“Idiot.” Cruk grabbed the bottle and threw it with a backhanded flip against the wall, where it shattered, spraying red wine like blood, over the wood. “Listen, boy, we may have to fight our way out of here yet. Since you can’t handle a sword, you need to pretend you can. Draw your blade.”
Every man in the room held steel. Why would they fight?
Morin came through the doors flanked by the two members of the watch. They stood, tensed and coiled, eyes darting, swords forward. Martin turned, and for a long moment that Errol measured with the rise and fall of his lungs, the two groups measured each other. A kaleidoscope of emotions chased across the abbot’s face before his countenance froze, masking his thoughts.
“You’ll forgive me, I hope,” Morin said. At a gesture, his men sheathed their swords. His gaze passed over Errol before coming to rest on Liam. “The malus has never reacted that way to anyone’s presence.”
Martin exhaled; the sound loud in the stillness of the dining room. “Yes, as you say, she is quite insane.” He inclined his head for a brief instant. “Peace be with you, Abbot.”
Moments later they rode back across the square. Errol’s blood rushed with the need to dig his heels into Horace’s flanks and gallop away. His neck itched with the sense of being watched. The slow clop of hooves grated, and he made to turn and look back at the cathedral.
“Don’t,” Cruk snapped. He stared ahead, and for a moment Errol was unsure who the former member of the watch addressed, but the man continued, “Give the impression that we think we’re out of danger.”
The group rode on. Martin contrived to have Liam surrounded. Luis rode at the front, guiding them back to the inn, where the lots remained hidden. Cruk and Errol flanked Liam on either side, and Martin brought up the rear. Liam said nothing, but Errol could see his eyes flick left and right, and he looked as often at his friends surrounding him as he did the streets ahead.
Unable to resist any longer, Errol twisted in his saddle to listen for the sound of footsteps, hoofbeats, anything that would warn they’d been followed. But nothing came. The noises of the city washed over them without lull or interruption, just as they had on the ride to the cathedral. Errol gave a mental shrug. Maybe their fears were unfounded. Perhaps Morin thought the Merakhi’s outburst was nothing more than the demon-driven insanity of a possessed woman. Or if the abbot did believe the malus saw truly, he saw no need to act upon the information.
Maybe.
Errol snorted at his own reasoning. Too much of what he’d seen at the cathedral bothered him: the herbwoman, imprisoned and used as a tool; the possessed Merakhi, seductive, savage, and insane; and Morin, hungry and calculating at the Merakhi’s revelation.
The memory brought Errol up short. “Pater Martin.”
The priest, lost in thought, started, then turned toward him. A crease showed between his eyebrows. “Yes, Errol?”
“The herbwoman told me the abbot was already under the malus’s influence.”
“She spoke to you?” He turned to Liam. “Did she speak to you as well?”
Liam nodded. “She said the hand of Deas was upon me.”
Martin looked unsatisfied. “Nothing else?”
Liam shook his head, but the look he gave Errol held doubt.
Errol licked his lips, unsure how to proceed. “I saw something else, Pater. When Karma spoke to Luis, Captain Balina wore the same look Knorl, the smith, gets whenever someone starts making eyes at that pretty wife of his.”
The priest’s face grew serious. “Are you sure about this, boy?”
Errol nodded.
Martin looked back at Cruk. “You heard?”
Cruk nodded. “It doesn’t change anything. Not unless you were planning on trusting the abbot’s word and staying the night at the Dancing Man.”
“No. That would be unwise,” Martin said. He chuckled at his understatement. “I want to be out of the city before nightfall. I don’t care if we have to camp out in the open without a fire.” His eyes cut toward Liam. “I don’t want to be anywhere Morin or his men can put their hands on us.”
They rounded a corner. The sign depicting a man perched on the toes of one foot with both arms lifted rose before them. At last. They rode around back to the stable, where a stable hand came to take charge of their mounts.
“Water and food,” Cruk said. “Leave the saddles on. We’ll be leaving within the hour.” He tossed the man a silver mark. “We’ll need a bag of oats too.” He pointed to Horace. “Put it behind the saddle of that one.”
