Blackthorne

by Stina Leicht

  “I won’t remember,” he said, nodding.

  “Now smile and shake my hand. Accept your fee, and go about your business,” Suvi said, and released his arm.

  Jami opened the wallet and counted off the paper notes. The harbormaster smiled, accepted the money, and wandered off with a slightly confused expression.

  Jami whispered, “Are you sure—”

  “I had to buy us some insurance,” Suvi said. “We may be cutting this one closer than we would like.”

  “And if Mr. Blackthorne doesn’t come back?” Jami asked.

  “He’ll return in time,” Suvi said. Please, return in time.

  “You should consider leaving him,” Jami said.

  “And what of Katrin?” Suvi asked. “Councilor Slate won’t be happy about us abandoning his daughter.”

  “You do make a point,” Jami said. “We could come back for them.”

  “Just how do you plan on finding them?” Suvi asked. “Will you volunteer to search the streets of Novus Salernum for an ex-Warden and a former street harvester?”

  Jami paused, seemingly to give the matter some thought. It was then that Suvi spotted Katrin sprinting down the dock, a panic-stricken look on her face.

  Katrin staggered to a halt. “Is Blackthorne here?” She was gasping.

  “Where’s the wagon?” Jami asked.

  “We—we left it,” Katrin said, bending at the hips and grabbing her knees. “He told me to run. He said he’d meet me here. Isn’t he here yet?”

  “Not yet.” Suvi asked, “What happened?”

  Straightening, Katrin said, “They stopped us. The Brotherhood were checking identification at the entrance to the wharf.”

  Shit. That’s not good, Suvi thought.

  “Someone recognized him.” Katrin looked like she was going to start crying. “He told me to leave him. I didn’t want to.”

  Suvi whirled and headed up the gangplank, leaving Jami to collect Katrin. “Dylan?”

  Dylan paused. He had one hand on the rope attached to the cargo net. “Yes?”

  “How much longer?” Suvi asked.

  “This is the second-to-last load,” Dylan said. “Viktor is paying Mr. Sparrow.”

  “Good,” Suvi said. Biting her lip, she turned back to the docks. Blackthorne was still nowhere in sight. If the Brotherhood are after him, he’s as good as dead. “Get everyone onboard and get ready to weigh anchor.”

  Dylan nodded.

  Suvi stared at the harbor entrance. Come on, Mr. Blackthorne. Get your ass back here.

  BLACKTHORNE

  NOVUS SALERNUM

  THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA

  TWENTY-SECOND OF MAITOKUU, 1785

  Heavy rain rapidly soaked his clothes where his all-weather coat didn’t reach. Thunder roared and the wind picked up. He bolted down several muddy alleys as fast as he dared, making his way northwest and staying out of sight. It was already too late for him to slip out of the city and into the surrounding countryside. The curfew would have all the gates closed in less than a quarter of an hour. No one would be allowed out—not unless they were a Warden or, he thought sourly, a leper. He didn’t have any of the requisite passes and badges such a ruse would require, nor had he packed his Paulus disguise when he’d left. A rented bolt-hole was an option. However, this late in the day, it was likely that only the most expensive had vacancies remaining. That said, he did not like the idea of being confined to a small space with only one exit, nor the idea of trusting strangers motivated by greed. Both seemed less than safe bets, and he was gambling with high stakes—not all of them his own.

  What happens to little Lydia if I don’t meet Mallory McDermott in Greenleaf?

  Something had changed in him from the moment he’d learned he had a daughter. Suddenly, his life—his beliefs had been thrown into a vastly different perspective. Unanswered questions by the hundreds had been stacking up against his internal barriers. The choices he’d made gained new weight—even his interactions with Katrin had come into a fresh awareness.

  Passing through Rosacollina, he paused in the doorway of a closed shop to catch his breath, take inventory, and formulate a plan. He pressed his fingers against his chest, felt along the stitched rows of the Warden’s wallet he wore under his shirt, and counted the coins stored there. More than half of the pockets were empty—just over the recommended amount. That was good news. He was also fairly certain he’d lost the Wardens who’d given chase. While they had signaled for assistance, he hadn’t seen any evidence of further pursuit. That was something, at least. In addition, the fact that Caius had been shocked meant that Caius hadn’t expected to see him, not in the city.

