As far as she could tell, he hadn’t noticed her yet. She took a stealthy step towards him; almost at exactly the same moment, he turned and ran in the other direction. Serenna swore, desperation rising in her throat and threatening to choke her. She swallowed it down. She couldn’t ask Elisse for help, not with a new baby, and she didn’t trust Sorrow. As for the Helm, she hadn’t seen a single one of them in Darkhaven’s corridors since leaving Ayla’s room. So that only left her. Perhaps if she caught up with him in time, she could persuade Myrren to Change back before anyone else saw him. After that, maybe, they could work out how to stop it happening again.
Crouching down beside his shed clothing, she gathered as much of it as she could carry into her arms; the boots would have to wait. Then, gritting her teeth, she set off after him.
She just hoped she could reach him before it was too late.
THIRTY-THREE
By the time Caraway reached Darkhaven, he was ready to collapse. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday, and all his energy had been used on the chase through the first ring and the futile fight in the fifth; he was running on willpower alone. Still, it would be enough. It would have to be enough.
He’d got through the Gates of Ice and Death by the simple expedient of waving Bryan’s sword and shouting something about urgent Helm business. Either the guards had assumed he must be allowed through if he’d already got up so high, or they’d taken one look at the desperation in his face and decided he was a blade-wielding madman better dealt with by the Helm than by them. Whichever it was, he didn’t think Darkhaven itself would be as easy to get into. The Helm would be on their guard – or at least, a subset of them would be. It seemed Travers was treating the whole thing as a covert operation, which meant only some of his men would know what was going on. Caraway’s one meagre hope was that he could use that to his advantage.
As always during the daytime, the postern gate was open and a handful of Helmsmen were patrolling, two at the gate itself and another three at intervals around the tower. Catching sight of Caraway as he came panting up the hill towards them, they converged in a cluster and waited for him. He kept Bryan’s sword sheathed; there was no way he could cut a path through the entire Helm, and he didn’t want to give the impression he was going to try. As a result, these five didn’t all draw their weapons and slice him to pieces as soon as he reached them. Instead, they simply formed a barrier between him and the gate.
‘Breakblade,’ one of them said. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘Art Bryan let me in.’ Caraway scanned their faces: three he recognised from his own time in the Helm, two he didn’t. ‘Where’s Ayla?’
The speaker snorted. Caraway hadn’t seen the man in years, but his name floated up from the recesses of memory: Soren. The most senior of the five. ‘You tell us.’
‘Captain Travers had her brought in today.’ Caraway kept a tight grip on his urgency, though he longed to shake the information out of them. ‘Where is she?’
‘Haven’t seen her,’ Soren said. ‘And even if I had, bringing her in’s what we’re meant to be doing. Lady Ayla is wanted for her father’s murder. Everyone knows that.’
Caraway frowned. ‘Wait – so none of you have seen Ayla today?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We haven’t.’
‘Well, take it from me, she’s somewhere in the tower.’ Exasperated, Caraway scrubbed his hands through his hair. ‘And doesn’t that strike you as a little odd? If she really is guilty and she really should be locked up, then why has it been done in secret?’
The five men exchanged glances, but no-one replied.
‘If I’m right, then Travers has brought her here without telling anyone,’ Caraway persisted. ‘And that’s against every protocol of the Helm. You know it is.’
‘Captain Travers left Darkhaven early this morning in a closed carriage,’ one of the new recruits put in, oblivious to the glowers of the three older men. ‘He returned about a half-bell ago and headed in the direction of the Nightshade family vault.’
‘There, you see? That’s where the incarceration room is.’ Fear burned in Caraway’s throat: a half-bell ago. Was he too late? ‘I’ll bet you anything he’s taken Ayla down there.’
Again there was no reply. Images swam in front of Caraway’s eyes, each worse than the one before it. What was Travers doing to Ayla? What was so important to him that he’d keep it a secret from most of his men?
