Thane ran fingers through his tangled hair as he left the better area of Edinburgh. The overripe stench of poverty hit his nose when he reached the broken windows and the sagging two and three-story smoke shops and low rent flats of Bread Street. A man with a patchy beard leaned out from one of the windows above. Paint flaked off the sill and drifted over Thane.
“Lovely coat, richie!” the man said, pointing at Thane’s leather jacket. The old man cackled into the midnight street.
Thane threw him a finger and kept on, his mind whirring.
He’d risk a beating if he spoke up about Lewis. Taking a deep breath, he considered it. His mother would want him to be brave for something this important. She’d want him to follow his heart, no matter the trouble it might give.
A sad smile stretched his mouth as he remembered the science fair during his first year in secondary school. When Thane’s father had said attending to clan business was more important than going to a silly first prize ribbon ceremony, his mother had threatened to cut her hair off. The clan gathering was set for the next day and Thane’s father wouldn’t tolerate being embarrassed by his wife in front of so many. After a lorry-load of swearing, his father had finally capitulated and they’d left for the ceremony together. It was the first and last time both of Thane’s parents had attended a school function.
A shout broke through the memories, and a cold wind gusted past, tugging at Thane’s hair. Two kingsmen—not Campbells, just ordinaries—held someone across the street, in front of an old hardware store. The man pulled out of their grip, ripping his red striped shirt.
“I’m not a sixth-senser,” the man said. “I’ve told you. I’m no Ghost Talker!”
The first kingsman grabbed him again with a meaty paw. “Then who were you talking to just now, your face as pale as my arse?”
The second kingsman snorted a laugh, lifted his stick, and struck the potential sixth-senser in the knee. They threw more questions at the man and shoved him against the mossy brick of the old hardware store. The store’s sign—a painted hammer—swung above them in the unnatural breeze.
So that cold wind was a spirit. The man was definitely a Ghost Talker, one of the four types of sixth-sensers currently known. They could speak with the dead and the dead told them secrets of the past supposedly. Thane wasn’t sure why the king cared much about that sixth sense. What would the dead have to do with now? Maybe in murder cases or some such. Yeah. That made sense. The other three types of sixth-sensers did seem relevant to gathering valuable intel for certain.
Threaders saw brightly colored strings of light connecting people to people or people to objects when strong emotion was involved. That could really help an enemy of the king find spies like Thane. He swallowed. He hoped he’d never cross a Threader’s path. He’d be found out and have to go back to round-up duty and all that blood and beating.
Another type of sixth-senser was a Seer. That type was merely a legend. Supposedly, a very powerful Seer would one day find the Coronation Stone and name an heir to the Empire’s throne. But no one had rounded up a Seer as far as Thane knew. Seers could touch a thing and see a memory. It didn’t seem like a sense the king would care about, but Seers remained top of the list for round-ups despite them being as common as a magical unicorn. Maybe the king believed the stupid legend.
The sixth-sensers that made Thane most nervous were the Dreamers. These people dreamed about things that might happen in the future or about what part that person had to play in history as a whole. His own bizarre, recurring dream didn’t show him anything as important as all that, but it still didn’t seem normal. If anyone ever questioned him about dreams, he knew he’d stumble and say something that could be dangerous. Even though he knew he didn’t have a sixth sense.
The second kingsman snorted again and hit the sixth-senser in that same knee. Thane winced and the man fell, yowling.
“The people won’t put up with this forever,” the sixth-senser said. “We won’t! You have no proof against me!”
“Our own word is proof enough for our commander,” the big kingsman growled, throwing the sixth-senser into a government car parked at the curb.
Glad that he didn’t have round-up duty here in Edinburgh, Thane shoved his hands into his pockets and wound through two narrow, twisting streets before heading toward the back entrance into Bluefoot public house, a Campbell haunt open only to those in the clan. He was known only in here and only by those fairly high up. He’d never worked as a kingsman officially in this area so as to keep his identity a secret. He pushed what looked like a regular wall—a part of a shop that had been closed for years—and it swung open to reveal a dark alcove. It looked like a forgotten spot between two buildings. He kicked the left wall and it popped open, placing him in the back of the Bluefoot. If he’d come in through the front where another hidden entrance sat, he’d have to have spoken to the codekeeper to gain entrance and he didn’t want to be seen right now. Or ever really. Only a camera watched this back way in and Bran kept an eye on that screen this time of day. Bran was always on Thane’s side.
