Zed stumbled momentarily in his eagerness to approach them, almost tripping, but quickly righted himself. “Jett!” he said. “You shaved your beard!”
Brock laughed, realizing that was what had struck him as different. The few straggly strands of peach fuzz that had recently adorned Jett’s chin were gone.
Jett shrugged lazily. “Hank promised that shorn hair comes back twice as strong.”
Zed looped his arm around Jett’s shoulders and pulled him close. “You could say the same thing about dwarves. It’s good to see you up. Liza’s crutch really suits you.”
“Liza made that?” Brock asked, failing to mask the astonishment in his voice. The crutch was masterfully carved in the design of a dragon, the mythical source of the dwarves’ great forge fires.
“I know!” Zed said. “Is there anything she can’t do?”
But it wasn’t Liza’s talent for woodworking that made Brock feel a sudden pang of jealousy.
The yard was getting full, and Brock spotted her across the way, Micah fussing over a minor bruise she had picked up while training. It was a familiar argument by now: Micah had turned out to be quite protective of his sister—and perhaps overeager to put his healing talents on display. Liza, for her part, didn’t care to be fussed over.
She spotted Brock watching and raised her hand in greeting, but just then Frond strode into the yard and Brock went still. As she crossed to a lopsided plywood platform that somewhat resembled a stage, the guildmistress’s eyes trailed coldly across the crowd, lingering ever so slightly on Brock.
In the weeks since she’d returned from her night in the king’s dungeon, she hadn’t said a word about Brock’s role in sending her there. But she kept looking at him as if she might. Brock felt there was an ax hovering above his head at all times, one that would inevitably fall when he least expected it. He hadn’t slept peacefully in weeks.
Then again, few of them had. The horror that had befallen Mother Brenner would stay with them a long time. As Hexam had explained it, she had been the victim of a penanggalan—a sort of fiendish parasite that had hollowed out her body and warped her mind. There was no way of knowing how much of the true Brenner had remained in the end, but in the dark of night Brock imagined the kindly woman looking out from alien eyes, screaming in silent despair as she watched herself—her body—performing acts of horror against her will.
In a rare display of collaboration, the Stone Sons, Silverglows, and Adventurers Guild had worked together in the days following Brenner’s death. While the mages put each member of the Golden Way through a rigorous screening process devised by Hexam, knights scoured the streets to take a census of the guildless, aided by those adventurers who had once been among them. While the healers were untainted, it became clear that some untold dozens of guildless men and women had disappeared over the course of a year. Brock supposed they’d never know precisely how many of Freestone’s poor had been preyed upon, infected, and cast out to live among the Dangers, waiting for the day the wards came down.
A day, thanks to the Sea of Stars, that should never come.
Frond took to the rickety stage, scowling down upon it as if daring it to crumble beneath her weight. Once she had her balance, she looked around the yard, from the gaudy fabrics to the party hats. “Who’s responsible for this?” she said gruffly.
“Ah, yes,” Lotte said, walking toward the stage but thinking twice before actually stepping upon it. “Let’s have a round of applause for our party planners, Syd and Fife.” She gave Frond a meaningful look over the halfhearted applause that followed. “They were the only ones who volunteered and did a fine job with limited resources.”
Frond glared at Syd and Fife, who were giving small curtsies from the edge of the crowd. “Well done,” she said stiffly. “I am impressed and grateful for your work.” She bared her teeth in a forced smile, and the effect was terrifying.
“She looks like she wants to eat them,” Jett whispered.
“I think she’s trying to be nicer,” Zed whispered back. “I heard Lotte lecturing her on the importance of keeping morale up.”
“It’s working,” Brock put in. “If she smiles at me like that, I’ll be the first one to volunteer for patrol outside the wall. Anything to get away from her.”
“We have much to celebrate,” Frond said, addressing the crowd. “The king has just released a decree acknowledging our role in averting the recent crisis. It is to be posted all over the city later today.” She unrolled a small parchment scroll emblazoned with the king’s own seal, cleared her throat, and read: “‘Let it be known that King Freestone this day thanks the Adventurers Guild for its service to the city.’”
