by Barb Hendee
He’d left his bone knife buried to the hilt in the throat of Lord Darmouth.
Losing those assassin’s weapons had been no loss; there were always more weapons to be had. Losing his had been a relief. Now he wore them again . . . like an anmaglâhk.
The guard reached the large barbican jutting out from the center of the bailey’s rear wall. He paused there, surveying the keep and the inner bailey, and then turned to look out at the quiet night city around the guild.
Leesil flattened against the wall in the dark.
The guard finally turned away, heading back the way he’d come in his half circuit around the wall’s northern half. It would be some 130 paces before the guard walking the wall’s southern half came into sight.
When the first guard was fifteen paces along his way, with his back turned, Leesil slipped from the shadows, heading for the wall with Brot’an close behind him.
Pawl a’Seatt had been too restless this night to even remain at the shop for closing time. Whatever was happening at the guild, what he did not know, ate at him too much. He’d left Teagan to close up and then hurried off before the scribe master could even express surprise.
Pawl had taken to the city’s heights, heading toward the castle and keep of the sages.
Little might be learned in watching the grounds, other than to know how much the captain of the Shyldfälches had done to seal the place. But even that was something compared to the nothingness of waiting and wondering when the translation project might restart.
The Premin Council had locked up Wynn Hygeorht, and from that moment, all work on the project had ceased. Pawl was certain there must be a connection between her imprisonment and the stalled transcriptions.
Dressed in his voluminous black cloak and broad-brimmed black hat, Pawl now crouched upon a rooftop across from the guild’s northern corner, where a short access road off Old Bailey Road connected to the Outwall Loop. He knew his behavior was probably foolish and certainly pointless, but he watched the northern circuit guard turn around at the rear central barbican for the sixth time since he’d arrived.
The city guard headed back along the wall. It would be a while before the one walking the wall’s southern half appeared in sight at the keep’s back.
Pawl hung his head, wondering again what he’d thought he could accomplish here.
Movement caught his left eye as something dark shot across Old Bailey Road.
His sight sharpened until the night grew bright in his eyes. Two figures, the second taller than the first, rushed for the bailey wall. They ducked in next to the jutting barbican’s southern side where it joined the wall.
Another movement pulled Pawl’s attention.
A tall figure stood up on a roof a few buildings south of him. It wore a dark, hooded cloak that bulked up at its back. The cloak did not swing freely, as he could see the figure’s legs, and the figure crept to the building’s edge, crouching as it looked down into the street. It appeared to be watching the pair that now hid on the barbican’s far side.
Pawl silently ran and leaped to the next rooftop. Upon landing, he dropped low. He rose slowly, peering along the rooftops, but that other unknown figure still watched the street below.
He had seen similar tall figures moving about the city roofs once before. He had not sensed them as undead, so they had not particularly interested him until now. What was this cloaked figure doing, watching the guild? And who were the two below that this one took such trouble not to be noticed by them?
Pawl remained there in the dark only a few buildings away, watching and waiting.
* * *
Chane could still see the sands falling in his mind’s eye, and yet Shade had not acted. Her first loud bark took him by surprise and made him flinch. She was finally outside the bailey gate, raising a ruckus to draw the guard’s attention. Chane nodded one last time to Ore-Locks and stood up to make a silent dash for the keep’s main doors.
He had barely cleared the corner when the barracks door opened outward.
Chane ducked back around the corner at the sound of hard boots stomping the courtyard stones. Peeking out with one eye, he tensed at whom he saw.
Captain Rodian strode out of Wynn’s barracks.
Chane frowned, clenching his jaw. Had Rodian placed himself on night watch? Did he not have enough men to see to the keep? The captain was not some random guard, and would know Chane on sight.
At this unforeseen complication, Chane held up a hand for Ore-Locks to remain still. He then peeked around the barracks’ corner again.