The sounds of a tambourine and a guitar filled his ears but rage about Lewis filled his chest, stronger and more visceral, taking hold of his mind and heart like a vicious hand as he wove through the back of the club.
In the main room, hammock chairs suspended on plastic links, hung from the ceiling like money bags. Instead of being filled with shining coin, they swayed and dragged toward the cigarette-ridden floor holding men with DRFs, Daily Racing Forms, in their hands. Every man’s eyes were on the wall-sized TV screen opposite the copper-topped bar. The screen blinked out another row of numbers and stupid names—horse race stats from Newmarket and nearby Musselburgh—in a chalky white. The lists faded and stomping fillies appeared, ready at the gate on Goodwood’s long, green track, far away in England’s West Sussex.
The busty Cora greeted him with a sweet smile, a rag in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other. “Good to see you, young man.” She probably knew his name, but also knew it was wiser not to mention it.
“Can I get an ale?” He didn’t usually drink, but tonight called for it.
Her lips pinched to hide a smile, but she nodded, always obedient to the Campbell name.
The other men eyed him for a moment and went back to their DRFs. Standing beside the hanging seats, the pub’s regular clutch of low women laughed and chatted with the patrons. Some women drifted away to perform feats of flexibility on the scarves that dangled from metal bars crisscrossing the ceiling. One girl, upside down, her leg twisted in a scarf, reached for Thane and ruffled his hair like he was a wean—nothing more than a child. Scowling, he slipped around her and found Bran in the workout room.
Beside a well-worn heavy bag, Thane’s bushy-haired pal ringed knuckles and palm with a fighter’s wrap.
“Just the man I wanted to see,” Bran said.
He was about Rodric’s age but, alternately, had a functioning gray mass between his ears. Up near Inveraray, where Thane had grown up, local teens spent their free hours at a nature reserve. There, among pines and stolen cigarettes, Thane and Bran had forged a vague friendship, full of secrets but strong enough to get an orphaned Bran to relocate to Edinburgh when Thane had started at university down the way at St. Andrews.
“You look ready for a real fight, my friend,” Bran said.
“Aye.” A florescent light flickered as Thane paced the small room’s red floor, his hands flexing in and out. “They’ve made a mistake, Bran. A bad one.”
The doorway into the main room was empty, but Thane kept an eye on it just in case.
Bran’s thick brown eyebrows rose. “You’re posing as one Thane Moray in the house of that candy chemist?”
“I am. And Rodric and the rest were calling him, asking to get him to…juice up his creations for us.”
“Sweets as weapons?”
Thane nodded. “That and more. Ointments, unguents, all sorts of chem work.” He hung a hand on the chain linking the bag to the ceiling b
eams. “The chemist said no and they took him. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Ruined a good man’s life.”
“Maybe Nathair will release him.”
A laugh jerked from Thane’s throat. He took his jacket off and tossed it onto a shabby table near the door. “Right. All sweet and cozy like, I’m sure.”
Bran shrugged. “Here’s hoping.”
Thane leaned his forehead into the heavy bag, inhaling old sweat and listening to his heart drive Campbell blood through his body.
“He has a daughter,” Thane said quietly.
The speed bag secured to the wall thumped as Bran—wise Bran—let Thane talk.
“Most of the people I’ve spied on,” Thane said, “they’re as looney as Gran on Hogmanay.”
Bran snorted a laugh.
“But this girl…” An image of Aini and Lewis working side-by-side in the lab whisked through Thane’s mind. “She’s so…”
He remembered the fear in her face when she saw the blood.
Heat blazed through his chest and he rammed an elbow into the heavy bag.
