She looked disturbingly familiar, and for half a heartbeat Julian latched on to that. But then his attention shot to the other woman, the one in the chair, and he lost all trace of what the maid had said.
Twelve years had changed her. She was still lovely, still graceful. But her features had refinement and character now, enough subtle traces of the passage of time to give her beauty distinction—even as she turned startled and then suspicious eyes upon him. With an effort, he pulled his attention from her, doffed the simple cap he’d acquired, and bowed to them both.
“Begging your pardon, ladies, but I thought I saw my lady’s dog come running in here. Got away from her this morning, it did, and she’s had me scouring the streets for it since. Don’t suppose either of you’ve seen a wretched little—” Julian pretended to catch himself, and then smiled winningly. “Begging your pardon again. I meant to say, a brown-and-tan dog? Curly hair. About the size of that.” He nodded at the teapot on the table. “Squeaks if you give him biscuits.”
“We’ve seen no such creature,” the maid stiffly replied.
“Wait.” Dulcinea rose from her chair and came forward, her voice entirely at ease, yet her gaze locked on Julian’s face. “What did you say your name is, sir? And who is your employer?”
She knew. He’d let his beard begin to grow over the past few days, to aid his unprepossessing servant’s look. But Dulcinea had known his every feature once, and she stared long and searchingly at him now. “Richard Dennelsen, milady. I drive the carriage for the Andershaal family. And look after their dogs.”
Looking distinctly unimpressed, the maid glowered at Julian—but Dulcinea had chosen to enter the conversation, and the other woman had little choice but to stand back and let her employer talk. “As well as looking for them, it would seem. Mr. Dennelsen, we haven’t seen a dog around the grounds. But if we do, I’ll see to it personally that word is sent to the Andershaals that their pet has been found. Have you a card?”
“Right here, milady.” Julian fished one of the same cards Rab had forged out of a pocket and presented it for Dulcinea’s inspection. “Well, not mine, of course, they’re Mister Malcolm’s, but my lady has him on the hunt too and he wanted me to take a few. You know, in case. He may come by here himself.”
She accepted the card, as he thought she might. If she recognized the address it bore as that of a boardinghouse, she gave no sign of it—as he’d hoped. Then she glanced at the back of the card, as Julian had prayed she’d do, for that was the last part of the plan he and Rab had hastily concocted. Twelve years, though, had given her far more control over her comportment than he remembered. Not a trace of reaction flickered across her face, and her voice remained scrupulously polite as she said, “Thank you, Mr. Dennelsen. I hope you find your lady’s dog, and if we see your Mister Andershaal, we’ll let him know the same. Now if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to return to my tea.”
“Yes’m. You ladies have a nice day now.”
He bowed again, the servant’s bow he’d perfected with years of practice, and promptly backed out of the garden the way he’d come. Not even when he was out of sight of the women did he drop his character; that wouldn’t be safe until he and Rab were well out of the district. Nor could he let himself call it a victory, not yet. Not when even after the intervening years, proximity to Dulcinea had done uncomfortable things to his pulse, and not when he had no idea yet whether she’d act upon the short message he’d written on the back of Rab’s card.
I’m sorry.
Chapter Fifteen
Shalridan, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 2, AC 1876
Alarrah had been right. Camden, heretofore the biggest town Faanshi had ever seen, had no basis of comparison whatsoever to Shalridan. She’d had only the dimmest notion of what it had meant that her former master had been the duke of the place, and on that basis alone, she’d have disliked it even without the threat of Hawk capture and death hanging over all their heads.
But no one had quite made it clear to her just how big the city was, or how noisy, even at night. For the past four years Faanshi’s nights had been filled with the silence of Lomhannor Hall’s cellar, and since then, any noises at night were almost soothing. The wilds, Dolmerrath and even Arlitham Abbey—the sounds of them had reassured her of her freedom, that she was no longer confined, no longer alone.
Shalridan, by comparison, almost deafened her.
