Marta’s refrain almost crumbled as it occurred to her the Home Guard could be there for her. The most recent one headed her way, the host leading him to a table that had just opened up. Between him and the one in his cloak, Marta was cut off, both of them between her and the exit.
Her face belying her fear, Marta dropped her napkin to the floor. Bending down to claim it, she glanced at the patrons’ shoes closer, finding two more sets of tell-tale boots.
Marta’s head spun as she returned upright. Stupid, complacent… and stupid most of all, she chided herself. It was only a matter of time before her information leaks were traced back to Richard. She had remained in Vrendenburg for far too long.
Or perhaps they were there to vet her before Richard proposed, Marta soothed herself. His position keeping him close to the president, of course the Home Guard would need to test the loyalties of a girl of Eastern origins. Or maybe they were simply here by chance, this restaurant favored by those in Ruhl’s government. The guardsmen were not even considering her after all, paying more attention to their meals than anything else.
The only way to know for sure was to act though. Feigning the wine having gone to her head, Marta rose from her table before the most recent guardsman seated himself and headed towards the women’s washroom. He thankfully sat down rather than following, and Marta allowed herself a sigh of relief, one that caught in her throat as she opened the door to find the woman with the silver, bear-headed pin waiting.
“Marta Childress?”
Marta did not miss a beat, her face contorting in fear. “Sweet Sol, it’s not Richard, is it? He’s not hurt, is he? Please tell me he’s safe!”
Though not her best role, Marta could play the part of the hysterical waif well enough. The façade firmly in place, Marta took a step towards the guardswoman as if seeking comfort from a fellow female’s embrace. But the woman took a step back at Marta’s advance, her hand reaching for the pistol at her waist.
Marta never hesitated, her blow catching the guardswoman in the gullet. The woman sputtered pitifully, a look of utter surprise aimed at the girl in her extravagant gown. The gown was the last thing she saw as Marta grabbed her head and slammed it into the marble counter.
The guardswoman slumping to the floor, Marta wasted no time locking the door before considering the window. It was far too small for her gown, and so the bustle would have to go. Fortunately, the guardswoman was unconscious, Marta safe to summon her Shaper gauntlet to tear through the bustle’s joints and discard the thing on the ground like a savaged skeleton.
The fit was tight, but Marta pushed her way through to the alley. Although she could still blend on the street in her diminished dress, she instead chose to climb. It was not easy, her hem tangling her feet as she tried to gain purchase, and after a few attempts at ascent without the sound of alarm from the guardsmen, Marta used her gauntlets to make the rest of the way.
Once on the roof she did not dawdle, hiking up her skirts and summoning her rabbit legs to make the leap to the next building and then the next, landing as gently as she could manage in the fluttering dress. It was then that the alarm was raised, the Home Guardsmen’s whistles cutting through the chatter on the ground. They came from the street outside the restaurant, and Marta suspected there had been more Home Guardsmen than the five she had seen inside. If they were lying in wait, it was surely for her, and Marta felt vindicated in fleeing when she did.
They were certainly not prepared for a Cildra Shaper as she made her way along the rooftops away from the shrills of their whistles. Blocks from the restaurant, Marta paused to listen. Their whistles headed back towards the hotel that had been her home for the last year, and Marta knew she could not return to collect her belongings now.
She had prepared for this eventuality though, months ago having stashed a gunny sack with all she needed high on a Render kirk tower ledge, somewhere no one but a Cildra Shaper would be able to climb. In it was money, a new change of clothes, and a pair of sheers: all she needed to become a new person. It was not far, but the kirk resided in the midst of a vast garden, the rooftops not giving her the proper route. So Marta dropped to the ground, stepping out to join the night’s milling crowd.
She only made it two blocks before the pair spotted her, another guardsman with a constable in tow. They immediately gave chase, Marta darting into an alley seconds ahead of them. Considered the safety of the rooftops again, Marta feared her pursuers might see her performing her Cildra Shaper abilities if she attempted it. Luckily, she spied the side door to a bakery. It was locked, Marta using her open palm to spring it and close the door behind her. Her right ear pressed to the door, she exhaled relief at hearing her pursuers rush past.
