“One touch,” Catling said. “The doyen trained me to kill just as they trained you, Kadan, and I have a family to avenge.”
“I ask a promise then.” Kadan massaged his jaw.
She halted her pacing and met his gaze. “I will consider it.”
“Promise me. Promise you will send a message when you’ve succeeded. Because if I don’t hear from you, I’ll follow you and kill him myself.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The ride up the East Canal required a full week even under the power of waterdragon wings. The ferry reached the Slipsilver north of Ava-Grea on Darkest Night, a coincidence that didn’t surprise Gannon in the slightest.
With Tiler on board after his inane plunge, the three guardians forewent a layover in the influencers’ city. Gannon was fine with the haste. His torture and imprisonment at Vianne’s hands still chafed, a permanent film of grit he doubted would ever wash off. She’d freed him only because she’d needed him to whisk Catling out of the tiers. His act of gallantry had landed him in a fetid swamp with a pair of lunatics, followed by a year’s stint under the callous thumb of a Cull Tarr shipmaster.
At times, his battle to free the warrens from tyranny felt like a colossal misadventure. Bloody noses and dead friends wore him down, and he’d little to show for his accidental heroism.
Winterchill weather meant Ava-Grea’s swampy musk had abated. The eerie tangle of slick green wilderness glided by, arched roots of giant caliph trees silhouetted against the water’s brilliant luminescence. Between two hummocks, fallen leaves littered a channel’s surface, an umber carpet suspended on swirling light.
Gannon sat on a crate, his feet on the ferry’s rail, eyes peeled for toothsome crajeks. Tiler slumped beside him, head bobbing in preparation for an afternoon nap. Two hairless, scaly river rats crawled on the gunwale by Gannon’s foot. “Gah!” He kicked one back into the water, while the other leapt to the deck and scurried for cover. Whitt nabbed it by the tail and flipped it over the side.
“I hate those things,” Gannon muttered.
“They’re good eating in a pinch.” Whitt leaned his backside on the rail. “I used them for bait when hunting crajeks.”
Gannon grimaced. “They eat boats.”
“They crave the oakum.” Whitt smiled. “I’m surprised you know something of the swamp.”
“Hardly.” Gannon shook his head. “One night dodging snakes and spiders was one too many. My instruction regarding river rats came with a bloody nose.”
“I lived there for two years,” Whitt said. “Between Mur-Vallis and Guardian. Two rafters saved my life.”
“Two of them almost killed me. I escaped in the middle of the night… without paddles. The King’s Guard shot arrows at me, and I ate poison mushrooms that turned my stomach inside out. I woke up in chains in the belly of a Cull Tarr ship.” He’d also abandoned Catling to the mercy of two mad men, an act of desperation he wasn’t proud of and a fact he kept to himself. That occurred almost three years ago, and he’d find out soon enough if she’d forgiven him.
“I used river rats to save the heiress.” Gannon chuckled and eyed Whitt. “Well, maybe not to save her exactly. I used them to swipe four hundred gold coins from her captors.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised.” Whitt smirked.
“He’s a glistering torch bender when he wants to be,” Tiler said, rallying for the story. Tavor and Cale wandered over with a bottle of spike.
Gannon regaled them with his version of the heiress’s rescue including stowing three boxes stuffed with river rats under the ransom of gold. “The rats gnawed through the box and ate through the oakum. Two Cull Tarr seadogs tried to scoop an ocean out of a sinking rowboat.” He laughed, picturing the frantic bailing. “There’s a fortune at the bottom of the Slipsilver. The king’s councilors weren’t too happy with me, but I saved the queen.”
“About saving the queen,” Tavor said, handing him the bottle of spike. “We might hash out a plan before we show up and have one handed to us.”
***
Tier guardsmen escorted the small company up to the seventeenth tier where the Queen’s Guard assumed control and thoroughly disarmed them. On the hike up the spiral stair to the eighteenth tier, Gannon spied Colton and greeted the tall guardsman with a nod. If Colton held an opinion concerning the diverse crew and the rank smell emanating from their unwashed attire, it didn’t register on his face.
