A rabbit, looking slightly confused, sat on the threshold, just then lifting her paw to scratch behind a floppy gray ear.
“Magic!” the child cried.
Of a kind, Usha thought, looking at the charcoal sketch.
Lines and curves had changed, shifted, and little girl with the basket of lettuce on her lap had become a lovely young woman in elegant white mage robes, smiling with Gussie’s bright eyes at a rabbit sitting on her knee.
The rain that had threatened all day began to fall in fat drops when Usha and Dez were a long block from the Ivy. About then, the two spoke for the first time since leaving the pigments shop.
“Your brother,” Usha said, “is fortunate to have someone to come so quickly to his defense before defense is needed.”
“Why shouldn’t I defend him?” Dez bristled and shot Usha a narrow glance. “He’s your husband. Why shouldn’t you think he cares enough to worry about you?”
“Recent history,” Usha said, “speaks rather loudly on that score.”
The rain fell harder, like needles on the skin. The only people they saw were those scurrying to get indoors. Silence between the two grew colder. When they reached the Ivy, soaked to the skin, Dez walked in the door trailing water and ordering ale. Usha went up the stairs to their room.
The room seemed a bare, tiny place in the gathering gloom. She’d replaced the clothing she’d lost in the fire with two sensible skirts, blouses, hose, another pair of shoes. They lay on the bed, looking like someone else’s clothing. Thinking herself petty, even as she felt it, Usha missed her closet at home, the neatly hung skirts, folded blouses and gowns both common and festive. She lifted a hand to her ear and missed the weight of earrings.
“It is home I miss,” she whispered. She missed more than that. She missed Palin. But she would not frame the feeling in words, let alone whisper it aloud.
Rain drummed against the shuttered windows, and shadows lurked in the corners. Usha lighted the lamps, but she was little cheered. She did not speak with Dezra again until morning when they came out of the inn with most of the other guests and much of the staff to hear what was being cried in the street.
“Hear!” shouted a small man who walked before a chain-mailed, mounted knight. The small man rang a big bell loudly. “By order of the commander of the occupation, Sir Radulf Eigerson”—Clang! Clang!—“the city of Haven will be ruled as ever”—Clang!—“by the Lord Mayor and his Council!”
He lifted the bell to ring again, then felt the knight’s horse nudge him in the back and he muffled the brass with his hand.
“The Lord Mayor and his Council will be guided by Sir Radulf Eigerson. Haven’s system of magistrates will be disbanded. The people will not carry weapons. Breach of this order will be considered the high crime of treason. In all criminal matters, including breach of Sir Radulf’s orders and Haven’s peace, justice will be meted out by Lady Mearah, adjudicator for Sir Radulf. Milady’s justice will be swift, and it will be fair.”
In the gathered crowd a murmur of anger and fear rose, then fell as the crier shouted that the people of Haven were to go about their business as usual. Then he and the knight passed on along the street, the clanging of the bell resuming as they turned a corner.
“The high crime of treason.” Dezra laughed. “Against what? Good sense? And not a word about loosening control of the roads.”
Usha shook her head. “And nothing about passes.” She looked out across the road, up to where Sir Radulf’s soldiers walked the walls. “It’s like being in prison.”
Dez snorted. “He can’t keep a whole city imprisoned. He’s got to know that will get him a population boiling to get out. And he can’t keep the merchant fleet in the harbors, or he’s got nothing to send back to his masters. Sooner or later, he’ll open the river gates and let the captains man their ships. He’ll let them go—with armed knights aboard to make sure they come back. It’s wealth Sir Radulf is here for, nothing more. And granting passes so a few merchants can come and go on the roads again will take the pressure off a restless population.”
“I don’t see why he should let merchants go,” Usha said, “and think they’ll come back again.”
A grim smile twisted Dezra’s lips. The sight of it chilled Usha.
“Dez, what… ?”
“A man might not come back for his business once he’s left it. But he will come back for his kin.”
In the distance, Usha heard the ringing of other bells and imagined she heard the voices of other criers as news of Sir Radulf’s orders went through the city. The two women met each other’s eyes for the first time since their dispute.
“Hostages, Dez? Against the return of the merchants?”