  Perhaps they haven’t made the connection between Blackthorne and Severus. Not yet. That was also good news. He hoped they never would. The Reclamation Hospital was a dire enough prospect without adding a thorough interrogation on top.

  He returned his attention to his situation. Ultimately, his best option was to hide, and he needed to do so in an area he knew well—one to which the Brotherhood wouldn’t expect him to run—if they were indeed searching for him. Best of all, an area that would provide a great many places to hide.

  The duke’s estate. He tried not to consider the irony.

  He stepped out of his temporary shelter and into the press of hurried crowds. As he did, he caught a glimpse of black uniforms with silver detailing in the corner of his vision. He looked again. Wardens. He turned his face away and prayed they hadn’t spotted him. Ducking and making his way down the street, he kept to the densest groups when possible. Using that technique, he was able to get past yet another canal bridge and that much closer to the duke’s estate. Unfortunately, he spied yet another cluster of Wardens. He eased into a corner between two shops for cover. Panic spurred his heart, but then he reminded himself of the time. It wasn’t unusual for the Brotherhood to make such a showing at curfew. The display of power reminded the common people that curfew compliance was of the utmost importance.

  Clock towers and church bells began to ring out warnings across the city, signaling the start of curfew. The streets emptied at once. There were a few stragglers like himself. However, in the more affluent northwest sector, most were citizens holding permits and licenses, and enforcement was more lax. Counting on this as he had so many times before, he assumed an attitude of confidence. Still, the final part of the journey was made via back alleys when possible as well as the back of a coach that fortuitously lacked the customary footman. He hopped down upon arriving at Regent’s Street, thankful of the coachman’s inattention. The duke’s estate was now only a few hundred feet distant.

  He’d gotten as far as the corner of His Grace’s property when the shrill notes of a Warden Unit’s whistle sent a bolt of ice down his spine, and he shuddered. One long. Three short. One long. Having served in a Warden Unit, he knew that pattern. It signaled the start of a hunt. Some poor bastard was about to be torn apart by the Brotherhood’s war dogs. He suppressed a shudder.

  I must get off the street now.

  Turning left, he took the servant’s access road that ran along the southern edge of the property. As he did so, he searched for a specific spot along the broken glass–topped rock wall in the gathering darkness. It was the one area he knew to be free of glass. He’d created the access himself when he’d first thought to run away. That had been before the Academy, not long after his first visit to the twisted healer. He hoped against hope that no one had discovered it and replaced the shards or filled the indentations in the wall itself. It took him a few tense moments to find the familiar hand-and toeholds. Wet from the rain, the stones were slick, and his injured arm ached as it accepted his weight. He felt a warm trickle down his right arm. Still, he managed the climb up with only a small amount of trouble. He slipped down the other side, landing in a patch of soft, damp clover. Relief ran cool in his veins, and he leaned back against the stone to once again catch his breath.

  Ahead, the duke’s estates stretched out for two hundred acr
es—a vast display of wealth within the city’s confines. A thick forest populated the grounds, which hadn’t been pruned into ornate gardens by slaves. Echoes of the Warden Unit’s whistles were blunted by the thick stone at his back. Having explored the area thoroughly as a child, Blackthorne set out among the trees with confidence. He headed for the main road with the intent of locating one of the gardener’s tool sheds. It would have the benefit of being dry. Better yet, he knew of a specific building where hay was stored in a loft for the strawberry field. The plan was to keep to the edge of the road just in case. It was a risk, but it would shorten his journey. He’d allowed himself brief regrets for the unfortunate soul who had garnered the Warden Unit’s attention when he was brought up short by the clang of the chains at the front gate.

  He slipped behind the trunk of a nearby tree, his heart already galloping.