There was a long silence while the crowd waited for Frond to continue. Finally, some brave soul called out: “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Frond said.
A low muttering broke out. Brock frowned at Zed, who shrugged.
But all eyes returned to Frond when she brought the parchment to her face—and blew her nose, loudly and messily. As they watched, she crumpled up the now soggy scroll and dropped it to her feet. Lotte rubbed her forehead as if a headache were coming on, but said nothing.
“We don’t do it for the glory,” she said. “And we don’t do it for a pat on the head. We do it because it needs to be done.” She scanned the crowd. “And we’re good at it. But you don’t need me to tell you that, and you don’t need the king to, either.”
Frond stepped off the platform, just as Brock thought she was getting warmed up. But her terse speech had been enough for the assembled men and women. They lifted their cups, their fists, their swords, and uttered a hoarse cheer. Zed hurled his voice in with the rest, and he clapped Brock hard on the shoulder. Brock clapped him back.
The party began in earnest then. Syd and Fife had somehow lured a bard to the guildhall, and she got the crowd clapping along to a popular tune about the splendor of the faraway elven city, Llethanyl, last of its kind and staunch ally to Freestone.
Brock scanned the crowd for Liza, determined to tease her about Jett’s cane. But as he peered through the bodies of the assembled warriors, some of whom were near twice his height, his eyes fell upon a sight that put all other thoughts from his mind.
It was the Lady Gray. She was here, weaving among the men and women with the careless grace of a housecat. No one seemed to notice her. Brock was tempted to grip Zed, to point to her, to ask whether she was even really there.
Somehow he felt that was the worst thing he could do.
Her eyes met his, and he shivered as if the sun weren’t shining full on his back.
Still, when she beckoned, he followed her indoors without a second thought.
The woman seemed as at ease in the cramped and dirty guildhall kitchen as she had in the council chamber. She was straightening up the mess Syd and Fife had left behind in their frenzied preparations.
“Stop that,” Brock said. “I know you’re no servant.”
The woman shrugged, putting a final dirty mug beside the sink. “But you’d be amazed the doors that open to a person wearing servant’s grays. Haven’t you used this very trick?”
“Our guild doesn’t even have any servants,” Brock said. “So how does that work here, exactly?”
She shrugged again, a carefree motion, graceful as a practiced dance step. “It so happens luck is on my side today. Yours, too.”
She withdrew a rolled parchment from her gray sleeve and held it out. Brock snatched it, eyeing her as he unrolled it. “What is this?”
She didn’t answer, and as he scanned the parchment, he felt the blood drain from his face. “This isn’t…This is impossible.”
“Is it?” she said. “Odd, you’d struck me as the sort of boy who was used to getting what he wanted.”
She was right. It was exactly what he’d wanted. Exactly what he’d asked for. This fragile piece of parchment, curled and crumpled, was a royal decree nullifying the Adventurers Guild’s claim on him—and on Zed. It laid out
their new assignments in plain language, making no apologies and offering no explanations. It was signed by the king himself.
Brock fought to keep his face impassive. He blinked. He took a breath. And then he tore the parchment right down the middle.
“Oh, ho ho,” the woman chuckled.
“I’ve reconsidered things,” Brock said boldly. He rolled his shoulders back. “The Adventurers Guild is our home. We make a difference here. And Frond is…Frond is crass. She’s rude, stubborn, and terrifying. But I’m beginning to think she’s exactly the leader this town needs.” When the woman didn’t respond, he added, “I may not ever like her, but I respect her and—”
The woman held up a silencing hand, and Brock stammered to a halt reflexively.
“You’ve chosen the right words,” she said. “But your tone needs more conviction. Rehearse a little more before anyone else asks, hm?”
Brock flushed, that old coal of anger sparking again.
“Who are you, exactly?”