“The queen requested quarters for your party,” Colton stated. “You’ll have the rest of the morning to refresh.”
“A laundress would be much appreciated,” Gannon said, “and baths.” The prospect of seeing Lelaine tickled his imagination, and if he happened to make her swoon, he’d rather it wasn’t a result of his reek.
“The chambermaids will see to your requests.”
“Is the queen well?” Gannon asked, the question sounding insipid in his ears.
“Quite well, despite her concerns.” Colton led them along the promenade to the visitors’ quadrant. “She was delighted to hear of your approach. I trust you won’t disappoint, misuse, or exploit her faith in you.”
“You sound like a father,” Gannon said, ribbing him. In truth, he sounded like a man in love with a woman beyond his reach. “I’ll do my best to satisfy her needs… expectations… for the realm,” Gannon said, his thoughts sliding effortlessly into the tier’s gutter. Tiler snorted behind him, and Gannon gave him a stern frown over his shoulder.
Colton slipped a smile, slid the door open, and stood aside. “She awaits your report in her council chambers at the sixth bell. I’ll send an escort to accompany you.”
When the sixth bell rang, Gannon had bathed, slept for an hour with his face buried in a pillow, and dressed in clothes smelling of soap. Tiler looked presentable for a warrens enforcer, and except for Whitt, the guardians had donned their leather armor. A company of six guardsmen ushered them up to the nineteenth tier.
So far north, the Winterchill air blew with a mild but salty wind. The sea reflected the blue of the sky, foam lacing the waves that rolled over the breakwater. Elan-Sia sat in the middle of the delta’s wet world like an enormous water lily, bounded by moon-tides, pools of nubby starfish and shiny blue buckleshells.
The thought of lingering on the promenade and dodging the political intrigue appealed to him, but the guards thrust open the massive doors to the council chamber and waved them in.
Gannon’s attention fastened on the woman at the head of the table. Lelaine sat in a massive chair in an azure jacket sleek and shaded to mirror a moving sea. Embroidered waves scalloped the neckline and hem, and pearls splashed the silk of her underdress and wide belt. She wore a silver circlet in her sunny hair, a sapphire pendant like a droplet of water on her forehead. “Welcome to Elan-Sia, my honored guests.”
With the rest of his party, Gannon bent at the waist. “Your Grace, I am at your service.”
The balance of the room with its royal finery and formality couldn’t compete with her smile. Gannon scanned the faces, Colton behind her chair, Catling to his left. Catling looked older, elegant despite the red welt encircling her eye. Like the queen, she wore azure, though less resplendent. It suited her, complimented her fair skin and dark hair. She nodded a greeting that he chose to interpret as forgiveness for abandoning her to the swamp three years before. Her gaze shifted to Whitt with a warm smile.
A handful of scribes bent over inky scrolls at the table’s end and a couple he assumed were influencers stood at the wall. He wondered how Catling’s talent served the queen, and if he would feel the sway of influence. He hoped not; if he risked his life for the realm, it needed to be his own decision for better or worse.
“Please, join us,” Lelaine said, beckoning them forward. “We are anxious for your report.”
Whitt took the lead, presenting Tiler and the guardians. Oaron-Elan, the queen’s portly councilor, introduced those standing at the table, including Kadan-Mur.
Gannon’s back stiffened, and the ha
ckles on his neck bristled. “Your Grace,” he interrupted, “this man is an influencer from Mur-Vallis. He’s responsible for atrocities in the warrens, for facilitating the deaths of untold innocents on hanging days. Algar of Mur-Vallis is no friend of Ellegeance, and this man is his toad.”
Beside him, Whitt reached for a knife that wasn’t there. The other two guardians tensed, and Tiler balled his fists. In two strides, Colton rounded the queen’s chair, his face carved of stone. A short sword scraped from its sheath and pointed in Gannon’s direction. The Queen’s Guard stationed at the walls stepped forward, spears poised for a fight.
A blast of love hit Gannon in the chest, physically knocking him back. He blinked, trying to clear his head, to cling to the sanity of his thoughts and deny the surge of respect in his chest. Whitt gasped, his mouth gaping.