  It’s not the Warden Unit. It’s only the duke returning from a visit or an errand. It’s not—

  A long howl cut short hope.

  They’re here for me. They’ve been hunting me all along. He swallowed. How did they find me? Gazing down at his throbbing arm, he spied the one thing that he’d been ignoring since the incident at the gate. He’d bled through the bandage. A new wave of panic slammed him. In reflex, familiar words drifted to the surface of his mind. He grabbed them like a drowning man, and they slowed the beat of his heart like a prayer.

  Discard all that ties one to life. Thus, no cowardice can interfere in the crucial moment, and there will be no hesitation in the instant between life and death.

  The ideal Retainer lives as if already dead. They are the master’s sword and nothing more.

  Please don’t let it be the dogs. The thought burned his cheeks. His shame lasted a few heartbeats before he forced it down and away and the familiar safety of deadened emotions returned. Live as if already dead.

  The numbness didn’t last. I have a daughter. And suddenly, everything he’d once believed rang hollow. He finally understood that none of it fit the person he now was. A sense of wild panic overwhelmed him. Unsure of what to do, he recalled something he’d overheard Colonel Hännenen say to one of the new recruits. Blackthorne wrapped a fist around the terror and transformed it into cold rage. Anger, at least, is more useful than fear.

  He concentrated on strict control and silence. A tingling sensation sprang up all along his skin, and his stomach clenched and twisted. For the first time, he allowed himself the question that he’d been trying hard not to ask. What if I am like Reini?

  If so, I can use it to my advantage. I may yet have a chance. I know their tricks, but they do not know mine. I will be who I am now, not what I was. Maybe that will be enough.

  With that, he focused on moving quietly through the trees. He found his earlier trail and retraced his steps. It wouldn’t fool them for long, but it would buy him time. When that was done, he knelt in the darkness and waited. He needed to know how many enemies he was up against.

  Use whatever it is you have. In desperation, he paused and listened. Unsureness sent a shudder of fear through his heart. He’d hidden from who and what he was for so long that he wasn’t confident he could call upon his magic, if indeed it was magic after all. And then the knowledge came to him as it always had.

  One Unit. Made of eight Wardens. Two dogs.

  He breathed out his relief.

  They haven’t released the dogs. Perhaps they won’t?

  I’ve a chance. No matter how small that chance was, he was glad to have it. For Lydia’s sake. I’m all she has. As a former Warden, he knew too well the fate of orphan girls left on the Regnum’s streets—particularly kainen. Even though her mother had been human, it was highly possible that Lydia had inherited certain telltale traits from her father.

  He held his breath as the Warden Unit drew near. One of the Wardens murmured to one of the others. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was at once familiar.

  Waiting for the Warden Unit’s steps to fade before Blackthorne slipped back into the woods, he loosened the oiled leather strap on his knife. Then he started off in the direction the Wardens had gone.

  His only chance of survival would be to separate them from one another and attack each individually. Leave the kennelmaster for last. He hoped there were only eight. The usual number for a Hunt was four: a commander, lead tracker, and two on each flank, but the actions of the lead suggested a training session. If so, then there was a chance they wouldn’t release the dogs, and the Hunt tagging him might consist mainly of cadets. If he was lucky, he might elude them altogether. He didn’t want to consider what would happen if he wasn’t.

  Catching up to the lead Wardens, he found the pair puzzling over the last of the false trail. The younger was a third-year, by the insignia on his greatcoat—no more than seventeen or eighteen years old.

  It had been nearly two years since Blackthorne had last hunted. However, that didn’t seem to matter. It was as if the proper actions had been permanently fixed in his bones along with whatever it’d been that the twisted healer had put there. He felt a strictly controlled part of him thrill at the prospect of a kill, and for a moment, his thoughts drifted to the nightmares.

  Not now. Think about it later.