They came into the city by water, first by rowboat and then in the hold of a three-masted schooner. Faanshi had no time to grasp her first sight of the sea, past an impression of great glimmering darkness, before she and the others were hustled into the hold amid crates of smoked fish, salted pork and oranges. She had only impressions as well of the men and women who worked the ship, of rough voices and dour faces. After that, there was the creaking of the vessel in motion, the muted rush of the waves beyond the hull, and the bustle of activity all over the boat.
The bustle grew progressively louder, joined first by deep booming blasts that made her flinch, for the only thing she’d ever heard like it was the explosion of her own magic in the abbey—and that of the Anreulag. But Alarrah drew her into a light hug where they huddled between the crates, and murmured, “Foghorn. They use them when it’s foggy so that the boats in the harbor and the ones along the river won’t run into each other.”
It was logical, though not comforting, for those were the only words her enorrè uttered during the hours they spent in the hold. The others stayed silent too, long after the vessel finally bumped to a stop. They waited, while the bustle and the foghorn blasts continued above, until the captain and two of her crew came to escort them out of the hold.
“All clear,” the captain said as they emerged, blinking, onto the deck. “The next watch patrol is in half an hour. Kirinil, you’re taking a damned fool risk coming into the city. At least fourteen confirmed Hawks have been spotted in the streets.”
“We know,” Kirinil said, “but it’s important. And it’s for her.”
He nodded at Faanshi, which turned the captain’s attention to her—and to her surprise, the woman blinked at the sight of her. But no explanation was offered, and none asked for. There was no time for further conversation. Kirinil slipped the captain a roll of banknotes, yet another thing Faanshi had never seen before, and then he and Alarrah led their small group off the boat and out into the docks of Shalridan.
Fog blanketed much of everything in sight, letting Faanshi glimpse only the passing dark shapes of people of whose function and place she had no real surety. They could have been dockhands or sailors, watchmen or priests; in the darkness and fog she did well to glimpse them at all, much less any detail of frame or clothing that might have told her more. But she heard them, constant footsteps and lowly calling voices echoing back and forth through the night. The foghorn sang its periodic single note, and beyond all else, the ceaseless rush of the ocean moved in and out of her hearing, never quite letting it go.
All of this in the middle of the night, she thought, dazed by everything she heard around her. How much louder does it get in daylight?
She wanted to ask, but Kirinil and Alarrah kept them moving, and Julian’s teachings of keep quiet when I tell you and run when I tell you were too heavily ingrained for questions to seem wise now.
All thoughts of the Rook, too, she had to keep to herself. But that didn’t stop her from wondering if he and Rab had come to the city, and how they could find them if they had. Or from worrying that he hadn’t been truly strong enough to abandon his recovery. Or from wanting to shout at him, or shake him in her frustration, or find the words to persuade him to kiss her again.
Or from doing the same to him, herself.
That notion, so alien to any thought she’d ever had before, scalded her cheeks even as she hurried through the foggy night with the others. Their need for speed and stealth was surely, therefore, a blessing of Djashtet—for if any of the others had required her to speak, Faanshi wasn’t at all sure that she could have utte
red a syllable.
Three streets away from the docks, as the noise of activity there began to fade, other sounds rose to replace it—voices and laughter and occasional music spilling forth from places she supposed were taverns. With them came the smells of the place, fighting with the scent of the sea for dominance in her awareness until she had to marvel at the strength of them, and that the night noise of the place had distracted her first. Fish, cooked and uncooked; oil burning in occasional streetlamps; new paint on a building they passed, a splash of fresh white against the darkness; and countless odors of horses, of mud and straw in the streets, and of rivulets of watery refuse trickling into metal grates set low into the cobblestones of the streets.
Five streets from the docks, when Alarrah pulled them into an alley out of the line of sight of the street, Faanshi was fighting to catch her breath—and to keep from retching into one of those grates.
“Breathe through your mouth if you have to,” Kirinil advised her, taking her briefly by the shoulder. His voice was the softest of whispers, and he left off the valannè she’d come to half expect when he addressed her, for any chance word of Elvish might betray them to listening ears. “We all have to adjust when we come here.”