The appearance of this guardsman between her and her bag concerned Marta. It meant there were several groups of Home Guardsmen throughout the city searching for her. The fact they were so close to her hidden kirk was more worrisome though. The only other person who knew its location was her father. Had he somehow been caught? Was that why he had not responded to her missives about Richard?
No, that possibility was impossible. Surely some other Cildra relative would have alerted her already if this was the case. Perhaps the Home Guard knew she was a spy for the East, but during the Grand War between the Covenant and Newfield, her actions would not be considered surprising. They may have discovered her, but her family was still safe. They had to be.
Marta pressed back into the night, choosing the rooftops again over the streets. She would also forgo her gunny sack, the possibility of it being watched making the risk not worth her attempt. Instead she headed for the docks of the Pico River, Cildra relatives across its banks in the city of East Junction that would help her escape this mess.
As she made another leap, Marta found herself thinking about Richard again. He had not been there that night, though the Home Guard had. Was he the one who had informed on her?
More likely it was the Home Guard who had made the discovery, keeping Richard away as they sprung their trap. She wondered how he had reacted to the news and if he had believed them. In her mind’s eye Marta could imagine Richard bellowing that they were wrong, that there was no way his sweet Marta could be a Covenant spy. Though he was supposed to be no more than a mark, Marta hoped he would not be too devastated and that his career would not be derailed by his mistake in loving her. Even though he fought for the wrong side, deep down Richard was a good man, and she hoped that he would go on to lead a good life despite meeting her.
Chancing a glance over the side of the building, Marta saw motion in the streets, constables and guardsmen rushing through the crowds. None of them thought to look up though, this one misstep providing the only opportunity for her to escape. Despite herself, Marta felt exhilaration in being a part of the chase. It reminded her of when Father would take them out hunting rabbits. Though she cheered along with her father and brother for the hounds, Marta always secretly hoped the hares would escape their bloody fate.
Finally, she reached the riverside docks, far removed from the crowds and hunting Home Guard. A good distance from the center of the city, there was no way they could have expected her to have made it this far this swiftly. A large ferry connected Vrendenburg with East Junction, carrying swarms of passengers across the Pico River for a pittance. One was just now arriving, sure to depart within the next half hour. Marta’s best chance of flight resided in one of the smaller boats though, ferrymen always ready to accept private passengers for the right price. She was already halfway home.
Despite the benign scene, Marta scanned her surroundings and spotted the Home Guardsman hidden in the shadows. It was a sloppy effort and no match for her training, so Marta felt a slight twinge of sympathy for the man. Making sure he was alone and no one watching, Marta dropped down upon him, his chosen shadows suddenly becoming a liability as she pounded him in the skull. Never having seen his attacker, he fell, a drop of his blood splattering her dress. Marta stared at it in disgust, scratching at it with her nail to remove the o
ffending speck.
The best spies were the ones who spilled no blood themselves. The Cildra were not above bloodshed, but it had to serve a purpose. It had to have intent, and Marta had no intention of soiling her dress any further this night. Though she had harmed another this evening, two if she considered Richard, Marta had not broken this Cildra tenant until now. His offending blood was evidence she had made a mistake, Marta kicking the downed guardsman for his transgression.
Her anger at the man spent, Marta hiked her dress up to keep the hem from the mud as she made her way towards the shore. The ferry had released its passengers, providing a flood of people for her to get lost in. Pressing her way through the crowd, Marta spotted a Render. She was powerful, judging by her glass eye, and Marta made sure to watch her carefully as she changed pace to avoid her as casually as she could manage.
So intent was she on the Render that Marta did not see the other guardsman until he was beside her, his hand clamping tight to her wrist and twisting it behind her back.