The man nodded and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Miss Hallye will be disappointed you didn’t stay for dinner, Pater. She says you look like the sort of man who appreciates good food.”
Martin’s face stretched into a smile, and he patted his stomach. “Your Miss Hallye is a shrewd judge of character. Unfortunately, business calls us unexpectedly away.” He turned to address the rest of them. “We should retrieve our things with haste. I suspect our safety depends upon a certain measure of alacrity.”
Luis sped toward the inn, halted, then turned and beckoned Errol after him. “I need your help carrying the lots to the horses.”
Errol felt complimented and shocked at the same time. Luis never brought those lots into the light of day, and he absolutely never, ever, let anyone besides Martin and himself carry them.
“Me?” Errol asked. “What if I drop them?”
“Don’t. I’ve spent the better part of four years making them as perfect as craft and talent can.”
Errol followed him up the wooden staircase to the rooms they had rented but wouldn’t be using. Under the bed, in two ordinary-looking crates, lay the stones so precious to the reader.
“Why didn’t you leave them with the innkeeper to guard?” Errol asked.
Luis shrugged around the crate cradled to his chest. “There was no need. No one can read the lots except for the one who made them.”
“Or another reader,” Errol said.
Luis gave him a long look. “Yes, of course.” He made for the door. “We should get down to the stable.”
They descended the stairs, each with a padded crate on his back, and found Cruk seated at a table, a fresh tankard of ale sweating in front of him. Martin and Liam sat on either side. None of them appeared to be in a hurry.
“Have a seat,” Cruk said. He gestured with his head toward two chairs across from him. One was empty, the other piled with dark cloaks.
Errol sat down, sandwiched between Luis and Liam.
Cruk took a pull from his tankard as he looked out of the left corner of his eyes. “The inn’s being watched. Don’t look out the window! Morin’s got at least two men out there I can see, which means there’s at least another four that I can’t see.”
“He didn’t waste any time,” Liam said. In the depths of his eyes, Errol saw something in them he’d never seen before; he saw doubt.
Martin leaned toward Cruk. “Could we ride through them to the city gates?”
Cruk shook his head before Martin finished. He glanced at Liam. “Not with any guarantee of keeping everyone safe. A couple of bowmen on the rooftops and they could pick us off at their leisure.”
“Can we sneak our way out?” Luis asked.
“If Morin has any sense, probably not.” He sighed, his massive chest lifted with the effort. “Still, it’s the only thing I can think to try.” He gave an inquiring glance at Martin, who nodded.
“We’ll have to wait for dark and make our way out the back,” Cruk continued. “We’ll leave one at a time. I’ll go out first on some pretext and try to draw as many away from the rear as I can. The rest of you follow.” He looked toward Martin. “How do you want to order everyone?”
“I’ll follow you. Liam will come behind me. Then Errol and Luis can come.”
“I think I’d like to precede Errol out, just to make sure the way is clear,” Luis said.
He offered nothing further, but Errol sensed the reader would not negotiate on this point.
&nb
sp; Martin must have caught the hint of iron in Luis’s voice as well. After a momentary silence, he nodded and turned back to Cruk. “How do we get the horses?”
“I’ll have the hands take them to the west gate. They’ll hold them there until we arrive.” He looked at Luis, his face as close to apologetic as Errol had ever seen it. He pointed at the crates. “You’ll need to send those ahead with the horses, Tremus. I’m sorry.”
Luis’s face blanched until it reached the color of boiled fish, but he jerked a nod. “Morin must not get his hands on the lots. Where will we go from here?”
Cruk’s lumpy face hardened until it looked like flint. He signaled two men by the door who took the crates out to the stable. Then he reached into his tunic, withdrew a map, and smoothed it out on the table in front of them. One thick forefinger pointed at a large dot. “This is Windridge.” The finger traced a path west. “And here’s Haven Mirk. It’s two days hard ride from here, but there’s grass and water to be found on the way for the horses. If we get separated, we’ll meet up there.” He lifted his head, and his stare found Errol. “Whatever you do, make sure you’re not followed.”
