Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3)

by D. Wallace Peach

  Nessa towed on his hand, her eagerness like a child’s within moments of savoring a sweet. “Catling.”

  Catling swung around, peering over her shoulder. Nessa laughed, let go of his hand, and hurried forward in a dainty run, falling to her knees beside Catling, her eyes stuck to Rose as if affixed with glue. The two women shared a welcoming squeeze and then cooed and goggled at the baby. Rose spat a piece of fruit from her mouth. It slipped down her chin, dropped to her old man’s belly, and slid into the pool. Catling cupped it from the water and then washed the baby of juice. “You are forever sticky, my little love.”

  “Oh, she’s sublime,” Nessa said. “What a sweet little berry. I’m tempted to gobble her up.”

  “This is one of her more appetizing moments.”

  Kadan ambled up and rested on a knee, awkward and content with his invisibility. A fleeting glimpse of movement caught his eye. Dalcoran and two men observed the scene from the garden’s end. One was Ambassador Varon Kest from Elan-Sia, the other a stranger with gleaming black hair. Another Cull Tarr?

  Catling grabbed his hand. “It’s so lovely to see you.”

  “So, this is it.” He smiled at the little girl, his uncle’s gray eyes and dark curls unmistakable.

  “She’s her own person,” Catling said, sensing his hesitation.

  “And she’s not an ‘it,’ Kadan.” Nessa rolled her eyes and giggled.

  He offered a hand to the baby, and the last wisps of trepidation slipped from his shoulders, his instantaneous affection for the child surprising him. “Greetings, Cousin Rose. You’re as pretty as your mother.” He wondered if babies noticed things like birthmarks or the arrow’s long scar running from his eye to his ear.

  “She’s perfect, beautiful,” Catling said, her fingers rising to the flaw shading her eye.

  “Is she supposed to be this fat?” he asked.

  Catling laughed. “She’s a tad shy for her age, but the fat is healthy.”

  A breeze caught the mist from the fountain and blew it their way. Rose squinted and shared a toothy smile, a long string of drool glinting in the dappled sunlight. Catling lifted the naked child from the water and settled her in her lap, drying her with the hem of her underdress. “It seems like years since we’ve seen each other. I imagine everything is changing in Mur-Vallis.”

  “It improves,” Kadan said. He glanced over Catling’s shoulder and sighed with relief to see their observers gone.

  “He’s humble.” Nessa reached out to brush a hand down his arm. “Mur-Vallis no longer hunts clansmen and hangings have ceased for all but the most violent offenses. The first tier is open to everyone with few complaints.”

  “Corruption is rampant,” Kadan added. “The tier wards are threatening an uprising, and the underlords are their closest allies. Gannon’s father is the main instigator.”

  “He’s exaggerating,” Nessa said. “It takes time, but life improves daily.”

  “Gannon is here with the queen,” Catling said, “though I’m uncertain if he can help.”

  “May I hold her?” Nessa asked, reaching with greedy fingers.

  “Of course. Only be prepared for… you know.”

  “I’m perfectly willing to take the risk.” Nessa accepted the baby and placed her in the center of her lap. Her fingers spidered up the chubby legs, drawing a merry chortle and fresh string of drool.

  Catling leaned back on her hands. “Your mother, Kadan. Is she recovering?”

  “You’re kind to ask,” he replied, “considering what she did. She’s fragile, and we measure recovery in small steps. Influence eases her anxiety.”

  “It wasn’t her fault.” Catling gazed at him. “We must put it behind us. I don’t plan to drag it around wherever I go, and neither should you. It’s done, and no amount of wishing will undo it. The three of us have a week in Ava-Grea, and who can guess when we’ll see each other again.”

  Kadan’s shoulders relaxed. “I believe we are due for an evening of celebration. I know the perfect place to get tippled.”

  “I can’t,” Catling said. “The queen forbids it, and…” She tilted her head toward the yawning tot. “And someone needs a nap.”

  “So does someone else.” Nessa patted Kadan’s arm.

  Kadan grinned. “I won’t argue with that.”