The captain stopped midway to the keep’s main doors. He turned in the courtyard at the sound of Shade’s barks echoing up the gatehouse tunnel. Striding toward the tunnel, he slipped from Chane’s sight as he approached the tunnel’s mouth, but his footfalls stopped too soon.
Shade’s cacophony of snarling and howling continued, echoing loudly in the night air.
“Maolís!” the captain suddenly barked. “What’s going on out there?”
“Not sure, sir,” came an answer. “Should I go and see?”
The captain’s footfalls began again, eventually echoing as if he had headed into the tunnel.
The courtyard was empty, but the captain would still be in direct line of sight to the keep’s main doors. If he raised the portcullis to see to matters himself, would he recognize Shade? There was no telling what might happen then, or how long Shade could continue her distraction.
Chane did not hesitate. “Now,” he rasped.
Ore-Locks pivoted and stepped straight into the barracks’ end wall.
Chane hurried out, creeping along the barracks’ front. As he passed its door, for an instant he was tempted to enter there, go straight to Wynn, and alter the whole plan.
Someone still had to secure the path, so he continued along the barracks to its far end and the eastern corner of the courtyard. There he paused in the shadows, looking between the keep’s main doors and the gatehouse tunnel, in direct line of sight to them.
There was no turning back.
Chane inched toward the keep’s doors with his eyes on the tunnel, determined to make certain Wynn and Ore-Locks had a safe path to the library.
CHAPTER 14
RODIAN STRODE DOWN the gatehouse tunnel.
He’d been spending as much time as possible at the guild. The key to learning what was really happening could only be found here—mostly through Wynn Hygeorht. When he reached Guardsman Maolís at the tunnel’s outer end, he peered through the portcullis’s thick beams.
“What’s going on out there?” he demanded.
The path to the closed bailey gate was all clear, but he heard a dog in the street beyond it, making a commotion.
“Sounds like a dog having some kind of fit, sir,” Maolís answered.
“Yes,” Rodian replied dryly, “I can hear that.”
Maolís was a solid guardsman with thick arms, carrot red hair, and a smattering of freckles across his small nose and broad cheeks. He also had an unusually firm grasp of the obvious.
Suddenly, Rodian thought of one very tall dog—or wolf.
Shade always tended to remain near Wynn, but she’d run off a few nights before. Then another “dog,” very much like her, had shown up later in the company of a shy elven girl with strange eyes.
“Open the portcullis!” he called up.
Loud creaking and clanks echoed in the tunnel, nearly drowning out the dog’s noise. When the outer portcullis was only halfway up, Rodian ducked under, heading quickly to the bailey gate. He pulled it open and looked down.
It was Shade, but she instantly fell silent, ears stiffening upright as she stared at him. She looked almost startled, at a loss over the gate actually opening, if such emotion was possible on a dog’s face.
Rodian took a step and reached out carefully.
Before he could grab her scruff, she wheeled and bolted up the road toward the city. He started to run after her.
“Shade, stop!” he called.
/> Her tall form was nearly as black as night’s shadows, and she stretched out her long legs into a full run. Before Rodian even reached the head of Old Procession Road into the city, Shade swerved right up Wall Shop Row a whole block away and was gone.
“Shade!” he called again, slowing to a halt in frustration.
What had the dog been doing out here? If she’d been howling to get inside—back to Wynn—then why run off the instant the gate opened? Why had she left Wynn in the first place?
Rodian fumed over losing the dog so quickly. He wavered, knowing full well that only one person knew the answer, and the Premin Council had barred him from questioning Wynn.
As if they could.
Something was going on here tonight, and he needed to find out what. Until he received a direct order from the royal family regarding Wynn, he was not going to tolerate guild interference in his duties. And besides, it was late. Sykion wouldn’t even hear about his “visit” to Wynn until the morning, if at all.
“Lower the portcullis once I’m through,” he called, as he pulled the bailey gate closed behind him.
