Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  Jonas saw the understanding in Harper’s eyes, and when he spoke his voice was tight with anger and frustration. “If we are to have faith in the law, we must work to make it more encompassing, I think.”

  Harper nodded, tightening his arms around the boy as he felt hot tears smear his neck. He followed Jonas from the shop, offering silent comfort to Rodin as he sobbed out his fear and relief. How easy is it to change Mydren law? Conlan had often spoken of the laws he would like to create, but to be honest, there was no real legal system. During his training as a Protector, Harper had learnt the twenty-five ‘Laws in Stone’ that were not to be broken. Most of these had revolved around obeying the Lords of Mydren and the protection of the property and rights of the wealthy. There had been one about not killing people without due cause, but the ‘due cause’ was not elaborated on, and this was usually left open to the interpretation of the Enforcer who heard the case.

  The journey back to Hemtark was silent; like Harper, Pandral was lost in his thoughts, and Rodin, still cradled against Harper’s chest, had dropped into exhausted sleep. Even the mad dash back across the bridge that Harper instigated did not wake him. Pandral stopped at the Protectors’ building on the way past to find that Odney and his cowardly companion had made it back. They came out to greet him, both of them looking sheepish. At least they had ensured that Nevlin’s three thugs were languishing in their cells, and Pandral, not bothering to dismount, told them to hold the men and keep them alive until an Enforcer was sent to them from the Central Tower.

  Shyla

  “So, how is Rodin?”

  Pandral was sat at his desk as Harper entered the office. He still wore his mud-splattered Protector uniform. The gash above his eye had scabbed over, but the blood that had run down his pale face gave him a grisly appearance, not helped by the deep purple bruises along his jaw and cheekbone.

  “Cleaner than us,” Harper said, smiling at Pandral’s concerned look. “Fergus will ensure he is fed and cared for until we know what is happening next. Did you send the letter to Lord Tarplan?”

  Pandral nodded. “I have just finished. I explained in detail what had befallen Rodin and my fears for his safety.”

  “Rodin wrote me a note inquiring about the other children. What are we doing about them?” Harper asked. Pandral looked at him blankly. This is as far as his thinking goes: a Lord’s grandson is returned, case closed. Hiding his disappointment, Harper continued. “Rodin was one of many children those men abducted. Is he the only one we are going to attempt to find? Nevlin’s three henchmen are still alive; we may be able to get more information out of them.”

  “What would you have me do?” Pandral asked, confused. “Track down the children and bring them back to the streets of Hemtark to continue their thieving? If they have been bought, their lives will be hard, but they will carry value, as they have a price. They will be given food, a place to sleep and useful employment, more than they had when living in an underground ruin. Rodin is different—he had a better life than that, could expect more, and I hope his place will be restored to him—but the other children have improved their lot by being taken.”

  “They are slaves, Pandral!” Harper snapped, fighting to keep his rising anger under control. “They will have no control over their lives and be subject, no doubt, to violence and deprivation from their masters. Rodin had his tongue cut out! They might not have had much before, but they had each other and they were free. You are condemning these children to a potentially very short life filled with pain, fear, hunger and abuse. Nobody should have to live like that!”

  “Believe me, Harper, ‘a short life filled with pain, fear, hunger and abuse’ is what they have come from,” Pandral said with the grim conviction of experience.

  “And you are happy with that, are you?” Harper snarled. “Somebody must have helped you in the past for you to be here now. Do you not feel a duty to return that favour?”

  Pandral stood so quickly that his chair tipped to the floor with a thud. Slamming his hands down hard on his desk, he glared at Harper across its expanse.

  “You forget yourself!” he hissed.

  Slowly, Harper stood and shook his head, his tone gentle. “No, Jonas, it is you who have forgotten who you are.”

  “Get. Out. Of. My. Sight!” Pandral bit out, his voice cold, quiet and utterly lethal.