Errol nodded and tried to swallow past a sudden tightness in his throat.
Apparently satisfied, Cruk turned his attention to the rest of their party. “It’ll be dark in two hours. Let’s not give Morin’s men any suspicions. We’ll stay here and eat, as if we planned on staying the night, before setting out.”
Martin gave a grim chuckle. “It looks like I’ll have the opportunity to sample Miss Hallye’s fare after all.”
Dinner arrived an hour later. The smells drifted across the edges of Errol’s thoughts. The meal probably lived up to the stable hand’s boast, but worry quenched his hunger, and the few bites he raised to his mouth tasted like ashes. When the serving girl arrived moments later with a pitcher of ale, he perked up.
Cruk’s hand grabbed his wrist, stopped his hand just short of the pewter handle. “No ale for you.”
Errol tried to pull his hand back. “One drink’s not going to hurt.”
Cruk snorted. “You don’t know how to have one drink.” To make his point, he set the pitcher beyond Errol’s reach.
A thread of panic wormed its way into his stomach. “I-I need a drink. If I don’t have something to drink, I’ll get s-sick.” The words stuck in his throat, and the sympathetic looks from Martin, Luis, and most of all, Liam made his face heat.
“The boy’s right,” Martin said. “But just one tankard.”
Errol didn’t even look up. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to crawl away where no one could see him. If he could have willed himself to die, he would have. The sound of his tankard being filled brought tears to his eyes, and he squeezed them shut and lowered his head even farther, trying to hide them.
Luis took one of Errol’s hands and placed it on the cool metal of the tankard. He held it close to his chest, cradling it but not drinking. He couldn’t, not this time, not in front of them. Rising, he fled the table, making for the kitchen.
“Let him go, Cruk.”
The words struck him in the back as he left, and he took one sobbing pull of his drink. The Dancing Man served the best ale he’d ever tasted.
He hated it with all his might.
Later—he didn’t know how much later—he still sat in one corner of the kitchen, the staff eyeing him, the now-empty mug still clutched to his chest. The door swung open and Cruk came through. He nodded in Errol’s direction.
“It’s time.”
Cruk opened the door that led from the kitchen to the back alley. A whiff of decomposing vegetables drifted from the compost pile and in through the door. Then Cruk was gone. Errol listened between the pulses of his heart for any sound that might indicate an ambush or an attack, but the alley behind the inn stayed silent.
Moments later, Martin entered, a turkey leg in one hand and a tankard in the other. He swayed as he came in, ale slopping over the side of his mug. But as the door closed, cutting off the view to the front of the inn, he straightened, set the mug aside, and approached the corner where Errol sat.
“Luis is very possibly my oldest friend. He is noble and good and stubborn in ways I still don’t understand. He sees in you something rare and precious.” Martin’s eyes clouded. “I know him. If he thinks it’s necessary, he’ll die to get you to Erinon. Don’t let him.”
Errol shook his head. If possible, Martin’s and Luis’s regard hurt worse than their pity. He couldn’t make the mental jump, couldn’t see himself in the way Martin described. He was a drunkard. Why would Luis sacrifice himself for him?
He looked up to see the door swinging shut and Martin gone.
Liam came into the kitchen. Even his footfalls sounded self-assured. Errol stood, unwilling to have Liam look so far down to speak to him. Liam stuck out a hand. “If you want, I’ll stay back. We can try to make it to the west gate together.”
Errol shook his head. No. Liam was too important to risk. He didn’t know exactly how or why, but the abbot’s naked hunger betrayed Liam’s importance. Morin might try anything. “Martin knows what needs to be done.” He jerked his head toward the door. “You should go.”
Liam nodded and left without looking back. Hollowness settled into Errol’s stomach, and for a moment he considered refilling his tankard. Then Luis entered. Sweat shone on his bald head, but his brown eyes were calm.
Errol swallowed before forcing himself to speak. “Only an idiot would leave the back of an inn unwatched.”