He beckoned them to follow him deeper into the alley, till they reached the closed wooden flaps of a coal chute. Upon this, Alarrah rapped three times in quick succession, followed by a second syncopated burst. The chute promptly opened from within, and a wizened, white-haired man glowered up at them from inside.
“Well, get in then, get yourselves out of sight!”
In they went, one at a time. Faanshi went first at Alarrah’s nudge, and slid gratefully down the chute without much caring what awaited her below. The smell of coal was overpowering, but an improvement over the smells of dung above. As they came down from outside, black dust coated them all, enough of it that Faanshi sneezed and had to rub a clean portion of her sleeve across her eyes to clear it from her sight. Oddly, though, she didn’t mind. It reminded her of Julian, similarly coated in ash, when she’d first seen him at Lomhannor Hall.
Just as brisk as the boat captain had been, the man didn’t bother to introduce himself. He merely gave a grudging nod to Kirinil before hauling open a trapdoor in the stone floor of the basement room where they’d arrived, and waving them all on insistently.
“Go on, go on, they’re expecting you! No, damn it all, I don’t want your money.” The man waved off the banknotes Kirinil began to offer him, and thrust a gnarled finger at Faanshi. “If that one can do what they’re saying, then seeing her is good enough for me.”
Faanshi started. “Akreshi, do you know me?”
With a snort, he looked her up and down. “Tantiu elf lass, aye? How many more of you can there be? Word of you is spreading all over the province, girl. You’re the one who stood up to the Anreulag.”
* * *
“How in the name of the Mother of Stars do they know?”
Alarrah was the first to explode with the question, but not until the four of them had followed their contact’s urging and hurried through the trapdoor that led them down into a network of tunnels lined with stones more rounded and pitted with age than the bricks of the buildings above. There was no light save for the small lamp their contact had thrust into Faanshi’s hands before she’d had to descend the ladder.
“Several of the akreshi duke’s guards saw what happened in the abbey.” Semai was the largest and slowest of them all, yet he was keeping up with the elves without any apparent effort on his part save for a faint breathiness to his voice. “If word of the young akresha and her deed is spreading, it must surely have started with them.”
“What I want to know,” Kirinil said, “is who’s doing the spreading, and whether it’ll work for or against us.”
He was taking his turn to lead them through more tunnels and passageways than Faanshi had been able to easily count. She grew more tired with each successive step, and she had no idea of the time or how close they were to the next sunrise. Only the ridah rhymes, whispered to herself, had kept her feet moving—until Alarrah had voiced the question that was haunting them all.
“Could it be a good thing?” Faanshi asked, more plaintively than she wanted to sound, which only served to remind her of another of Julian’s lessons. Speak up if you need rest. “Kirinil...Alarrah...are we almost where we need to be? I don’t think I can walk much farther, and the lamp’s oil is low.”
Alarrah paused beside her and squeezed her shoulder, just enough to let a trickle of power ease her frame. “Not far now. Bear up just a little longer.”
“And as to the other question,” Kirinil added, “that’s part of what we’ll have to discover.”
Her sister was, however, true to her word. Two more twists of the tunnel marked their path before it opened up abruptly onto a much wider space. At the sight of it, Faanshi had to stop in weary awe.
It was nothing like the center chamber of Dolmerrath, at least to her initial glance. The walls had been built rather than carved by water through stone, and there was no blending of sculpted and living trees in the center. No light of sun or moon or the stars spilled down from above. Yet there was light all the same, lamps like the one she carried, along with more delicate constructions of brightly painted paper, casting dim halos of light out into the space.
Two people approached them, a pair of wiry young men in ragtag clothing, who called out challenges that Kirinil promptly answered. Faanshi barely noticed what words passed between them, for once the size of the place struck her, her magic surged awake.
There was sickness here, fevers burning under skin and coughs rattling in chests and throats. Someone slept uneasily, drawing in rattling breaths through lungs racked by infection. Someone else was curled around the misery of a belly filling slowly with blood. And there was injury—a shattered leg, broken fingers and a blow to someone’s head that still pulsed in dull waves, blurring senses. Someone had been stabbed, someone else had been shot, and both reminded her so abruptly of Kestar and Julian that she couldn’t hold back an audible sob.