  Harper nodded and left. Outside the closed office door, he stopped and sighed. Have I lost his friendship? The possibility hurt more than he was willing to admit. He had pushed too far, but there was no going back. He was not going to apologise; there was misery and suffering right in front of them, and Pandral had the power to do something about it.

  Walking, not really thinking about where he was going, Harper found himself on the battlements of the tower again. Facing west, leaning against the wall and dropping his head onto his arms, Harper watched the sun set. It was a spectacular display of orange, pinks and the deep yellows that splashed the underneath of the clouds, making them glow, stretching the effect far across the horizon.

  The sun had nearly melted into night, stars appearing in the darkening blue above him, when Harper heard movement behind him and a calm, steady voice.

  “I too have found that this is a good place to think.”

  Harper turned, holding Pandral’s gaze in the gathering gloom. “How did you know that this is where I would be?”

  Pandral shrugged. “You were seen coming up here.”

  Harper did not like the idea that someone was watching him without him noticing, but it could just be an innocent observation and he did not want to draw attention to his concern by asking more questions. He knew that nobody would guess what he was doing on most of the occasions that he had climbed to the top of the tower, but an assumption that he came to think was not a bad misconception to cultivate. He would, however, have to be more careful when he began leaving Pandral’s office at night to look for leads to the Source.

  “You are not going to apologise, are you?” Pandral asked as the silence stretched, a sharp, steel edge creeping into the words.

  Harper shook his head. “No, my Lord, I am not.”

  Pandral’s body stiffened. “Then I ask you again, what would you have me do?”

  “Make a deal with Nevlin’s henchmen: their lives for the whereabouts of the children,” Harper said. “I feel certain they would be eager to agree.”

  “And do what with this information?”

  “Send Protectors to get the children and return them to Hemtark,” Harper replied with a tone that said he had expected this step to be obvious. “The life they had is almost certainly better than anything they have now.”

  “And if it is not?”

  “Then they can choose to stay with the men who bought them. But Pandral, the important part here is that they get to make the best choice for themselves, under the circumstances.”

  There was a long silence. Harper turned back, watching the sun sink, giving the Lord time to think. Pandral came to stand next to him, resting his arms on the wall.

  “I can authorise the Enforcer who goes to pass judgement on the men to offer them the trade you suggest,” the Lord said eventually. “But the information would be of no use: diverting the Protectors to find the children would not be considered a justifiable use of resources.”

  In one sentence Pandral had summed up just how restricted he truly was, and Harper found the disillusionment both frustrating and annoying.

  “I thought you were ‘a Lord of Mydren and nobody told you what to do’,” Harper sneered without thinking.

  There was another heavy silence and Pandral sighed. “I should, perhaps, have added, ‘except a Lord of higher rank’ on to that statement.”

  Belatedly, Harper realised that there was nothing in this situation that was Pandral’s fault.

  “I am sorry,” Harper said, and beside him he felt Pandral’s body relax a little. “I am placing blame upon you for rules and expectations that you did not create, but are only forc
ed, like the rest of us, to live within.”

  “And now you understand why I feel thwarted at every turn,” Pandral said with quiet intensity.

  There was another long, heavy silence, and they watched lights begin to flicker to orange, glowing life across Hemtark as darkness fell.

  “Maybe we could ensure that the information Nevlin’s men give us ends up in the hands of Jac,” Pandral suggested eventually.

  “You want the children to rescue their friends?” Harper asked with concern.

  “I would not have classed Jac as a child,” Pandral replied. “Nor some of his older friends I witnessed observing us from the shadows. I will send you with the information and money to help furnish their mission, but this is the best I can offer them.”

  “Thank you,” Harper replied with genuine gratitude.

  “Once again I find that I am going against my better judgement for you, Harper. You appear to have weakened my resolve.”

  Harper smiled. “No, my Lord, I have merely awoken your compassion.”

  Pandral gave him a snort and headed back into the tower with Harper following.