“Pecking cod-wipes,” Tiler grinned.
“Do you think I’m a fool?” Lelaine snapped, ignoring the curse, her eyes dilated with fury. “There are no traitors at my table.” She threw up a hand signal, and the influence ceased. Gannon sucked in a breath, his heart galloping and head twisted into knots. The queen glowered at him, at them all. “Do you require influence to control yourselves?”
Gannon set his jaw. “No, Your Grace.”
“No, Your Grace,” Whitt murmured beside him.
“The doyen relieved Kadan-Mur of his vow to High Ward Algar,” Lelaine said. “I am pleased to report that he now serves the realm. And I assure you, no one is more pleased than Kadan.”
The tall man bowed to the queen. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He faced Gannon and Whitt. “I deny none of your accusations. Only know that I had little choice.”
Gannon raked a hand through his curls, calming his heartbeat. In his mind, Kadan bore the title of murderer, slaying with a noose and knife, even if he didn’t bloody his hands.
At the same time, he couldn’t deny that the man had pulled Caelly from the fight in the Ship’s Fate. He’d let Gannon and Tiler walk. “You had choices, Kadan-Mur. We all have choices. A year ago you chose not to kill me.” He reached out a cautious hand. Kadan didn’t smile, but he acknowledged the statement with a nod and accepted the offer.
Whitt paused and looked at Catling where she stood beside the queen’s chair. She nodded, eyes glistening, sadness and hope flushing her cheeks. With a sigh, he conceded and gripped Kadan’s wrist.
***
The reports overlapped, information from all quarters consistent and disheartening. Catling listened as Kadan outlined their intention to rid Ellegeance of Algar. The new arrivals winced and blinked, the plot as shocking as it was welcome. He refrained from mentioning her role, a choice she appreciated, wishing to share the news with Whitt herself.
A new scar creased Whitt’s forehead, and he appeared troubled—by Kadan, by the outlay and complexity of their schemes, by memories of Mur-Vallis, perhaps by the threatening violence. She could only surmise that the day’s pressure had taken its toll.
When Catling worried her legs might wilt with fatigue, Lelaine raised a hand. “I believe we have wrung this cloth dry for one day. Our challenges are clear, and in the morning we shall convene to make further plans.” She directed her next question to the guardians. “Since we are in the midst of Winterchill, I assume the south is buried in snow and we must wait for warmer weather before we begin any large-scale action.”
“You’d assume correctly.” Tavor nodded. “The commander will also need time to prepare, and moving large forces of guardians north will be no less a feat in pleasant weather. He’ll want to review and adjust our plans. Even Springseed might prove ambitious.”
“No sooner?” Edark asked. Beside him, Oaron swallowed a yawn.
“Unlikely,” Whitt said, studying a map that the councilors had unrolled on the table. “The good news is that the weather will keep your adversaries tier-bound as well.”
“Sianna threatens to take action in Springseed,” Lelaine reminded them and stared at the map. “Whatever possessed Ellegeance to construct its fortress so far south?”
“Fear of the Farlanders,” Whitt replied. “A poor choice in hindsight. We have far more to fear from our own people.”
The queen arched an eyebrow. “An opinion with a measure of truth. Perhaps we need to remedy those disadvantages. A second Guardian in the north to discourage rogue tiers and Cull Tarr liberties.”
“A wise consideration,” Oaron said and fluttered a hand at the scribes.
Lelaine pressed her palms to the table and stood. “As my guests, I encourage you to enjoy the many amusements of Elan-Sia.” She turned to Gannon, offering her hand. “Gannon, if you would dine with me. I wish to discuss how we might entice the warrens to assist us in our endeavors.”
Gannon nearly popped out of his seat, and Catling stifled a laugh. The man was over his head. She shared a smile with Whitt as the couple strolled from the room, Colton following respectfully on their heels. The councilors and scribes reviewed notes, sealed inkpots, and rolled maps.
“Who’s up for getting tippled?” Tiler bellowed.
“I’m in.” Cale yanked on a leather strap crossing Tavor’s chest. “We are.”
The bald sergeant smiled, his head, face, and neck newly shaved. “Whitt?”