Surrounded by the crowd and with the Render close by, two incongruous Cildra lessons simultaneously sprang to Marta’s mind: not to reveal her Shaper abilities to those outside the clan and to never be caught. In that moment the two lessons clashed and she knew she would have to choose between them.
Marta’s anger at having even been touched by this guardsman made the decision for her. His presumption was more than she could bear, and so Marta exuded her gauntlet from under his hand to break his grip. A second gauntlet joined its twin on her free hand, slamming it into his nose. The crunch of his bones was satisfying, though he sullied her dress further with blood.
Marta did not consider the blood as she wheeled towards the shore, plans for her rabbit legs filling her mind. With any luck she could leap into the river, far from the reach of the Render.
Her luck finally ran out though, the Render drawing the Breath of Marta’s gauntlet with a gesture. Despite Marta’s control over her Blessed Breath, the Render easily commanded it as if she owned it, strands of it covering the few feet between them in an instant and holding Marta in the woman’s thrall.
The Render unsheathed her glass blade, a saber as favored by the Renders serving in the Grand War. The edge of it hovered over Marta’s violated Breath, a simple flick of the Render’s wrist capable of cutting away Marta’s Blessed abilities, if not her life.
Marta’s anger appeared at the Render’s touch, begging her to run, to at least make an attempt at freedom, even if it meant her death. But it was the clarity that came with the rage that knew Marta would not stand a chance. So she went slack, dropping her hem into the mud.
“His belt,” the Render said. “Get the ekesh and drink it down.”
Ekesh was an awful drug, stealing a Blessed’s abilities while leaving them weak as a newborn. Every guardsman carried a dose for dealing with Sol’s chosen children, and Marta found the vial filled with the viscous liquid easily. To imbibe it would mean defeat, to be a captive of the West and a failure to the Cildra clan, but she would keep both her life and her Blessed Breath.
Marta slugged the liquid down, the effects far faster and headier than any draught she drunk before. Instantly her notions scattered like pheasants at a musket shot, cogent thought a fleeting memory.
As Marta collapsed into the mud, she was surprised to find in her last thought was that she still felt safe. Though she had been caught, her father would find a way to release her. He had agents in every major city throughout the nation. Politicians and statesmen were his plaything, no better than his puppets. He would secure her escape.
Surely, as the head of the Cildra clan in Newfield, he was capable of that.
Chapter 12
Winterfylled 19, 567
He rode into Lemoor at dusk along the Chacoog line of ley. Although indistinguishable from any other of the dusty travelers bundled up against the autumn winds, the townspeople of Lemoor found themselves lingering where they stood until he passed. Though the air felt more oppressive in his presence, none could find their tongues to give voice to the sudden sensation. He plodded past them all without a glance, arriving at the message station to dismount gracelessly and head inside with heavy and careless steps. The Dobra Listener looked up from his desk at the disturbance, hoping for his replacement to relieve him. Instead he saw the stranger in the worn Western bummers cap, a bullet hole straight through the center.
The man did not look at the Dobra though, instead gazing up at the four corners of the room as if they contained more wonders than anything he had encountered in his lifetime. For a moment the Listener believed the interloper must be lost, coming into this building simply because it was on the outskirts of town. Reaching out with his mind to hear the stranger’s thoughts, the Listener suddenly leapt to attention. The man had no authority over him, as he was simply an agent of the government that paid for his services. But from having just barely brushed the man’s mind, the Listener also knew he was not to be kept waiting.
Without a word the Listener opened his log to reveal all of the transmissions he had recorded throughout the day. Those that could possibly pertain to the man he quickly translated with a shaking hand, the stranger never looking his direction.
When the translated pages were pressed to him, the stranger finally looked down absently, the Listener suddenly afraid he was unable to read. He had such an unfocused air about him, his face that of a simpleton; his mouth never closing completely and exposing his front teeth. Finally the stranger pointed to the paper, his voice oddly tremulous despite his substantial girth.
“This one, the kidnapped girl. Tell him the Traitor will be dead soon.”
“And the girl? What should I say about the girl?”