  ***

  Moist air drawn through the pylons from deep beneath the riverbed cooled the visitors’ quarters but not enough to counter the breath of a midday sun. Rose slept in Catling’s arms, clothed and dry, her cheek mashed and sweating against Catling’s shoulder. “You need to learn to walk soon,” Catling whispered, the child’s bulk straining her back. She ambled the corridor toward Lelaine’s suite of rooms. Queen’s Guardsmen crowded the space outside the door. Her own chamber lay one door down, her guard idling with the rest.

  They tracked her approach, and when they didn’t press themselves to the walls, she suspected they would thwart any effort to waltz past them with the sleeping baby. Lelaine hadn’t mentioned Rose since that day in Elan-Sia, nor did she make allowances for Catling to tend to her motherly duties. The vow came first; Catling’s shield continued to rule her hours, and she would give Lelaine no reason to question her choices. In a small corner of her heart, she knew the queen was right; Rose was a weak gate in the fortress wall. She was also right about Catling. For her daughter’s sake, she would break her vow without a breath’s hesitation.

  “The queen wishes your presence.” A guard swept his arm toward the door with a respectful bow.

  “Is anyone in there with her?” Catling asked.

  “Doyen Vianne-Ava.”

  Catling sighed. She’d face the doyen eventually. “Anyone else?”

  The man nodded. “Falco Linc.” She gave him a puzzled frown, and he clarified, “The Cull Tarr ambassador.”

  “The doyen have an ambassador?” She puffed her cheeks. “The Cull Tarr breed like river rats; they’re everywhere.”

  “Apparently so.” The guard chuckled.

  “I suppose I’m without a choice,” she muttered. The man hit the panel, and the door slid open. Colton eyed her before stepping aside.

  She entered, assessing the room for influence. Lelaine lounged in a cushioned chair, sipping on a goblet of wine, and Vianne rose, tossing aside her lace in a hurry to greet her. Little about the doyen had changed, her jacket and underdress bone white, her hair elaborately styled and threaded with pearls. The gray at her temples flourished, and the fine lines around her eyes and mouth deepened, but she possessed her usual supreme bearing and aura of control.

  “Catling,” she said quietly, the smile genuine as she stroked Rose’s wispy curls. She leaned in, maneuvering for a peek at the sleeping face. “And this must be Rose. Oh, she’s so dear. A sleepy-head.”

  Catling couldn’t help but return the smile, Vianne’s cooing unexpected and sweet. The doyen never bonded or bore children, perhaps a matter of vows and duty, perhaps a lingering regret. “She’s worn out,” Catling whispered. She shifted her gaze to the Cull Tarr ambassador, a handsome man with oiled black hair and bright eyes, his skin the color of a man who frequented the sea and sun.

  “My respects.” He bowed. “Falco Linc, the Shiplord’s ambassador to your guild. I observed you earlier in the garden and intended to introduce myself but elected not to disturb your play.”

  “My respects. I’m Catling, Influencer to Her Grace Lelaine-Elan.” She dipped her head to the extent she was able, hiding her annoyance at his admission. “I didn’t notice you but appreciate your discretion.”

  “From the warrens?” he asked. “You have no surname. Unheard of that a child of the warrens would train as an influencer.”

  Catling tilted her head in question, noting the wariness in Lelaine’s face and Vianne’s soft huff beside her. “I was fortunate. Vianne took pity on me when I was orphaned.”

  “And you grow up to stand beside the queen of all Ellegeance. You must hold extraordinary talent to garner such notice.”

  �
��Your arms must be aching,” Vianne said. “How rude to leave you standing there with a sleeping baby. Take my seat; we have a schedule to review and other arrangements to complete.” Assuming command in her usual style, she grasped Catling’s elbow and directed her to her vacated chair. She then pivoted to face the ambassador. “I believe we concluded our previous discussion, and the queen has a pressing agenda.”

  “Of course.” Linc bowed. “I apologize for my curiosity. I’m new to Ellegeance and wish only to learn. I shall gladly wait for a more convenient opportunity. Your Grace, Vianne-Ava, Catling, I leave you to your plans.”

  Lelaine raised her goblet to him in salute, and he departed. Colton tapped the panel, closing the door behind him.

  “That man.” Vianne hauled in a breath and sank into the chair across from Catling. “Despite his smile, he is as oily as a fish. I have no idea where his interest originates.”

  Catling repositioned Rose so the baby slept cradled in her arms. “He said he watched me today.”