Worst of all, nearly driving her to her knees, was the roiling awareness that someone beyond the range of her sight—but not of her power—had been felled by an illness devouring them from within, gnawing away at the very substance of blood and bone.
“Astàllemerron! What’s wrong with her?”
“Great Lady of Time—”
“Enorrè, I have you.” Everyone else’s voices swam through her awareness, but Alarrah’s was clearest, for her sister caught her before she could drop to the old stone floor beneath their feet. Only then, with the she-elf supporting her, did Faanshi realize that both their hands were glowing. “Remember your shields!”
Her inner hearth. Faanshi squeezed her eyes shut and frantically sought it, but all she could find within her was a snarl of formless radiance. “So many of them.” Even her own voice sounded like someone else’s, choked and shaking, somewhere outside the light. “Alarrah, I can’t do this!”
“You can. And I know, I feel them too. Kirinil, she must burn this off. Now.”
Faanshi lifted her head, just enough to see Kirinil whirling back to the two startled men who’d stopped them, and who gaped at her now in wide-eyed shock. “Don’t argue,” he said. “Let them through, and they can help anyone who needs it.”
What the men might have said in reply Faanshi never heard. She knew only that all at once, Alarrah was helping her stumble forward into the open space before them, and that her sister’s power had somehow linked with her own. It didn’t let her rebuild her mental hearth, but it did give her enough clarity to let her consciously follow where Alarrah led. In the light of her hands she could see crude tents of canvas and wood, as well as cubbyholes in the walls. As Alarrah began to call out, faces began to peek out from the nearest of both of these, and Faanshi had just enough focus to ask for and receive the permission of the first man they found before she actually touched him.
His was the broken
hand. How his fingers had been smashed she couldn’t discern, but it didn’t really matter. Not when Alarrah’s magic paced her own, and let her coax the bones within those fingers back to the shape they’d been before. Faanshi almost giggled at that, for hadn’t she grown Julian a whole new hand? After that, mending a hand that still existed seemed bizarrely simple.
That man’s cry of amazement drew others out of the shadows even before the healers could reach them. Faanshi vaguely noted Semai looming nearby, and politely but firmly keeping too many strangers at once from overwhelming them. Kirinil began to circulate through the tents, answering the calls of those startled awake by the sudden light—and scouting the way for where she needed to go next.
The ones with fever and cough—influenza, Alarrah whispered to her at some point, though Faanshi never quite marked when or where—were easiest. With Alarrah’s power guiding her, it took barely a touch to burn that sickness out of those afflicted. The wounded ones, too, had problems she’d faced before. But then a young woman barely older than she, her exhausted eyes alight with hope above a tattered veil, pushed past Semai and put a baby into her arms.
Twin shocks stopped her cold. She’d never before held an infant, and that alone filled Faanshi with momentary panic. But what shocked her even more, and what galvanized her anew, was the voice of the mother addressing her in Tantiu.
“Noonmother bless you, akresha, please heal my baby. Heal my little boy!”
Later, she’d remember murmuring an assent. But in that moment all she really noticed was the blanket-wrapped form she’d been given. He smelled of blood, although he was clean, and didn’t move; he barely breathed, and she had to hold him close to catch the faint gurgling breaths that were his only sign of life. The moment she touched him she sensed the illness raging in his tiny belly, where delicate flesh had ruptured.
“Gently, enorrè,” Alarrah said beside her. Her magic strengthened against Faanshi’s own, pulling it back until she could keep from flooding the baby’s body with too much power. Together they enveloped the little one in a sphere of palest gold, until Faanshi was sure she’d chased away his sickness. She thought she heard Alarrah urging her to tell the mother her son would be well, and that the blood left still within him would pass through him as all things passed through living creatures; she did her best to translate, though she was growing so weary that she could barely form words in Adalonic, much less Tantiu.
Vengeance of the Hunter Page 18