‘Look, just let me go to the incarceration room.’ He couldn’t help the panic that suffused his voice. ‘If I’m right, you’ll have helped to avert a miscarriage of justice. If I’m wrong, you can execute me for all I care.’
Again the Helmsmen looked at each other doubtfully.
‘Fine,’ Soren said at last. ‘We’ll take you down there. But I swear, Breakblade, if this is a load of bollocks, I’ll lock you in that damn room myself and throw away the key.’
Caraway shrugged. ‘If Ayla isn’t there, you can do what you like.’
The route from the postern gate to the incarceration room led across the central square and past the mess hall, then down into the foundations of the tower. It wasn’t far, but to Caraway every step felt like wading through treacle, slow and cumbersome. The Helmsmen clearly didn’t trust him at all; they’d locked the gate as they did at nightfall, leaving all five of them free to march him through Darkhaven as though they were taking him to his execution – which, perhaps, they were. One of them peeled off as they passed the guardroom, no doubt to fetch reinforcements. If Caraway didn’t find Ayla where he expected to find her, and maybe even if he did, he’d have the entire Helm standing between him and the exit. Still, what did it matter? He only wanted to get in. He didn’t much care about getting out.
When they reached the antechamber in which Florentyn Nightshade’s body lay, they found another Helmsman on guard at the top of the stairs that led down to the incarceration room. Caraway’s pulse speeded up still further. He’d been right. He’d been right all along.
‘What do you want?’ the guard asked, frowning at his colleagues and then more deeply at Caraway, as though he’d just encountered a rare and potentially dangerous animal in the midst of a herd of cattle.
‘We’re looking for Captain Travers,’ Soren said rather uncertainly. The guard shook his head.
‘He’s not to be disturbed. Important Helm business.’
For fuck’s sake. Caraway shifted restlessly on the balls of his feet. ‘He’s got Ayla in there, hasn’t he? Let us through before she gets hurt.’
‘Any man who goes down there will be thrown out of the Helm.’ The guard scowled. ‘As for you, the captain ’ud probably have you killed.’
They didn’t have time for this. They didn’t have bloody time. Seeing the indecision on the faces around him, Caraway seized his opportunity. Before any of his escort could react, he drew Bryan’s sword and slashed it across the guard’s leg in one swift movement. Then, as the man fell back against the wall, he threw himself down the stairs towards the incarceration room.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to break the door down – it was made of reinforced metal – but there wasn’t any way it could be locked, either. The only lock was on the outside; something must be blocking the door from within. Caraway hurled himself against it again and again, ignoring the fresh bruises it gave him, until finally it sprang open under his shoulder. The sudden lack of resistance sent him stumbling forward into the room, only to be brought up short by the point of a sword at his throat. He froze, his gaze travelling slowly along the length of the blade until it reached Travers’ intent face.
‘Drop your weapon and step over to the wall.’ The captain’s voice held a strung intensity. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
Caraway obeyed. As he moved, he risked a quick glance beyond Travers and saw Ayla on the bed, wrists and ankles locked in place, terror and relief mingled in her eyes. Anger surged up in him, but he gritted his teeth and forced it down. Impaling hims
elf on the end of a sword would do her no good whatsoever.
‘I have to admit, this is a surprise.’ Travers had kicked the door shut and shoved the chair back under the handle, then jammed the point of Bryan’s sword under the door as an added precaution, all without letting his own sword point fall. Now he stood there frowning at Caraway as though trying to understand a difficult problem. ‘I didn’t expect you to get this far.’ His gaze flicked to the sword at the door. ‘You even got a real weapon from somewhere. What did you do, steal it?’
‘Let her go, Travers.’ Caraway kept his voice calm and even, but Travers only sneered at him.
‘I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving orders, Breakblade. The only reason you’re not dead already is that I want to know how you made it into Darkhaven without being cut down by one of the many people who despise you.’
‘Maybe I’m the rogue Changer,’ Caraway said flippantly, at the same time scanning the room for anything he could possibly use against Travers – but there was nothing. Still, he hadn’t come all this way just to give up because one more person held a blade to his throat. ‘Ever think of that?’