He didn’t even pause when he entered the gatehouse tunnel, but as he reached the courtyard, the bell for the first quarter of night rang out. And Lúcan called down from above.
“Sir, wagon coming.”
Rodian stopped and sighed, and the nagging knot of tension in his neck tightened.
“Very well,” he called back.
These wagons of late arrived the same time every night, yet there was no explanation for them. Even the sages wouldn’t need this much of . . . whatever . . . all at once. Again, they were up to something. He could just feel it somehow. Questioning Wynn would have to wait.
Turning, he peered down the gatehouse tunnel. What had Shade been doing out there? He looked about the empty courtyard. Over the years, he’d trusted his sense of the order of things, and all this was definitely lacking a perceivable order. He headed back to the portcullis as he heard its gears and chains begin to grind again.
“Go unbolt the gate,” he ordered. “I’ll see to the wagon myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Maolís answered.
“When you’re done, cut through the bailey and take the stairs up the wall at the eastern corner. You’re to walk the back side, and tell Jonah and Angus to stick to their sides of the keep and the front. The more eyes everywhere, the better.”
“Yes, sir.” Maolís ducked out under the half-closed portcullis.
“Bring it back up!” Rodian called, and he waited inside the tunnel’s mouth, watching for the wagon’s approach.
Dänvârfij still perched on the same rooftop with Én’nish. So far, they had seen no sign of their quarry or the two strangers—human or dwarf—who had disappeared through the keep’s outer wall. Although those two concerned Dänvârfij, she was focused on watching for Magiere or Léshil or even Chap. She knew better than to think she could watch for Brot’ân’duivé.
Every shadow in the world was a greimasg’äh’s ally, defense, and weapon.
The only thing that might betray Brot’ân’duivé was if his new attachment to Léshil and the monster drew him into the open. Even so, could she actually kill a shadow-gripper by chance, let alone by the choice to do so? Sgäilsheilleache had killed her beloved jeóin and mentor, Hkuan’duv, but the act had cost him his life.
Én’nish fidgeted restlessly beside Dänvârfij, not at all as an anmaglâhk should, but Dänvârfij needed someone with her. If any messages had to be passed to the others on watch, this was the only way without someone abandoning his or her post. She was considering sending Én’nish to check in with the others when a loud barking and howling erupted outside the bailey gate.
“The black majay-hì!” Én’nish breathed.
Dänvârfij’s hand tightened on her bow. She had let herself slip into distracted thoughts and not even noticed the dark form approaching. She watched in puzzlement as a guard with a close-trimmed beard hurried out to let the majay-hì inside, but it ran away from him. It was the same majay-hì that Dänvârfij had seen earlier in the company of the pale man and the dwarf.
Had they left the animal behind for this reason? Almost as soon as the majay-hì vanished down a city side street, the sound of rolling wagon wheels carried from down the loop around the castle. Dänvârfij leaned a little over the roof’s edge.
Another mysterious wagon, like those from the nights before, pulled up to the bailey gate opened by another guard.
Dänvârfij settled back, watching. What was happening inside the guild this night?
As the wagon rolled through the bailey gate, Rodian nodded to the driver and turned to head up the gatehouse tunnel. Overseeing the wagon’s unloading was an unwanted intrusion, but it had to be dealt with before he could rouse Wynn for a talk. Once he’d cleared the tunnel, he turned and waved the driver toward the courtyard’s northeast side. Then he blinked and wrinkled his brow.
As the wagon emerged into the courtyard, two cloaked people sat on its bench. He was certain there had been only one when it arrived. The second figure was smaller and slighter than the driver.
Rodian shook his head. The second had likely been in the wagon’s back, perhaps steadying the cargo. From the way the tarp bulged too much on one side, the wagon looked improperly loaded. As it pulled past him to stop before the northeast building, he could see where the tarp’s back corner lashing had broken off under the strain.
He cared only that the process moved swiftly. The sooner it was finished, the sooner he could find out why Shade was running loose in the city.