“I’m no commander of knights.” The moment stretched out in silence, then Dez shrugged a little. “But that’s what I’d do.”
5
With a parcel of bread, fragrant and still warm from the ovens, under her arm, Dezra threaded the narrow alley between the high south wall of Rose Hall and the stable of Aline’s near neighbor. Worn by years of rain, the path wound a little and dipped unevenly at inconvenient places. She knew every dip and swerve of the short cut between Wrackham Street and the side door of the bakery Dalan Forester ran with his brother. She’d taken it for the past several nights and, like a new path through a thick forest, it became quickly familiar.
Dezra had discovered the route by chance the day after the dragons came, for as soon as she could separate from Usha and Aline, she’d gone to see how Dalan and his brother had fared.
“Well enough,” he’d told her, sweeping her into a bear’s hug and lifting her off her feet. He’d smelled of fresh bread and smoke. His arms were thick and strong from carrying sacks of flour and cords of wood.
His brother had snorted at Dalan’s understatement, but Dez heard relief in Rolf’s voice when he said, “He’s doing better now he sees you. We worried, Dez.”
He’d said no more and left the lovers to their reunion. And a fine reunion it had been, Dez thought now, slipping through the shadows. That reunion, and the ones that followed. While she was happy to make the ride to Haven each year for the Inn of the Last Home, Dalan was Dezra’s prime reason for returning to Haven each summer’s end. Had been for the last five years. A man happy to welcome her, sorry to see her go, and glad to have her back in her own time. In Dezra’s estimation, there could be no better sort of lover. The thought that he might have been killed in the attack…
She shook her head, unwilling to dwell on fears not realized.
The narrow alley curved against the lay of the stable yard. Dezra kept her mind on her way. It was not an unguarded way. She crooked a smile, not by any means. The dwarf Dunbrae held it. Aline’s faithful watchdog. His fangs were sharp enough, Dez knew, and they wouldn’t flash at her. But she was in no mood to stand on the corner and talk. She was tired, feeling a shadow of loneliness trailing behind her, and wondering whether she should have spent the night in Dalan’s bed after all and simply gone back to the Ivy in the morning.
But no. She never had before. No reason to start now, just because Dalan had it suddenly in mind that the way back was too dangerous. Dez had laughed at that, then bristled when he pressed his case. What were a few knights clanking around the city to her? They were easy enough to avoid. She’d kissed Dalan goodbye and stopped at the door to the bakehouse behind the shop where Rolf was carefully removing trays of loaf pans from the fiery maws of two round ovens. They spoke for a moment or two in the hot, bright room. She helped herself to a warm, crusted loaf of dark bread at Rolf’s invitation and slipped out the door and into the chill of night’s darkest hour.
Dez stopped in the shadow of the hedge of sharp-leafed firethorn that marked the boundary between Aline’s property and her neighbor’s. Moonlight illuminated the night, and she saw Dunbrae walk into the pool of shadow at the mouth of the alley. Dez could just make out his motions as he lifted his head, like an old dog finding news on the wind.
When he
went perfectly still, so did Dezra.
Dez breathed silently through parted lips. In the cloaking shadows Dunbrae had the look of a man brought to alert. He had a little magic, a fine onyx ring purchased in Palanthas that would allow him to know a person’s intent, and he seldom failed to use it.
And if it’s me he’s head-cocked and listening to, he’s about to laugh and wave me through.
Dunbrae touched the helve of the throwing axe at his belt, as a man does who is making sure of his weapon. A chill of warning skittered up Dezra’s spine. Out the corner of her eye she saw figure slip into the alley between her and the dwarf. A cat yowled behind the stable. The intruder whipped around, and Dezra saw he was an elf. In the moonlight, his face shone skull-bright.
The elf’s back to him, Dunbrae stepped a little out of the shadows, then back. Seen, recognized, and known for a friend, Dezra set down her parcel of bread, making no sound. She took a long knife from her belt. The elf was between them, and since they were on Dunbrae’s ground, Dez let him make the challenge.
“Evening, sir elf,” he said, in a most conversational tone.
The intruder turned again, a long knife glittered in the moon’s light.
Dunbrae had his axe in hand, his arm cocked for throwing. Moonlight glinted from the steel’s edge.
