That night she met with the rest of her Pit cadre, dutifully dropping what little she had scrounged into the pot. When she did, she found Reid, Gonzalo, Ida, and Abner’s eyes upon her.
“Time to teach the rest of them,” Abner said soberly.
Instructing even Abner had been a mistake, Marta forbidden to teach the Cildra techniques to anyone outside the clan. Her answer was preordained before she even inhaled.
“No.”
So Rupert set the lid back on the pot, refusing to serve her. She could, of course, take it by force, but Bumgarden had already made clear that to hurt another member of the company would earn her a date at the end of a rope. Marta knew she would die someday, but she had no intention of doing so while still wearing the Newfield uniform.
“Tonight after dinner, we’ll begin training then.”
***
She told only those five she would teach them, but it was eight Shapers who arrived for the first session. The next night, there were fourteen, and by the end of the week nearly all of the 223 remaining soldiers of the 1st Shaper Company were in attendance. They were not promising students, but neither had Marta been when she had tried to learn their Armor. And they worked hard at it, sure that her Cildra techniques would mean their survival.
The next night, Kearney arrived in a right froth, commanding them to stop at once. The training ground fell silent, all turning upon him as one. Crushed under their collective gaze, Kearney quickly scampered away before he was divorced from his Breath.
Marta was sure she would be summoned to Bumgarden’s tent at any moment to be told to cease her nightly lessons. Some of the Shapers had learned enough to form basic clubs, at least, and Marta hoped it would be enough with their instruction halted.
But Bumgarden’s call never came, and the Traitors Brigade continued their training.
Chapter 20
Winterfylled 23, 567
“Which is worse,” Luca inquired, his eyes and blade gleaming with a hateful glint, “a Dobra or a freebooter?”
Both were equally horrid to Marta, the combination of the two exponentially worse. She watched Isabelle out of the corner of her eye, the woman up with hatchet in hand. Marta was happy she had chosen the hatchet since it did not have the range of her sling. Isabelle wanted to attack, her posture said as much, and Marta readied herself for the sudden press.
“Isabelle intends on feinting, of drawing you off.”
Isabelle seemed almost as surprised by Luca’s offhand admission as Marta was. Their confusion must have amused the man, his grin widening. But his next action mystified Marta all the more as his left hand slowly closed the exposed lockblade.
“Don’t put that away,” Marta sneered. “I want to test the claim of your imbued blade.”
“Because I cannot be beaten with it is exactly why I’m putting it away. I don’t want you to die. Keeping you alive is one of the conditions of our payment, Marta.”
The fact he knew her real name was meant to intimidate her, but only served to infuriate Marta further. And it proved nothing, his Listener abilities meaning he could have snatched her identity from her at any time during their travels. His statement did intrigue her somewhat though, and she wanted to know what other stories he intended to spin.
“The Covenant Sons paid you to keep me alive?”
“The Sons, no. It was someone in the Public Safety Department, and it must have been a big bug to afford us.”
This statement troubled Marta. The Cildra had long known the Public Safety Department was a front for Newfield’s own spy service, the Home Guard their unwitting subordinates. The Cildra used them when they needed an overt hand, her brother having infiltrated their number before the war to ensure it. And this certainly had Carmichael’s stink about it. Only he would have gone to such surreptitious ends in giving the freebooters their cover as members of the Covenant Sons. He would have known she would never willingly accept his help, and the fact he had known where she would depart the train line with Caddie caused her blood to boil. She felt like a chess piece moved against her will. She had thought herself safe as a queen, only to realize too late she was again her brother’s pawn.
“Your mission must have been secret. Why tell me now?”
“I’ve never met our employer, while I know your face well, one I quite like.” Luca suddenly appeared quite serious, the look so foreign it was comical. “And haven’t we proven ourselves by now?”
“What tribe?”
His eyes flicked to the lockblade and back. “Why do you ask what you already know?”
“Because I want to hear you say it.”
She expected his shoulders to slump, to show some sign of shame. Instead Luca straighten, staring back proudly.
“Ikus.”
Said to deal in Dead Breath and imbued objects, the Ikus were the least trusted of the Dobra tribes, held at an arm’s length by even their own kin. But Dobra of any kind were seldom known to travel away from the rest of the ilk, least of all with a half-Ingios woman.
“How did you become a freebooter?”
“Fell into it bit by bit. Took some odd jobs during the war for the West. We were wandering through the East at the time, which gave them eyes to see what was happening across the Mueller Line. At first it was just gathering information then a small task here and there. Might have been content to quit with the war, but my tribe decided to become Cousins as Gatlin rebuilt. I was just too much a Wanderer at heart to put down roots.”
Marta did not care about his life in the least, but the mention of her home was more than she could resist. “Tell me about Gatlin.”
Luca’s solemn look appeared less comical as his eyes fell. “They razed it to the ground. Buildings, bodies, they all burned the same. Couldn’t tell what lit up the night, the fires or the Breath of the dying. They were just beginning to rebuild when I left, Carrion Kind swarming around to work with the Ticks. It’s not the same now, no more winding roads and open homes. It’s all quite straight and square, no more charm. It was your home?”