As the wagon stopped under the second-floor bay doors, he headed for the storage building’s central door to inform Hawes of its arrival. He didn’t even reach the door.
Four sages in midnight blue came out and hurried toward the wagon. The bay doors above opened as a fifth swung out a winch arm and lowered a hook and line.
He couldn’t fault their efficiency, though it was unnerving how they always seemed to know exactly when a wagon arrived. And not once was there any sign of a sage on watch for a wagon.
Rodian stepped back, observing as the cargo was unloaded. These dark-robed sages couldn’t work fast enough for his limited patience tonight.
Timing was critical, as Leesil stood flattened in the corner where the bailey wall met the central, rear barbican. He listened to the receding footfalls of the northern guard walking away along the wall’s top. When he no longer heard those steps, Brot’an turned before Leesil could.
“I will go first,” Brot’an whispered, pulling out his hooked bone knife and holding out his other hand for Leesil’s identical blade.
Leesil wavered and shook his head. “No, I’ll go first. Chap gave me a better lay of the grounds.”
This was a lie. Leesil—and Chap—had barely seen the keep’s inside. Neither of them knew what waited within the large, three-story construction at the back. He badly needed to get Wynn out, but the last thing he wanted was Brot’an ahead of him, in case they ran into trouble.
Brot’an raised one eyebrow but didn’t argue. He held out his bone knife and Leesil took it. Brot’an turned to face the corner between the wall and barbican and braced his arms.
“Up my back,” he whispered.
Leesil placed both blades between his teeth, their handles out to either side of his mouth, and climbed up Brot’an’s back. When he stood on Brot’an’s shoulders, nearly seven feet up the wall, he took the blades in hand. Reaching as high as he could, he quietly wedged one blade tip into a seam between the stones. He tested the first blade’s set with half his weight. When it held, he pulled himself up another arm’s reach and set the second blade.
He repeated this over and over, trying to quell triggered memories of youth. There had been more than a handful of nights when he’d entered some lodge, keep, or stronghold in a similar fashion, seeking out whomever he’d been sent to kill.
Leesil shut off his thoughts, focusing on the slowly nearing top of the wall and barbica
n. When he reached up the last time, he set the first blade atop a crenellation between two of the barbican’s merlons. He gripped the edge with his hand and pulled himself up, grabbing the discarded blade as he rolled into the barbican. Then he rose just enough to peer along the wall’s top.
The northern guard was gone from sight, which was both good and bad. It had taken Leesil longer than he’d hoped to scale the wall. He leaned out between the merlons and dropped both bone knives. Brot’an silently caught them and began to climb.
Leesil crouched, peering southward. The southern guard hadn’t come into sight yet. To add to his annoyance, in barely half the time it had taken him to make the climb, Brot’an cleared the wall and handed back one bone knife. Leesil quickly sheathed it and refrained from looking anywhere but the wall and the keep. He never glanced about at the quiet night city.
Both he and Brot’an knew they were likely being watched. Neither would do anything to let any anmaglâhk nearby know they were aware of them. Hopefully, Magiere and the others would be able to draw them off soon, and right now, Leesil was more concerned about the city guards. The one thing they couldn’t have was someone sounding an alarm.
He looked north along the wall one more time.
“Let’s get to the . . .” he began, but never finished as he turned back.
Beyond Brot’an, something moved at the inner edge of the wall’s top near its southern corner. Another guard, a third one, came up the steps out of the inner bailey.
Leesil held his breath and ducked as he jerked Brot’an’s sleeve. Soon enough that new guard would come walking along the rear wall. Everything had now gone wrong.
Brot’an peered between the barbican’s merlons, trying to find a line of sight. He dropped his right hand down at his side, and a stiletto slipped from his right sleeve as if of its own accord. The hilt settled into the shadow-gripper’s palm as the new guard reached the wall’s top.