  The queen raised an eyebrow. “I agreed to the ambassadors’ presence so we might gain information about them and their intrigues, not the other way around.”

  “It’s a blade with twin edges,” Vianne muttered. “The Cull Tarr hardly attempt to disguise the Shiplord’s ambitions. I worry about their interest in Catling.”

  “I trust it’s mere curiosity.” Lelaine tightened her eyes and sharpened her tongue. “If our secret is known to the Cull Tarr, I shall have to kill them along with our gossip. My shield is most effective if her prowess remains a secret.”

  “You might send your ambassadors back to the Shiplord,” Vianne said. “I understand your motives, but they are more trouble than they’re worth. Or assign shadows to observe them. We must consider the potential threat, Lelaine, before it’s too late.”

  The queen regarded the doyen, weighing the advice. “You aren’t wrong. This was a mistake. Yet, neither is it time to offend the Shiplord. I can’t afford another conflict. We’ll do this slowly and with care. In the meantime, I stress to both of you the importance of hiding Catling’s abilities.”

  “Nothing has changed in that regard,” Vianne assured her.

  Catling lacked the doyen’s confidence. She questioned if her cloak of secrecy in Ava-Grea had begun to unravel. The guild’s doyen had quarreled with each other about her since she’d first arrived in the city, and other than Vianne, they’d sought to destroy her. Lelaine protected her, but what if Lelaine’s threats no longer promised a sharp enough sting? What if the queen’s enemies found a flaw? What if that flaw was Catling? What if Catling’s flaw was Rose?

  “Has Rose shown any signs of influence?” Vianne asked, smiling at the sleeping baby, her attempt at casualness transparent.

  Catling chuckled, the sound hollow in her ears. “Vianne, she’s not a year old. She can’t walk or talk. She’s a baby.”

  “I just wondered,” Vianne said, “whether you felt her emotions move you or something similar. I don’t know how it works or whether it truly transfers at all. It might be wishful thinking or… unwished for thinking on the part of parents.” She picked up her tatting, organizing the spools on her lap. “Have you given any thought to training her?”

  “She’s a baby, Vianne.” Catling frowned, the inquiry irritating.

  “I simply wondered.”

  “Are you wondering for yourself or for the guild?” Catling’s ire bit off her words. “Who wants to know? You? Dalcoran? Brenna? What if I don’t intend her to train with anyone? What if her destiny is simply to be a child, free of all this manipulation and intrigue?”

  Vianne stared at her, and Lelaine arched an eyebrow, the words similar to the ones she’d harangued Catling with only weeks ago. That Lelaine’s warning may have been correct, burned hotter than Vianne’s false innocence.

  “Tetchy,” Vianne said. “Dalcoran expressed an interest.”

  “You may tell him whatever you desire, Vianne. Whatever will satisfy him and keep him at bay.” Catling stood, preparing to march out, her sleeping child a limp doll in her arms. “But I assure you, Rose will never wear the scars of an influencer. He will need to kill me first.”

  Chapter Nine

  The conclave’s first day dizzied Catling’s head, the realm’s challenges filling the bucket in her brain to overflowing. She squished with Kadan and Minessa onto the benches of the guild’s grand hall. Fontine sat farther down, frowning and glancing at the door with worry since Chava had failed to attend.

  Influencers gathered from all the reaches of Ellegeance. Not long ago, all that power had impressed and frightened Catling to the point of panic. Now, a jaded woman of twenty, the only thought occurring to her was that if Lelaine sought to rid the land of influencers, the conclave was the opportune place and time.

  She had left Rose in Mireld’s capable hands, glad she’d done so, and hoped they’d found a shady arbor to play.

  Days before Summertide, heat stuffed the enclosed air with a tang of sweat that overpowered the fetid green of the surrounding swamp. The initial session finished, she waited for her turn to escape, the congregants clogging the aisles, conversation droning like a beehive as long separations ended and friends homed in on familiar faces.

  Here and there, influence stole into the air, a smattering of oathbreakers subtly scaling the spectrum from love to loathing. Moira-Nor counted among them, her stern demeanor unchanged from her days in Elan-Sia. Catling had encouraged the queen to dismiss her, a contentious decision, and yet, fortunate for Vianne since Moira had saved her life in Nor-Bis. At times, life seemed oddly tangled, an immense cobweb of chanced connections that changed by the day.