His question took Marta off guard. Aware he was a Listener, she should have been able to lock him out of her mind. Luca smiled at her confusion. “I don’t need to Listen to know that. I could tell by the look on your face soon as I said its name.”
Marta was surprised the effect the invocation of her home still had on her. She had known for over two years Gatlin’s fate, a city she had not seen since she was a child. If anything, she should have been glad at the misery there from those who had cast her out. Instead she felt like a wound had been reopened, the pain as familiar as it was pronounced.
“Will you let us accompany you to Ceilminster now or are you still looking for your chance to let out?”
“Still considering,” she shot back. Marta disbursed her phantom blade as she did though, turning to see Isabelle lower her own weapon. The younger woman’s eyes were still cold though, Marta by no means an ally. Despite herself, Marta felt respect for Isabelle. It was the same look she gave when she considered the two of them.
“That’s progress,” Luca offered. “If you had said yes, I’d know you were lying. At least now we’re all being honest.”
Honesty from Luca seemed about as natural as a horse walking on its hinters, but he might still be useful. Marta looked to Caddie, the girl still standing where she had stopped upon exiting the cave, left knee-high in the water.
“What do you hear when you Listen to the girl?”
“It’s difficult to explain to someone who’s not a Listener.” Luca’s grin disappeared, the man rubbing the back of his head as he sought his words. “An unguarded mind is like a clear lake, the thoughts a school of fish swimming in it. Strong feelings muddy the waters, but if the mind is calm, you can see the fish. Can’t quite count each and every one, but you know how large the school is, what direction they’re swimming in. But once they know you’re Listening, the fish dive down, start swimming deeper. You know they’re still there, can see the water moving, but you ca
n’t count them anymore.”
Luca turned to Caddie, his eyes narrowing, as if examining a confounding knot. “With the girl the pool’s the clearest I’ve ever seen. Can’t explain how strange it is to see someone so untroubled, her mind smooth as glass. But when I look into it, I can find no fish, no school.”
“You’re saying she doesn’t have a thought in her head.”
“No, she thinks. She must. How could she move without thought?”
“Dog’s move and they don’t think. Can perform more tricks than the girl too.”
Luca shook his head emphatically, as if offended by her words. “Dogs think, don’t let anyone tell you different. And Caddie must have thoughts, but they’re swimming deep. Her mind is so clear I should be able to see down to the bottom, but I see no bottom when I look. There’s no telling how deep her mind goes.”
Marta scowled. His abused metaphor annoyed her as she strode through the water to take the girl’s hand roughly. But before she could tell the child to come, Caddie turned at her touch. Marta’s words proved unnecessary as she followed the woman back to the others.
***
They decided to camp there until noon since the emet would keep the glassman from using the caverns to reach them. It was possible she could scale the ridge and catch them unaware, but to do so she would have to know where the caves let out.
The presence of the glassman gnawed at Marta. The city-states of Myna to the east were still ruled by these monsters, but the woman they faced did not look to be of Mynian stock. If anything, the glassman looked like she had stepped off a boat straight from the Auld Lands, her skin pale and unlike Marta’s mother’s darker hue. What she was doing this far out in Ingios territory might prove interesting too. Luca said that Isabelle’s tongue was ripped out by a glassman, and although one encounter with a glassman was strange, two instances in Ingios territory was too much of a coincidence to ignore. If he was not already aware of it, this would be information Carmichael would covet. Marta would not willingly deliver it to her brother though, perhaps passing it on to her father if they were reconciled.
But to do so she would have to let Caddie’s father live, something Marta did not think she would be capable of. Her father had found it within him to forgive Orthoel Hendrix, but he still believed that through this man the East could rise again and throw off the shackles of the West. Marta did not care who won out since she was hated by both sides equally. Both were no better than dogs fighting over a carcass that bore the name of Newfield. No matter which dog won, Marta would still be an outcast and the nation of Newfield would be no less dead.
Though she had killed husbands and fathers before, Marta had no desire to make a widow or orphan, if she could help it. She was not a monster after all. But Orthoel Hendrix was a monster in every sense of the word, was responsible for the murder of countless women and children, not just in Gatlin, but all across the East. She could not allow the monster to go unpunished. He had to pay for his crime, even if his daughter might have to see his execution at Marta’s hands. What Luca had told her of Caddie’s mind made this decision easier to stomach. Marta at least now knew that Caddie was mindless, and that meant she would not care if her father died before her blank eyes.
Dead tired herself, Marta looked at the girl, surprised to see Caddie’s eyes closed and her breathing even. She was asleep, another of the firsts from the child that night, but this progress was an inconvenience to Marta, now no sentry to shake her awake if her companions turned treacherous.
Marta closed her eyes nonetheless. Caddie’s protection had been ultimately pointless, Isabelle’s sling or Luca’s thrown knives able to reach her even under the girl’s watch. She was no safer now than she had ever been, Marta absently pondering this fact for many hours, sleep not coming for her until dawn threatened on the horizon.