‘In a way I’m glad you’re here,’ Travers went on, ignoring him. ‘It gives me the chance to deal with you myself. I thought you’d faded into the oblivion you deserve, but over the last few days you’ve turned out to be a real pain in my arse. Concealing fugitives, beating up my men, interfering with Helm business –’
Caraway looked from him to the trembling girl on the bed, and gave a tiny shake of the head – anything more vigorous would have resulted in terminal injury. ‘Whatever this is, Travers, it isn’t Helm business. In fact there are several Helmsmen outside who would really like to know what’s going on in here.’
‘Then I’ll just have to kill you, won’t I?’ Travers retorted. ‘That way none of them ever have to know the truth.’
Caraway stared at him. ‘You must be mad. There’s no way you can conceal Ayla’s presence down here forever. Sooner or later someone is bound to find out.’
‘The Helm do what I tell them.’ Travers punctuated his words with a flex of his fingers; Caraway felt the cold sting of steel in the hollow of his throat, then a trickle of warm blood running over his collarbone. ‘And if I tell them to look the other way, they’ll look the other way. They know as well as I do that Ayla is guilty. Do you really suppose they care what happens to her?’
‘How do you think I got in here?’ Caraway flung back at him. ‘The Helm may be good at following orders, Travers, but they also believe in protecting the Nightshade line. That’s what they’re for.’
As if to prove his point, there was a rattle at the door handle, followed by a hollow thud as one of the men outside set his shoulder to the door. They were shouting something, but the words were indistinguishable through the metal. In reality Caraway didn’t know if their concern was for Ayla or for their captain, but it didn’t matter either way. If he could just hold out long enough for them to force their way in … He glanced at the door, but sword and chair together were holding firm. He had to keep Travers’ attention on him until the Helm broke through. He couldn’t run the risk that Travers would decide to finish him off and start on Ayla while he still had the chance.
‘They don’t want to see Ayla wrongfully imprisoned,’ he said, in pursuit of that end. ‘If there’s to be a trial, at least let it be a fair one.’
‘No trial necessary,’ Travers snarled. ‘Florentyn Nightshade convicted his daughter of a crime, and now she’s going to be punished for it. Just as you were punished for letting her mother die. That’s the way the world works.’ His shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Though, clearly, one punishment wasn’t enough for you.’
Caraway caught the flicker in Travers’ eyes and threw himself aside, meaning the blade didn’t pierce his throat but his right shoulder. Pain rushed through him in a white-hot wave, dissolving his vision in a swirl of lurid colours. Yet the move had got him into a slightly better position. As Travers wrenched the sword back out of Caraway’s flesh, sending a fresh gush of blood spilling down his chest, Caraway hurled himself bodily at the other man. The room was too small for Travers to step back out of the way and bring his sword round for a second attack, as he would have done on the practice ground; the two of them slammed against the far wall, staggering and spitting curses at each other. The impact jarred Caraway’s shoulder, ripping his nerves apart in another flash of agony. Yet Travers had also flinched, his face turning pale. There were bandages at his neck and wrists, Caraway realised dimly. He must be wounded.
Before Travers could tighten his grip on his wavering sword, Caraway brought his left forearm down as hard as he could on the closest wound, at the join between shoulder and neck. Travers swore as his weapon fell from his hand. His fingers gouged at Caraway’s eyes, trying to drive him off. Caraway pushed his arm away and brought his own knee up into the other man’s groin. Grunting, Travers retaliated with a blow just below the ribcage that left Caraway gasping. Then they were locked together, each trying to force the other to the floor, using elbows and fists and boots without discrimination –
Another loud bang at the door distracted them both, if only for a moment. Travers was the first to recover. He caught Caraway’s forearm, wrenching it back to open the wound at his shoulder still further, then landed a precise punch on the affected area. The pain was so intense that Caraway blacked out for a moment, his guts clenching with the desire to vomit. He reeled backwards, trying to blink the world back into existence. Even as it rematerialised around him Travers was on him, pinning him against the wall, his eyes bright with hatred as he rained down blow after blow. Caraway’s head swam, his world contracting to a dark-edged circle of agony. He wasn’t sure where he was any more. Perhaps back in an inn in the first ring, being held in place while Travers beat him up. Perhaps he had just learned the news about Florentyn Nightshade’s death. About Florentyn, and Ayla …
Ayla.