  Using a pine tree for cover, he gradually eased into position. When finally ready, he whistled the signal indicating the target was approaching. He watched the two Wardens split apart as he knew they would, one on each side of the false trail. His stomach did another lazy roll as he moved without a sound. Finding his first target waiting behind another tree, he slipped behind the instructor and struck. His hand clamped over the man’s mouth. Then he rapidly forced the head back at an angle. The knife pierced the neck just below the Warden’s ear. A gout of blood pulsed out of the wound. Blackthorne turned away and eased the dead man to the ground.

  He exchanged coats with the body before it had finished twitching.

  As he buttoned the uniform coat, he carefully watched the woods around him. He found it troubling that there had been no response after his first whistle. The commander couldn’t be far, and neither could those flanking. Without that signal, there was no indication of where they were. However, until he resolved the immediate threat, he couldn’t risk waiting and listening for them. The cadet would expect to see his instructor. Get it over with.

  Blackthorne whistled the all clear from the former instructor’s location. With that, the cadet stepped into view. Blackthorne waited to a count of fifteen. When no other Wardens emerged, he secreted the knife in his sleeve and pulled up the bloody collar of the stolen greatcoat to mask his face. He strode from his hiding place as though nothing were wrong.

  The cadet smiled. “While I was standing in the tree line, I think I spotted more prints, sir. Do you think he doubled back?”

  Blackthorne jabbed the cadet in the Adam’s apple with an elbow. Then he knocked the boy to the ground, cutting his throat before he could call out. Dragging the body into the trees, he screened it from the path by placing it behind a fallen trunk. The young cadet’s head rolled to the side, and a blood-soaked church medal slipped over his collar. The third-year’s innocent brown eyes were open, staring out in surprise.

  Only the fit survive. He swallowed a surge of self-disgust. You don’t believe that. You never did. He focused on confusing the tracks in the drying mud.

  Distant thunder rolled through the city. The wind shoved the tops of the trees around in noisy swirls. The clatter of the leaves made him think of surf crashing into the beach. He checked the sky. The lumpy clouds were an angry gunmetal green. He recalled that Dylan Kask had been a Waterborne weathermaster.

  Magic?

  Does it matter?

  He returned his attention to the task at hand. The blood on the ground would be obvious, particularly to the dogs, but at least he could make it difficult for them to deduct what happened. When he was done, he leaned against a tree and shut his eyes.

  All was quiet. The knowledge of where the others were came to
him in a strong twinge of nausea. He spat and then moved east of his current position. He found the alpha flank exactly where he expected it to be. The cadet had his back to the open while searching the mud. The second instructor was twenty-five yards away, his view temporarily blocked by a large bush.

  Blackthorne didn’t hesitate. He attacked, digging his fingers into the cadet’s neck, then crushing and twisting the larynx. Once again, he concealed the fresh corpse in silence and melted into the trees.

  “Cadet Fortis, report.” The order came from Blackthorne’s left.

  Damn it. He’d hoped to have more time to get into position.

  When no reply came, a warning pierced the woods. It was followed by a rapid muster-check, and Blackthorne answered in the stead of one of the missing. He glanced down at the damp ground. The hash marks cut into the heel of his boot left clear prints exactly as intended. His gaze traveled to the bottoms of the dead cadet’s boots.

  Two chevrons.

  His heart stopped. They’ve changed symbols.

  “You’ve performed excellently, but haven’t you forgotten something?”

  Blackthorne drew his saber and whirled to meet the speaker. As he did, he felt a hard blow on the outside of his thigh. He staggered to keep his footing.

  Six Wardens stepped from the trees. All had weapons at the ready. One sighted a crossbow on him while a second reloaded. He recognized the Captain at once, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

  Caius had changed little since Blackthorne had last seen him. His hair was longer, and the Captain’s tabs on his collar were new.

  I have to kill him. Talus would. Blackthorne swallowed. I’m not Talus. In a blink, all hope vanished. Gazing down at his leg, he spied the crossbow bolt buried in his thigh up to the black fletching. The pain flooded in.

  “Never could convince you of the merits of archery,” Caius said, and took a few hesitant steps forward. “You look terrible,” he whispered. There was an expression of genuine concern on his face.