***
She awoke midmorning to the smell of sizzling meat, her sleep deeper than she had expected, as she realized Luca and Isabelle had been up long enough to build a fire. Caddie was awake as well, hunkered on the ground on the far side of the campsite.
“Did she move on her own?”
Luca prepared her a plate, the fish fresh-caught and enticing. “She got up when we did. Kept walking and I thought she was going to continue on the path, but she just kept going in circles. It was distracting, so I gave her a toy.”
Marta looked closer to see Caddie collect the last of his bix sticks from the ground, and suddenly, her food lost its pleasantness.
“You gave her those? They’re profane.”
“And you’ve never had your fortune told by a Dobra,” he responded blithely. But as he examined the girl holding his sticks, his face fell. “They’re nothing, just tools we use to separate outsiders from their money.”
“Then why do you still throw them each morning?”
“Habit.”
All the sticks picked up, Caddie again scattered them on the earth. She then carefully collected them in a sequence that made no sense to Marta, the girl eschewing the four primary colors that denoted the suits the Dobra claimed had significance. There was no rhyme or reason she could discern as Caddie again tossed the sticks upon the dirt.
“How long has she been at this?”
“Hours,” he replied with a shrug. “It’s good for her though. Keeps her occupied.”
Marta occupied the next hour by bathing. The pool provided the water, her haversack the soap. Luca played the gentleman by excusing himself and saying he would scout ahead. Marta still did not trust him, but she also did not care as she stripped down to her undergarments. Her slouch hat remained though, Marta unwilling to bear her brand if she could help it.
Their trek through the caves the night before had washed most of the filth off, but it felt good to be scrubbed with soap. On a whim Marta called to Caddie, the girl leaving her new toys behind to join Marta in the water. But the order to bathe did not seem to register, Marta having to pull the child’s dress off over her head and wash her by hand. As she ran her soapy hand down Caddie’s arm, she again noticed the strange scars, most of them too small to see at a distance. Though tiny, they were hard to the touch, the lot of them prickling at Marta’s soapy hand.
“How did this happen, Caddie?”
At the sound of her name, the child looked up at Marta. Her eyes were still as blank and untroubled as the last time, Marta searching her memory for the shade of Caddie’s father’s eyes. No answer came, and Marta decided to ask the man about the scars if she had a chance before she silenced him.
They broke camp within the hour, Caddie walking along without being held. The direction they headed was not in question once Marta looked around in the daylight. The Lead Mine Hills loomed in the distance, named not for their actual mines, but for their slate-gray color. They were unmistakable, Marta remembering them well from the war. They marked the edge of West Neider, the Mueller Line not much farther and the East awaiting them on the other side. Upon reaching the Mueller Line, they would be halfway to their goal.
***
Graff arrived at the crag shortly after dusk. He had lost sight of his prey, but his Render’s Breath showed him there were two untended horses here, each bearing the brand of Newfield dragoons. Of the horses he paid no mind, instead scanning the surroundings with his good eye. The line of ley he was following had disappeared, but he still sensed something nearby. It was powerful and probably a nodus, but there was something else in it, a scent underneath he found foul.
Dismounting gracelessly, only the steady roar of the waterfall and his heavy steps disturbed the silence. Mouth falling open, his head lolled to the side as he strode haphazardly through the site, never in a straight line, but staggering like a drunkard. His good eye gazed nowhere in particular, seeing all but staying on nothing for more than a moment.
Only when his boot tip touched the edge of the pool did Graff straighten, snapping to attention as his living eye focused on the crag. His voice did not match his pose, slipping between his teeth like s
ludge through a drain.
“Show yourself, monster.”
The bear-like emet appeared as he ordered, the word of a pious Render giving Graff command over the beasts of Breath. If the creature was made of flesh, its hackles would be up, stalking towards him on its hind legs, as if it were human. The presumption of its posture alone, the sheer audacity of the animal to walk like a man, was enough to seal its fate.
It stopped within the pool, its distaste of him almost equaling his of it. Graff’s question was civil enough though. “You saw the child?”
=Yes.
No sound issued from the emet, but the air vibrated with its voice, the second Soul Breath in the Render’s head allowing him to decipher its words.
“You saw her for what she was?”
=A child of Sol, just as you, Render.
Its impudence amused him again. “Tell me where they went.”
But the beast remained silent, ignoring his command. Graff put more force into it the second time. “Tell me where they went, emet.”
Still the beast refused to obey, its will creating something approaching admiration in the man. It was almost as much as he would afford a loyal dog defending its dead master.
“No matter. I will find them soon enough.”
=There is a sickness to you, Render, a sickness that goes down to your Soul.
Again the amusing creature coaxed a laugh. “I am not the sinner. My Breath follows Sol’s flow.”
=You know nothing of Sol, would not recognize the presence if it was before you.
Graff glanced up at the sky, considering the stars a long moment. The creature’s end was never in question, the ghul’s sentencing simply a silly formality.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 21