’s throat just as servants ran to their bodies. Someone shri
eked.
“Put the bricks back in,” Tirfaun said. “Quickly.”
“Why?”
“Something I neglected to mention when we started. There’s a Patterner in the Nangrove manse who felt everything we did.” The amused gleam in his eye returned. “So, you might want to hurry.”
* * *
An hour later, they leaned against an alley wall deep in the Merchant District, panting heavily.
Yarid listened for footsteps. “I think we lost them,” he said.
“Good.” Tirfaun opened his grubby sack and counted his needlework scraps. “I only have two more of these.”
Soldiers had been posted at the garden’s entrance—nearly two dozen of them. It had taken drawing half of them into the garden and a few improvised Patterns along the way to escape them. Yarid had brought them into the Merchant District with the other soldiers quick on their heels. He knew their trail would go cold here if they continued to search.
“I can’t believe you did that, Tirfaun.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.”
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
They rested there, catching their breath, and then they began to laugh.
The second afternoon bell tolled.
“Ah.” Yarid pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward the alley entrance. “Time for me to go to work. I have the remains of the civilized world to run.”
Tirfaun waved half-heartedly. “Don’t work too hard now.”
Chapter 26: The Killing Tool
Rannald Firnaleos gripped the wooden practice sword in one hand and a small buckler in the other, chest heaving as his three opponents circled him. Though sweat covered his bare chest and soaked his curly hair, he was grinning. Two bruises purpled his torso. That was more than they usually got on him. Even if Rannald had only held wooden swords in the years since becoming captain of the Sentinels, he knew his skill hadn’t decreased. Which could only mean his men were getting better.
Rannald stepped to the side, never dropping his guard. The wicker mat which covered the floor of the Sentinels’ sparring room was unevenly made, with broken bits poking up here and there to bite into their bare feet. It was made this way intentionally, to better simulate the distractions one faced in battle. As he stepped, a sliver of wicker stabbed into the sole of Rannald’s foot. He twitched in pain but kept his focus on the three that remained standing. The four he had already bested, clutching their various bruises and sprains, were standing by the lower-ranked Sentinels gathered around the edges of the room to watch their Captain.
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