  They were met in the corridor outside Pandral’s office by a Protector whom Harper did not recognise. He stood patiently outside the door in a uniform that, while similar in design to the one Harper was used to wearing, was made of lighter, softer-looking material. It also appeared to be better tailored, with a comfortable open collar.

  “Lord Pandral?” the Protector asked, looking from Pandral’s face to his hand.

  “Yes,” Pandral replied, confirming his identity and showing his gold signet ring as he did. Their visitor gave it quick scrutiny and nodded.

  “I have a message to deliver, my Lord,” the Protector said, handing Pandral a large creamy white envelope with a green wax seal holding it closed.

  Tearing open the letter, his eyes scanning the page, Pandral read in silence. “You are aware of the contents of this letter?” he asked the Protector.

  “I am, my Lord.”

  “And you are to escort me?”

  “I am, my Lord.”

  “Must I go immediately?” Pandral asked, looking down at his dirty, sweaty, bloodstained uniform. “I would prefer to wash first.”

  “My apologies, my Lord, but the summons was for now.”

  “Very well,” Pandral said, turning to Harper. “Clean yourself up and get some dinner. I will speak with you further when I return.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Harper said, watching Pandral follow the Protector down the corridor and wondering where he was going.

  Not knowing how long the Lord would be gone, but seeing an opportunity to continue what he had started, Harper carefully searched Pandral’s office. He skim-read every paper on and in his desk and flicked through every file and book on his shelves. Yet all he found was evidence of the effort, commitment and attention to detail that Pandral gave to his job. He had detailed reports on all ninety-six Hemtark Protectors, their sergeants and captains. Harper was not surprised that his own dossier glossed over him as being useless for little other than giving the appearance of a Protector presence in the town. Yet in Marit’s file, Harper found the reports he had made to Fergus about his colleague’s brutal behaviour, written out in the sergeant’s slow, careful calligraphy. There was also a letter from Fergus to Pandral, expressing concern that his captain has not yet passed on the details of Marit’s behaviour. The letter spoke highly of Harper’s intelligence and abilities, explaining that he felt pairing him with Marit might solve the problem they were having. Pandral did not know about me from just my archery… Fergus was almost recommending my services to him. Why didn’t he mention it? Harper wondered who was manipulating whom. Not that it really mattered—the result was the same—but it elevated Fergus even higher in his estimation, and Pandral, too, for listening to his sergeant.

  As interesting as this information was, however, there was nothing in Pandral’s office about Avatars or the Source, beyond a stack of reports, written in a range of almost illegible scripts, describing the occurrences of those mistaken for Avatars. This information left him feeling despondent.

  Needing distraction, he left Pandral’s office and did as the Lord had ordered. Going for a wash, he shaved off the stubble that was beginning to become a beard and took this rare free time to re-dye his hair: a tricky job with the small amounts of water he was able to use. A lot of trips back and forth to the water pump were required, but fortunately there was nobody around to watch.

  He examined his reflection in the mirror. The man he saw was the Protector called Harper—hard eyes, twisted nose, lips a thin, angry line—but he felt nothing like the strong, capable man he was pretending to be.

  Having washed the worst of the dirt from his uniform, Harper headed back to Pandral’s office. He called Aldrich and tried to order food, but the old man, on discovering that Pandral was not present, had given Harper directions to the kitchens where the tower’s Protectors ate, and left. Not surprised, but thoroughly dejected, tired and hungry, Harper moved to his bed of blankets. Wrapped in its warm comfort, he dropped into restless sleep, only to be tormented by his recurring dreams of Amelia.

  His body was being nudged. Sleep faded, but for a moment he drifted, not wanting to engage, his dreams leaving him miserable and uninterested. Something hard kicked his thigh with a bit more force.

  “Ow! What?” he snapped, rubbing his leg and sitting up.

  Pandral stood over him, a smug grin on his face.