“I represent the true power behind the Merchants Guild. I am first among Shadows.”
“Never heard of you.”
“Ah, that’s the trick,” she said. “Hidden in plain sight, and there from the beginning. We don’t call Dox Eural the Moneylender, do we? It’s not Dox the Shopkeeper.”
“It’s Dox…the Assassin,” Brock offered.
She nodded. “He never really changed his ways, our Dox. It’s true he founded the Merchants Guild as a way to keep Freestone viable and self-sufficient. But he understood better than most that there is necessary work that must happen…behind the scenes. So Dox’s Shadows do the work that can’t be done by the light of day. We see to it that Freestone survives, no matter how unsavory the details.”
“Unsavory,” echoed Brock. “You…kill people?”
She held up her hands. “Very rarely. Assassinations shove society in a particular direction. I much prefer to…nudge. Mostly, I gather secrets. And among the secrets I have recently acquired is this: Your elf-blooded friend has shown an affinity for forbidden magics. Hasn’t he? The sort of…talent that the Mages Guild would recognize in an instant. An instant later, they’d throw him to the Dangers.” She gestured at the torn decree in his hands. “I can see why you’d turn your back on that particular deal now.”
Brock felt his stomach twist. “How…?” he said, and his throat closed on his words like a fist. He took a moment just to breathe.
“You can’t tell anyone,” he said at last. He didn’t even try to hide his despair. In his mind’s eye, he saw the fury of the town—saw how quickly they would turn against Zed if they knew what he could do, that he could sense fiendish magic—could access it, as he had with the staff. They would drag him from his bed and tear him to pieces.
As awful as the thought was, it led inevitably to another, darker imagining:
What might Zed be capable of if forced to defend himself?
What might he unleash?
“Fine,” he told her, clamping down with his teeth as if he could bite his fear off at the root. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”
She didn’t smile. She showed no pleasure at the news. The woman simply nodded as if Brock had said something she’d already known, and known well.
“You needn’t worry, Brock,” she said. “It isn’t anything as dire as you might think. I only want to learn the truth of what happened to Mother Brenner.”
“I can help you there,” Brock said, smirking grimly. “Tentacles grew out of her head. It was a whole thing. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.”
The woman fairly radiated her lack of amusement. “Think about it. When would the leader of the Golden Way have possibly been infected by a fiendish seed?” She tapped her own chin. “Here’s a hint: I can assure you she never, in all her years, set foot outside the wards.”
“So she was infected in Freestone. But…but the wards couldn’t have weakened until after she was infected. So how…?”
Brock thought back to his very first night with the guild. He remembered the hideous naga laid out on the slab in Hexam’s workshop. He knew why they’d brought it in. They’d been able to distill an antitoxin from the thing’s venom. That had saved Jett’s life, and might save other lives in the future.
He knew why they’d brought it in. But he’d never stopped to ask how.
“The Adventurers Guild can get monsters past the wards. Pieces of them…trophies. They do it all the time.”
The Lady Gray nodded knowingly. “Someone smuggled in the seed that led to Brenner’s corruption. Perhaps it was an accident. But I don’t think so. I think there is a traitor in the Adventurers Guild.” Her eyes went hard, the playfulness gone. “And I don’t like not knowing who it is. Not one bit. You, Messere Dunderfel, are going to help me do something about it.”
Brock knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter—not if he wanted to keep Zed’s secret. He sighed heavily as this new obligation settled over his shoulders like a weighty chain.
It was then that a strange sound rang out. It was a horn, but not any sort of horn Brock had ever heard before—a long, low, mournful note sounding from nearby, in the direction of the wall’s main gate.
“What was that?” he asked.
When the note sounded again, it was somewhat closer.
“That is a rare thing.” The lady smiled.
“You’ve heard it before?”
“Three times. Most recently twelve years ago. It’s the sound of friends hailing friends…and it’s coming from outside the wall.”
It took Brock a moment to puzzle out her meaning. The entire guild was in the training yard. No one should be outside the wall today.