“How can we help you?” said the elf.
We?
Something moved behind Dunbrae. We, indeed! The elf had a partner. In the moment she realized it, Dezra let fly her knife.
The dwarf’s eyes grew wide and dark with surprise as her knife whistled past his cheek, nearly nipping his beard. He turned when he heard a curse and a cry and saw the dead man fall. The elf lunged for Dunbrae, who ducked and turned, thrusting the helve of his axe between his foe’s ankles. The intruder dropped hard. Dezra covered the distance between them with two long strides and dropped to pin him, her knee between his shoulder blades.
“Your companion is dead,” she whispered. “Tell us who you are, or you follow him.”
The elf writhed beneath her weight but did not speak.
“I’ll tell you who he is,” Dunbrae said. “A dark elf, working in the pay of the occupation.”
Dezra grunted in surprise.
“Ah, you don’t see too many of them, eh? For all the tribes and nations of elves there are, there’s not a great lot of disgraced elves roaming around. Good for bad jobs, though.” He kicked the dead man over onto his back. “This one’s no elf, but there’s no doubt he was in Sir Radulf’s pay, too.”
Dezra cocked her head. “Why is he paying disgraced elves and—” She jerked her head at the dead man—“that to… to do what?”
The dwarf shrugged. “Dunno. I’ve been chasin’ the knight’s hirelings away from here since the occupation began. Sir Radulf has been making the rounds of all the wealthy and powerful in Haven. Mistress Aline was one of the first he came to see. He takes great care to request an appointment, all proper like. He shows up with a mouthful of flattery, drinks her wine, and leaves with all good words about how cooperation will make everyone happy. Then he puts spies in her garden’s shadows and sneaks in her alley. They see me, I see them, and that’s usually enough to get rid of them. Tonight…” He looked at the dead man and spat. “Tonight, we all got unlucky.”
Dezra pulled her knife from between the dead man’s ribs and wiped it clean on his beer-stained shirt. “So, then, what do we do with this one?”
The elf looked from one to the other, his face calm.
Dunbrae shrugged. “Tie him up and leave him where he can be found. He can report his failure to the knight or try his luck at getting out of town.” In the shaft of silver moonlight Dezra saw the skin around the elf’s eyes tighten. He was afraid. “Like I said, tonight we all got unlucky.”
“And the body?”
“Ach, that. From watchman to trashman, all in one night. I have to get rid of it.”
Dezra’s laugh was low and grim. She took a few long strides and snatched up her small sack of bread. In the bloody alley, the scent of fresh bread hung strangely on the air.
“On errands to the baker so late at night?” The dwarf asked, carefully not mentioning curfew.
Dezra raised a brow. “Funny, you don’t look like my father or brother, Dunbrae.”
She said this lightly, but Dunbrae understood it for a warning not to inquire further into her reason for being so late abroad.
“Lend me a hand cleaning up here?” asked the dwarf.
“That I will.”
Dunbrae showed her to a noisome part of Haven where they could leave the body of Sir Radulf’s luckless servant. The dark elf, who by all Dezra could see of a face growing paler by the moment, felt far more bereft of luck than his late companion. Him they left at a crossroad where a patrol of knights was sure to find him.
The grim work complete, Dez followed Dunbrae back to Rose Hall by winding ways and darkened alleys. When they passed the back garden of the shabby tavern known as the Grinning Goat, she stopped, but only for a moment as she recognized the dark-haired young man bent in conversation with one of Sir Radulf’s knights. Dunbrae said nothing, and Dez didn’t doubt that he noted both the men in the dilapidated garden and Dezra’s own surprise to see that Madoc ap Westhos—Usha’s old friend Madoc Diviner—was one of them.
When they were past there, Dezra said, “You asked why I’m out and about tonight. An errand to the baker, yes.”
A light twinkled deep in Dunbrae’s dark eyes. Dez ignored that.
“But more than that. I’m tired of hanging around the Ivy, tired of being trapped in this city and not being able to do anything about it.”
Dunbrae grunted. “You thinking I might know a way out of the city? Well, I know plenty of them, and they’re all watched and shut up tight.”
Dezra said no more.