“It’s terrible what they’ve done to her and her father.” He gave the bag another hit. “And I don’t know what I’m going to—”
Cora appeared at the door, ale in hand. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
“No bother. Thank you.” Thane took the drink and gulped it down. A line of cool liquid ran down his throat.
“And what’s this?” a deep, sour voice said from the door. Cora was gone and she’d left Rodric in her place. “Has the wee doggie come out to play then?”
Thane’s first memory of his older, second cousin consisted of nothing but Rodric’s ducky laugh, the bottom of his boot, and pain. The oaf pulled his flat cap down over his eyes and squared his shoulders. Rodric was big enough he didn’t need to act like a tough man. He couldn’t help himself. Big, stupid bully.
Rodric sucked the last bit of his cigarette and threw it to the dark corner, where it glowed like a rat’s eye.
“Can we not do this?” Thane said. “This whole ‘Rodric is tough and older and wiser, and Thane’s a wee prick, no matter he stands a foot taller than me now’?”
Rodric answered with a swing aimed at Thane’s head. Thane dodged it, ducking and pushing the strike past his ear. His cousin grabbed his shirt and pulled, ripping it along the collar.
“Nathair’s wrong, you know,” Thane spat. “The candymaker is a good man.”
“That lab rat needs to know his place.” Rodric faked another shot at Thane, who didn’t flinch. “Treasonous rat is what he is.”
The ape threw a vicious punch into the heavy bag and Thane stepped back as the target swung wildly.
“He’s not a traitor, Rodric. I’m telling you.”
Rodric’s gaze went up and down Thane, an ugly grin tearing at his mouth. It reminded Thane distinctly of his own father. “What’s it to you anyway?”
Bran stepped forward, rubbing an uneven spot out of his wraps. “Thane is only working to keep you from wasting your time, pal.”
“You’ll mind your own business.” Rodric poked Bran in the chest with a sausage-like finger. “Pal.”
Thane pushed Rodric back. “Lewis MacGregor is not guilty of treason. He’s just a chemist who doesn’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Oh aye?” Rodric leaned into Thane’s face. His breath smelled like cigarettes and hate. “Then why did Seanie find the man on an old Dionadair list just yesterday?”
Thane froze. Why would Lewis’s name show up on a search for rebels?
“I see you didn’t know about that, huh?” Rodric said.
“It’s a mistake.”
Rodric shrugged and picked at his teeth with his smallest finger. “Maybe. But what if he only refuses to weaponize his candies for us because he’s already doing it for the Dionadair rebels?”
Dionadair meant Protector in Gaelic. But from what Thane had seen, the members didn’t care about protecting anyone except their precious cause—to liberate Scotland from the English king. Sure, their latest flag stunt hadn’t been violent and Thane didn’t agree with how his father had handled their punishment, but still, the rebels were low folk and he didn’t care for their type any more than he liked Rodric and his.
“You’re wrong. I know it.” Thane swallowed and set his empty glass on the table.
Rodric spread his arms wide. “Well, make sure you’re not leaving any stone unturned, doggie. Sniff him out and prove the chemist’s innocence. Maybe then Nathair’ll let him be. Not without a bit of obedience training first, of course, but…”
“He can’t force innocent subjects to do his bidding,” Thane said. “It’s wrong.”
“Nathair—your own father—is the law. Don’t forget it. The rebels are worse than ever and Nathair is sick of playing by rules no one else follows. It’s only right we use whatever means we see fit.” Rodric popped his knuckles and punched a palm.
Thane’s stomach twisted. No. It wasn’t right.
He clapped Bran on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, pal.” Picking up his jacket, he shouldered past Rodric and found the back door.
“Remember who you are, doggie,” Rodric called out. “Don’t forget who your master is. I’ll be sure to tell him you’ve gone soft. He has some new ideas about how to train wee doggies. Best keep up your tinkering and hope you craft something worth a crap to make up for the report I’ll be giving to the good chief.”
Thane slammed the door. He wasn’t giving him anything. Nathair and Rodric could come after him all they wanted. He would not stop defending Lewis, not even if it cost him a beating worse than the ones from training.