At least, no one from Freestone.
He felt a thrill as the realization struck him. He didn’t even spare her a glance as he turned on his heels and ran outside. He feared Zed would already be gone, but his friends were all there in the yard as if waiting for him.
Zed looked fit to burst. He hopped from foot to foot, and his eyes held a manic gleam. “Brock! Did you hear?”
Brock nodded.
Zed said it anyway. “The elves are here!”
“They’re at least a few months early,” Jayna said.
“Yeah,” Micah said. “But they probably tell time by watching the swaying of the grass upon the tallest hill on the night of the full moon, so you’ve gotta cut them some slack.”
Liza slapped him across the shoulder, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I have no idea what the elven calendar is like,” she said happily. “But get this: We can ask actual elves! Today!”
“Should we…?” Zed began.
“Go on,” said Jett. “Get over there! We’ll catch up.”
Zed nodded excitedly with his whole body, took Brock’s hand in his own, and ran.
Brock let himself be pulled along, out the training yard and onto the road and into the crowd of townspeople who had left their homes and begun ambling toward the nearby gate. Zed wove among them, ducked under them, never loosening his grip, and with each footfall Brock felt his worries jarring loose. The Lady Gray’s words, the fearful images they’d conjured, the dreadful promise he’d made—such things did not belong in the light of day. Not this day, at least.
Zed and Brock pushed their way to the very front of the assembled townsfolk, before a line of Stone Sons who maintained a space between crowd and gate. Zed danced on the balls of his feet as the minutes ticked by. More and more people arrived in the square, chattering nervously. Brock saw the perfumer and a dozen other merchants, all having left their stalls behind in their excitement. He saw nobles in their finery rubbing elbows with peasants in their work clothes. He saw a clutch of servants at the edge of the crowd, just arrived from intown. Zed’s mother was among them, and Brock waved at her wildly.
“Zed!” she cried, and she hurried toward them.
Zed launched himself at her, throwing his arms around her, and she spun him around and, laughing, said, “Oh, Zed, your hair�
�”
Brock noticed there was some activity up on the wall. The Sons on guard duty there, charged with watching over the gate and its controls, seemed to be arguing. Neither of them made any attempt to activate the mechanism.
“Something’s wrong,” a familiar voice muttered, and Brock turned to see Frond come up from behind them and shove her way past the knights. She strode to the wooden staircase built into the wall and took the stairs two at a time.
Brock watched as she exchanged words with the guards at the top, then slapped them about their helmets in frustration. Gazing out at the horizon, past the wall, she took the controls in her hands, pulling the great crank with all the strength she could muster.
For as much haste as Frond displayed at the controls, the gates parted slowly. Agonizingly so. Brock bit his lip anxiously as the doors groaned open to reveal an elf standing past the threshold.
The elf was tall and pale, with a sheet of pale blond hair cascading about his shoulders and down his back. His eyes were a luminous green, standing out above sharp cheekbones and thin lips pressed tightly together. Brock couldn’t read anything in the elf’s expression, but he couldn’t help smiling at the sight of his pointed ears.
Those ears put Zed’s to shame.
The elf raised his hand as the gate continued to swing open, revealing a second elf at his shoulder, and a third. The gesture was weak—less a friendly greeting than a palm of supplication.
“People of Freestone,” the elf called out, just loud enough to be heard above the groaning of the widening gate. “We beg of you—help us.”
“Oh, no,” Zed said softly, and just as Brock was about to turn toward his friend, he saw what Zed had seen.
“Oh, no,” he echoed.
With the gate fully open, Brock saw not the ten or twelve elven ambassadors they’d expected. There was no wagon laden with exotic goods and unfamiliar medicines. Instead there were hundreds of elves beyond the wall, and more streaming from the distant tree line with each passing second. They were dirty, blood-streaked, and wretched, clutching only what meager possessions they had managed to carry with them. From somewhere within the throng, a baby wailed.
The Adventurers Guild Page 22