They walked on in silence, threading the back ways and the alleys until they were again in the shadows pooling around Rose Hall. In the high part of the house, but not where the glass windows were, a line of light edged the window sills. Aline Wrackham was up and pacing.
“Been like that for days now,” Dunbrae said, jerking his bearded chin at the window. “Ever since the knight came calling.”
Dez nodded, but she asked no question. With Dunbrae, she knew, this was the only way to an answer.
“She’s up thinkin’,” the dwarf said. “Damn knight. She’s makin’ plans I thought she’d never make again. Ach, not that she tells me what she’s thinkin’ and feelin’ and plannin’. I know, though. I’ve been part of… it since the start.”
Qui’thonas! The word Dunbrae didn’t speak sang in Dezra’s heart, like a bowstring plucked. The resonance surprised her.
“Now you’d best get back to the Ivy,” the dwarf said. “And don’t get into too much trouble, eh?” He glanced up at the high window and the shadow of Aline Wrackham, pacing. “I think I might be wanting a word with you, one of these days soon.”
Dunbrae said no more and they parted, each on their own path again.
“My dear,” sighed Lorelia Gance, sweeping into the room where Usha and the woman’s two little sons had been spending two hours to complete what should have been a half hour’s work. “I just don’t know how you can stand the heat in here!”
“Ma!” shouted one of the boys, dark haired Kalend gathering to leap off the stool where he’d been squirming.
Usha fixed him with a warning look. He scowled at her but stayed where he was.
“I’m doing fine, Mistress Gance, and nearly finished.”
As she sketched, Usha glanced from Lorelia to the sons, struck again by how much the children looked like their mother. The boys, she was sure, would become stocky men, broad shouldered, stubborn-jawed, the kind of men to whom foursquare was a natural stance. The wife of Haven’s leading council member, Lorelia was a short, stout woman, with large, capable hands and, no matter that the skirts of her gown hid it, a stance that spoke of a woman who would be hard to budge if she didn’t want to
move. The family’s wealth would compare well with Aline’s, but unlike Aline, Lorelia wore her riches like a badge. Jewels adorned her fingers, her neck, and even the pins that held the fanciful arrangement of her red hair in place.
“Let us out of here, ma,” whined the younger child. “She makes us sit here and sit here.”
Lorelia laughed, as only a woman can who is utterly charmed by her offspring and cannot imagine that everyone else isn’t as well. “Sit a little longer, my loves. Let Mistress Usha make her sketches, then you can go and run.” Their eyes lighted, two mouths popped open to yell for joy. “But not in the streets.”
Eight-year-old Thelan, who’d sighed, now huffed. Nine-year-old Kalend fell into sullen silence.
“They are a handful,” Lorelia said fondly. “When you are finished, my dear, won’t you come into the garden? I’m entertaining a few people.” She smiled. “It will do you some good to let me brag about you in front of people who might be inclined to hire you.”
Usha’s back ached. She’d had been on her feet for hours. The upper room was stuffy, and all she wanted was to go back to her tiny studio and begin the work that would earn her enough money for her and Dez to live in their imposed exile. And yet, the thought of sitting in a shady garden among people who might well offer other commissions was not to he resisted.
“Thank you,” she said to Lorelia, “it would be a pleasure to meet your guests. I’ll join you shortly.”
I hope.
Their mother gone, the boys began to fuss, and Usha summoned yet more patience. She could hold onto it for as long as needed, for the commission to paint a portrait of Lorelia Gance’s sons had been exactly the work she’d hoped to get. It had come rather soon after her decision to outfit a studio. At first Usha thought she’d seen Aline’s hand in this, but Lorelia had come to Usha on her own, having heard that Usha, who had reputation as a portraitist, was—“Unfortunately, of course, my dear!”—trapped in Haven. The woman had such a blunt and honest way with her that Usha couldn’t imagine she’d dissembled when she’d said that she certainly knew who Aline Wrackham was—“Poor thing, and her a newmade widow right before the city fell!”—but she had not seen Aline since Lir’s death. With the retainer Dez suggested she negotiate, Usha had managed to pay the bill at the Ivy and keep a modest amount after.
Prisoner of Haven Page 6