  The conclave’s morning had amounted to one long complaint with a dribble of solutions, none of them quick or painless. She reached across Minessa and tapped Kadan’s arm. “I’m meeting with Lelaine. Don’t be surprised if you’re summoned.”

  “So much for getting tippled,” he griped, his second chance foiled.

  “You’d think all he does is drink.” Minessa smirked and shuffled down the bench, the path to fresh air starting to clear.

  “I’m attempting to form a habit,” Kadan muttered, “without a drop of luck.”

  Catling inched forward. “If you don’t hear from her in an hour, you’re free to pursue your goal. I, however, am committed.”

  In less than an hour, messengers scurried and guards assembled. His luck none improved, Kadan would spend another night in Ava-Grea as a sober man.

  Catling tagged behind Lelaine as she marched up the staircase to the twelfth tier to convene with the doyen. The queen signaled for a shield, and Catling prayed to the Founders for patience, having anticipated the request an hour ago. The guild’s home city brimmed with initiates heaped on top of aspirants with their bald heads and newly carved woads. Lelaine was having none of it, her cheeks flushed and forehead stitched with irritation.

  A glance at Gannon revealed a man in an equally foul mood, all his wrestling to elevate the warrens’ poor and grant them opportunities seemed stymied by bickering and mired in irrelevant details. Influencer loyalties resided with the tier wards, granting the past’s stodgy structures unfair advantages. Catling hadn’t applied any influence to soften her peers’ arguments, and with little opposition to their points of view, the sentiment at the conclave swelled into a disappointing consensus regardless of the written agreements Gannon so painstakingly crafted—at the cost of lives, no less.

  Colton stood by the doyen’s meeting room door, keeping an eye on the proceedings as servants rearranged the furniture to accommodate additional chairs. They served greenleaf and wine. Salvers of pastries garnished the tables, and Springseed flowers brightened the corners.

  Catling took a discreet seat slightly rear of Lelaine. The doyen sat like lesser nobles, the four of them and the queen forming a constellation in the middle of the plush carpet. Gannon paced like a caged lynx, and Kadan found a seat near Dalcoran, the two of them falling into quiet conversation.

&nbs
p; Dalcoran’s stiff back lent him an appearance of authority fitting his personality. He glanced at Catling and bowed his head to Lelaine. “Welcome, Your Grace. We appreciate the opportunity to address your concerns. With your permission, we’ll begin with the reports from the tiers.”

  “Indeed.” Lelaine sipped her wine, her temper under control. “I would be a hearty fool to expect the turmoil of the Tiers’ Rebellion to simply evaporate with the signing of pieces of paper. Resistance from the tiers, high wards, and guilds doesn’t shock me in the least. What surprises and disappoints me is that your guild permits this to occur.”

  Brenna opened her mouth. “We don’t—”

  “You most assuredly do,” Lelaine said, silencing the woman. “I understand some of your influencers support the high wards in violation of the terms that ended the conflict. They not only defy the queen’s law, but they ignore their primary oath to Ellegeance.”

  Catling tested the air for influence and found none though she imagined the doyen were tempted. She pinned her gaze on Vianne who glared at Dalcoran. Brenna kept her teeth clamped like a vise, and Gannon scowled by the window.

  The most recent addition to the doyen’s council, Neven-Kar, steepled his fingers. “May I?”

  “Of course,” Lelaine said.

  “Loyalties and oaths fuel a remorseless discussion among the doyen, Your Grace. After the Tiers’ Rebellion, Vianne-Ava proposed a realignment of vows, replacing Ellegeance at the top—which is routinely subject to a diversity of interpretations—with the vow to the guild.”

  Catling squeaked, shocked that Lelaine didn’t spit out her wine. The queen leaned forward in her chair. “You must all be mad.”

  Neven chuckled. “Which explains why we resist taking that step. But Vianne is correct; a primary vow to the guild would enable us to set exacting limits on our influencers with detailed guidelines. We share your conclusion, Your Grace, that the individual freedom to interpret our guild’s oath to Ellegeance contributed to the chaos in Nor-Bis.”