  “Who do you think summoned me?” Pandral said, his eyes bright with excitement.

  “You woke me up to get me to attempt to answer a question to which you already know the answer?” Harper asked with heavy disgust in the Dwarfish.

  Pandral’s face fell, a frown ridging his forehead. “What happened? Is everything well?”

  Wanting to tell Pandral everything and knowing that he could not, anger surged through Harper. He let it out before the potential consequences filtered through his sluggish mind.

  “I looked in the mirror while I was shaving and found a grown man who realised he was getting sick of treasure hunts for traumatised little boys, sleeping on office floors and being woken in the middle of the night to play guessing games. Your little outburst earlier reminded me of what I really am to you—and as you asked me earlier, I ask you now. What do you want from me?”

  Harper caught the hurt in Pandral’s eyes as it flashed past.

  Moving away from him, Pandral sat heavily in the chair behind his desk. When he spoke his expression was distant, his voice uncertain.

  “I have just been to see Lord Tarplan, in the White Tower. He thanked me for finding his grandson. He said he understood my worry for Rodin’s safety and told me that it was none of my concern. I thought of you and your insistence that the boy be protected, so I pushed. Tarplan seemed surprised, but assured me that Rodin would be guarded. He told me my tenacity served me well. But it was not my tenacity—it was yours, Harper. Tarplan is making someone else the head of the Hemtark Protectors and giving me new offices on the fourth floor, with an increase in my stipend. I am to choose four men to work with me, and I will be in charge of solving cases given to me by Lord Tarplan, Lord Bevin and Lord Avery, the three most senior Lords of Mydren.” Pandral paused, turning his head, his black eyes vulnerable and wounded as they held Harper’s gaze. “I have just been given a huge promotion, and the only people I have to share this good news with are Aldrich and you. What I want is something I am not meant to require. I want a friend, Harper. Not someone I need to follow, or someone I need to lead, but someone I can trust to match my pace and direction, to walk with me. I do not want to do this alone anymore.”

  Harper stared at the Lord and for the first time saw fully the conflicted man that the power masked. His guilt punching repeatedly at his heart, Harper sighed. “There is a lot you do not know about me,” he warned. “Just as I suspect that there is a lot about you that I do not know. If one day you should discover the truth, please try
to remember that whoever or whatever else I might be, I am truly your friend.”

  “The past is gone, Harper; I will not judge you for it, any more than I would want you to judge me,” Pandral said. “Friends see past weakness and mistakes to the true soul beneath.”

  Harper forced himself to smile. “Thank you… and congratulations on your promotion. Does this mean your new quarters are on the fourth floor of the White Tower?”

  Pandral snorted his amusement. “No, the fourth floor above us. I am a long way off the White Tower yet.”

  “Do I get a pay rise?” Harper asked with a sly look.

  “I am sure that can be arranged,” Pandral said, grinning at him. Standing and moving around his desk, the Lord looked down at him. The excitement was back. “Come on,” he added. “Get up. You are the reason I have this promotion and I am grateful. I have a surprise for you.”

  Harper dragged his tired body to its feet, looking expectantly at Pandral, who gave an enigmatic smile, turned and walked out of the office. Harper ran to catch up.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You will find out soon,” Pandral told him.

  They walked briskly through the quiet, candlelit hallways, and Harper was surprised when Pandral led him to the main gate.

  “We are going out of the tower?” Harper asked. “My Lord, I am hungry, bruised and need to sleep. Whatever this is, can we do it another night?”

  “You will like this, I promise,” Pandral assured him. “And I thought I told you to eat?”

  “You did. Aldrich was less than helpful on the matter, and I was too tired to go looking for the Protectors’ kitchen, so I went to bed.”

  “We will fix that too then,” Pandral said. “And I think I will look for a new manservant in the morning.”

  Harper tried to feel guilty about Aldrich losing his job and failed. He had overused his guilt tonight and now it just felt like a slight itch on the edge of his mind.