But the stranger was already away, the Listener left to mentally compose the man’s message. Although the man in the bummers cap had not stated who the “him” he wished the message addressed to was, the Listener knew. When he had brushed the man’s mind, he caught the name Philo Frost, and those who dealt with him were best avoided. The heavy clomps of the stranger’s boots died as he mounted his horse, aiming it back out into the Ingios territory. And so he departed the same way he had come, blown by the ceaseless wind along the ley.
***
At the edge of the tolmen, Marta watched Luca and Isabelle remove their saddlebags. Horses, like all living things worth their salt, feared tolmen and would be less than useless getting them through. Marta offered no assistance to the two since all she needed remained within her haversack, which had not left her back since she mounted up. She hoped they would hurry though, dawn not waiting on them and its light making the tolmen ghuls harder to spy by each passing moment.
Their supplies stowed, Isabelle led the skittish beasts away from the tolmen to release them. Caddie standing beside her, Marta considered the girl again, wondering how quickly she could run or if she was even capable of it. It would be unfortunate if she had spent so much time and effort for the girl just to die in some unnamed tolmen.
“Won’t take more than two hours,” Luca said. “No worries, we’ve been through this one a half dozen times.”
If she believed a single word that came out of his mouth, Marta might be reassured. It might indeed be possible to sneak through a tolmen without the ghuls finding them, but if they were discovered, the battle would be pitched. Like their more intelligent emet brethren, the animal-like ghuls of the tolmen were intangible, weapons passing right through them; however, the weapons of the ghuls were deadly. Her Shaper abilities would give them some hope though, her Breath capable of cutting through theirs as easily as they could pierce her skin.
She was but one of the four invaders entering the tolmen though, and she would be hobbled by having to keep one hand on Caddie to ensure her movement. She could let the girl go, perhaps entrusting her to Isabelle to allow her use of both hands, but to do so would give Luca and his partner control of Caddie, cutting Marta out of the loop and possibly making her unnecessary in their equation.
&nb
sp; Marta realized she was lucky. Caddie only obeyed the instructions of other women, and Isabelle was unable to speak. This fact gave her an edge, one that Luca needed to understand as she caught his eye.
“The girl suffers from combat fugue. And she’s locked up tight, the only key a woman who tells her what to do. I will bring her with us, but if I fall, you can’t tell her to eat, can’t keep her alive long enough to reach Ceilminster. But while I’m looking after her, I’ll only have one hand, not enough Breath to fight against the ghuls. Understand?”
“What happened to her to make her this way?”
Marta offered him a shrug, praying it was sufficient as the man considered. With regret she remembered the Render’s glass saber she had recklessly shattered earlier that evening. Although possessing it would mean an instant death sentence if caught by the Newfield dragoons, in Isabelle’s hands it now might tip the balance in their favor.
Isabelle’s hands were not empty though. Having tossed her saddlebag over her shoulder, she produced a handmade knife, its glittering blade chipped from black stone. The weapon was ludicrous in the tolmen, Marta unable to hide the derision from her face. Luca’s smile was equally derisive, but Marta suspected it was aimed at her rather than his companion.
“You’ve never spent any time with the Ingios, have you?” Not waiting for Marta’s answer, Luca’s lockblade emerged from his pocket. A casual flick of his wrist triggered the blade, which measured longer than Marta would have expected. It was a murderer’s weapon, no other possible use for it other than sinking it through human skin. As he examined his reflection in its edge, Luca’s beam broadened.
“Don’t worry about the little beasties, I’ll protect you. So long as I have this open, I can’t be defeated.”
“I defeated you pretty easily.”
“Isabelle might disagree with you in that regard,” he shot back.
As if summoned by her name, Isabelle appeared behind them, Marta again unable to hear her approach. Turning towards the tolmen, the nodus glowing in its center, Luca’s grin faltered. The motion lasted only a second, replaced almost instantly by his ceaseless smile, but Marta had spotted it and decided it did not bode well.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 13