Then, somehow, his broken blade was in his good left hand. As Travers drew back his arm in preparation for a final knockout punch, Caraway brought the length of jagged steel that was all that was left of his Helmsman’s sword slashing up between them. Travers fell back with an almost inhuman cry of agony, his hands trying without success to staunch the flow of scarlet from his groin. Pushing himself off the wall, Caraway grabbed the captain’s hair in his faltering right fingers and forced his head back. The blade in his other hand came round again, slicing open Travers’ exposed throat in a spray of blood.
There was a horrific gurgle, then silence.
Caraway let the broken blade fall to the floor beside what had been Owen Travers. Dizziness was climbing in his head, and the urge to vomit was back. He leant his elbows on his knees, eyes closed, and breathed deeply until it passed. The Helm were still pounding on the door; he supposed he ought to let them in, but first things first. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he stumbled to Ayla’s side. Her expression was taut with the strain of being trapped in place while battle raged around her, but she managed a shaky smile as she looked up at him.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes.’
Her lower lip trembled. ‘I’m glad.’
With that, she burst into tears. As soon as Caraway had found and opened the catches on the manacles that were holding her wrists in place, she sat up and flung her arms around him. She was saying something, but it was so muffled against his chest that he couldn’t make it out. Aware of her dislike of being touched, he held her as lightly as he could and tried not to think about how close he’d come to being too late. What Travers had done to her would leave a scar, but it could have been far worse.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said finally, drawing away from him, though her body still shook with sporadic sobs. ‘We need to find the physician.’
Caraway had almost forgotten his wounded shoulder, but her words drew it back to his attention. Immediately he could feel it throbbing away in time to his heartbeat. He lifted a hand to it: h
is shirt was sticky with blood, both Travers’ and his own. Still, he wasn’t about to keel over.
‘Lord Myrren first,’ he said. ‘He needs to know what’s been going on. Then the physician.’
He moved to Ayla’s ankles to unlock the second pair of manacles.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added as he released her feet. ‘I’ve bled all over you.’
She glanced down at the dark stains smeared across her shift, then back at his face. ‘Tomas … you have no need to apologise to me. For anything.’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled again, automatically. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘I mean it!’ Her voice sounded unusually intense. ‘Just … you saved my life, all right? So stop being so humble.’
He frowned at her. She had drawn her knees in to her chest, hugging them to herself as though he was making her uncomfortable. In a flash, it dawned on him: she didn’t like being indebted to him. She didn’t want to have been rescued by her mother’s killer. Of all the people in the world, Tomas Caraway, you’re the very last one I’d want to help me.
‘Fine.’ The word was sharp in his own ears; she looked up in surprise. ‘But we need to go, now. The sooner we find your brother, the better – and we’ll have to deal with the Helm first.’
‘All right.’ Ayla lowered her bare feet to the floor and stood up, carefully not looking at the body in the middle of the room. Caraway picked up the cloak that had been discarded on the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders; she gave him a quick, tight smile. ‘Ready.’
Stepping around Travers, Caraway crossed to the door and wrenched the sword out from underneath it, then shoved the chair aside. Immediately the door flew open, revealing a large group of Helmsmen gathered in the narrow stairwell.
‘Tomas Caraway,’ the foremost of them said. ‘You are under arrest for injuring a member of the Helm.’ His gaze travelled past Caraway to the body on the floor, and his eyes widened. ‘And – and for killing Captain Travers.’
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