He pulled out his phone and rang his mother, but she didn’t answer. She could’ve been sleeping. He pictured her in the big four poster bed, a science journal open beside her outstretched hand and her reading glasses still on her nose. She’d given him her love of science. Through hikes spent identifying trees by leaves and bark. During television episodes on planets and the mysteries of space. She always asked the best questions, ones that had him rifling through her collection of journals in their cavernous library and searching the world information cache online.
It was surprising that a woman so smart could be trapped into a marriage with his father, a man so obviously unfit for a loving relationship. It’d been her passion that trumped her good sense, her sharp mind. She must’ve fallen for his powerful presence, his standing in their hometown, his way with words.
Thane bowed his head. His own passions pushed him to do things he had better sense than to try. He wondered if his growing concern for Aini and Lewis would be his own undoing.
The townhouse door cracked open noisily, but the front room was empty, the lights out. Thane started toward the bedroom, but moonlight from the window crashed across Lewis’s office, tempting him. He took a slow breath, Rodric’s words coming back. Then why did Seanie find the man on an old Dionadair list yesterday?
The office looked as it always did. Rodric and the rest hadn’t searched it. Yet.
After hanging his jacket on the doorknob, Thane sat in Lewis’s chair behind the wide, metal desk, smelling only printer ink and bleach, not blood.
Fine. He’d look around. Just to prove there was nothing to find.
He started in the drawers, then moved on to the safe. The combination was his fifth guess—the atomic numbers for the elements in sugar. Hydrogen. Carbon. Oxygen. 1. 6. 8. Inside the metal box, a stack of pounds sat near the deed to the townhouse, permission papers for developing recreational sweets decorated with the royal red wax seal, and a few other legal odds and ends. Nothing interesting.
Closing the safe up tight, Thane began searching more clever spots like behind the loose windowsill and the back of a filing cabinet. Nothing. For good measure, he grabbed a monogrammed snochterdicter—a handkerchief embroidered with Lewis’s initials—from the desk drawer and used the fine cloth to wipe the safe’s lock clean of his fingerprints.
He was right. Lewis was
no Dionadair.
Returning the cloth to its home, he slid the drawer back.
It caught on something.
Thane’s pulse knocked on his throat. He crawled under the desk, clicking on the small torch he kept in his pocket. A picture was taped to the underside of the desk, just past the point where the drawer should stop. Some of the tape had come loose and gummed up the drawer’s track. Gently peeling the photo from its spot, Thane imagined what it might be. A shot of a lady Lewis shouldn’t have been thinking of? A picture of a special creation from the candy lab?
Thane unfolded himself from the small space and turned, leaning against the desk. He pulled his glasses out and slid them on, an ugly feeling uncurling in his wame. The picture showed Lewis MacGregor with a red-bearded man, toasting with what looked like dark whisky.
The two stood directly in front of the Saltire—the banned Scottish flag.
Thane swore and kicked the filing cabinet.
“Thane?”
He crushed the picture in his hand. Aini. Why was she always around? Spinning, he faced her. Suddenly, he forgot to breathe. Her hair fell over her shoulders in a sheet of black satin. The belt of her robe was tied in a neat bow beneath her chest.
“You…you should be in bed, lass.”
Though it was nothing but silver and blue in the unlit room, he could still see the color rising in her cheeks. Her hands went to her hips.
“Don’t order me around,” she snapped. “Why are you in here in the dark anyway?”
Thane slipped the picture into his pocket—and with larger movements to draw Aini’s attention—grabbed a pen. “You’re right. Sorry. I just saw no reason to wake everyone by turning all the lights on. I thought maybe your father might’ve left some sort of clue as to where they were taking him, or something.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. You’re right.” Her voice broke.
A fissure started somewhere deep inside Thane. He came around the desk and she let him draw her into his arms. Her hair smelled like sugar and that scent girls always had—like shampoo or lotion.
“I didn’t mean to boss you.” He pulled away a bit, his hands on her shoulders.
The Edinburgh Seer: Edinburgh Seer Book One Page 4