Luis pursed his lips and nodded.
“Morin’s not an idiot, is he?”
A shake of the head.
Errol took a deep breath, savored the feel of air coming into his lungs. “What makes Cruk and Martin think we can get away?” He forced himself to hold Luis’s gaze—as if by sheer will he could force the truth from him.
“The goal is for Liam to get away.” A rueful grin stretched his mouth to one side. “I’ve never been much of a fighter.” He held his arms out, accentuating his slight build. “I’m not made for combat. You and I have that in common.”
Errol nodded at the simple truth in his words.
“Cruk is a better fighter than you know,” Luis went on. “He’ll be doing everything he can to clear the way to the gate. He’ll die if he needs to. So will Martin, and that fat priest is no stranger to the sword.”
Errol frowned as he tried to imagine Martin with a sword. The picture refused to hold. It contradicted the image of the man whose pity compelled him to offer bread and wine to Errol over and over again. Despite the priest’s build and the thickness of his hands, Errol couldn’t see Martin as anything other than peaceful.
Luis took him by the hand and hauled him to his feet. “Come. We should be leaving. We don’t want the others to get too far ahead of us. Here.” He held out a cloak, black, like the one he wore.
He shrugged himself into the cloth, pulling the hood up.
Luis stepped to the door, paused and turned back. “I’ll lead. Keep twenty paces behind. If anything happens to me, run. Get to Erinon however you can and find the first of the conclave, Enoch Sten.” The reader’s gaze became intense, as if by his stare he could force Errol’s obedience. “Tell him everything about your test for the sight. Leave out nothing, not even the smallest detail.” Without another word, he left Errol to stare at the space where he’d been.
Tightening the hood of his cloak, Errol crept out the back of the inn, spotted the dim figure of the reader some twenty paces away, and made to follow. A breath of wind wormed its way under the warmth of the thick cloth to chill him, and he pulled it close.
They stuck to the shadows until they cleared the immediate surroundings of the inn. After that, the reader moved toward the busier main streets, always heading west toward the gate and freedom. Errol checked behind often for signs of pursuit. There were none.
A man bumped him as Luis turned a corner, and for a moment Errol lost sight of his friend. A muffled shout sounded, q
uickly cut off. Errol’s feet raced the sudden pounding of his heart to catch up. He ran to the cobblestoned intersection and spied the reader a scant ten paces ahead, going west.
His breath shuddered with relief, and he forced his feet to match the pace of his guide. He could just discern the outline of the city gate in the gloom, perhaps half a mile away. His steps quickened in anticipation. They were almost there.
At the next street, Luis turned left, away from the approach. Errol followed, the gate disappearing from view behind a row of two-story shops. He felt a pang at its passing. What had Luis seen to make him take the detour?
They walked on. The reader backtracked now to narrower, less-traveled streets. Many times, it was just the two of them. A sense of unease filled Errol. Why weren’t they making for the gate? He swiveled, checked every visible alley and street for the cause, and couldn’t find it.
Enough. He would ask the reader. Errol quickened his pace, but Luis sped up as well, keeping his distance. His feet hastened until his shoes slapped the pitted cobblestones, and still Luis stayed ahead of him. He turned a corner and a beam of light from a dilapidated shop fell on his guide. The gleam revealed a strand of long glossy black that had escaped the confines of the hood.
Errol stopped. It wasn’t Luis. Footsteps followed him. Without thought, he broke into a run. The rasp of metal clearing scabbard came from behind. He flew past the alley. As he flashed by, a figure leapt toward him with a snarl, nails clutching for his face, tearing skin.
Blinded by panic he ran. Steps pounded behind him. The gray stone buildings blurred, interrupted only by the darkness of alleyways opening between them, alleys that might lead back to the west gate and safety, or to a dead end.
He couldn’t chance it. Not knowing what else to do, he ran on, hoped the street would merge with a larger, more populated, one. He glanced back and saw the Merakhi woman, Karma, chasing after him, running with the graceful strides of one accustomed to traveling by foot. Behind her another figure ran, sword drawn.
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