Whitt glanced at Catling and shook his head. “I have plans; you three enjoy yourselves.”
“Suit yourself,” Tiler said, stretching and growling as he crossed the marble floor. Cale and Tavor followed, arm in arm in their leather tasset and chest plates, vambraces, belts, straps, and empty baldrics.
“Add weapons, and I’m surprised any of you can move,” Catling said.
Whitt laughed and faced her, his smile fading into a frown at something behind her.
“What is it?” Catling turned to find Kadan standing alone at the table, brooding. She inhaled, a flush of panic heating her skin. “Oh, no, no, no, this I won’t endure from two of the people I most care about in the world. I refuse to play these childish games.”
Kadan straightened. “Catling, I didn’t—”
“You,” she interrupted and pointed at him. “You are in love with Minessa, aren’t you?”
His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “I… I just—”
“It doesn’t matter, Kadan. I love you both and couldn’t be happier for you, but when were you planning to tell me?”
“And you!” She pivoted to Whitt, a finger stabbing his chest. “We agreed to no more secrets between us. So here’s the truth: I’m the assassin who will kill Algar. And another truth: I won’t spend these weeks with awkward silences and moping, for they very well may be my last.”
Whitt stared at her, and she steeled her resolve against the worry lines bunching his eyebrows. His troubled expression brought back memories of the stead, of every time Gannon carted her away to Mur-Vallis, of the final afternoon when Vianne stole her to Ava-Grea, never to return. Tears welled in her eyes, his silence breaking her.
His shoulders sagged. “I never could protect you, Catling, even when I wanted to.” He folded her in his arms, and she sighed against his chest, unable to contradict him.
By the time he released her, Kadan already neared the door.
“No, Kadan,” Catling said. “The three of us are going sailing.”
He balked. “It’s Winterchill.”
“And it’s a lovely northern afternoon.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“But I don’t know how to sail.”
“Neither do I.” Whitt mirrored Kadan’s skepticism.
“Well, I do, and we’re going. We’re bringing food and wine, and we’re getting tipsy and not influencing.”
“You don’t need to drink on my account,” Whitt said, “I trust you.”
“It’s freezing out there,” Kadan warned her.
“And windy,” Whitt added.
“Cowards.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Catling hauled up the sails of the queen’s catboat and cleated the stays while Whitt stowe
d blankets. She’d handle the mainsheet and tiller, and tasked Kadan with responsibility for wine and food. The sunlit wind blew fair, a perfect Winterchill afternoon, and the tides would turn while they sailed, making the return journey effortless. If they wished a longer time asea, they’d wrap themselves in wool for a view of the moons.
The skiff cut a smooth wake out of the delta’s harbor, taking the luminescent swells in stride. She smiled at her friends, her hair loose and blowing across her face. Lelaine’s love of the sea had become her own. Troubles drifted away like so much flotsam. There was no intrigue, no vying for power, no manipulations, and few responsibilities beyond minding the sail.
“Someday,” she said, “I’m going to be ordinary.”
“You’ll never be ordinary.” Kadan poured wine into wooden cups and passed them out.
“Ah, you’re wrong,” she insisted. “One day, I’ll be without power. No one will care who I am; high wards and queens will find me useless to their schemes. I’ll live an ordinary life with an ordinary lover, and we’ll raise ordinary children.” She sipped her wine. “There will be no wars, no strife between tiers and warrens, no high wards or councils or influencers.”
“You’re going to need help,” Whitt said.
“The reason you’re both here.” Catling pulled on the mainsheet and steered them tighter to the wind. “I’m an oathbreaker.”
Kadan met her eyes. “Aren’t we all?”
“I don’t mean generally,” Catling said, searching for the meaning behind her words. “I suppose I haven’t broken my oath to Ellegeance yet, though I might if I think it’s the honorable choice. Oaths certainly shouldn’t be to people. We’re too flawed. How does anyone see beyond one’s own limited perspective?”
“Your oath is to a person,” Whitt said.
“And what a mess we might make. The doyen weren’t wrong. What if Lelaine were to inherit her father’s madness? Would I follow her orders, refrain from using my power to manage her? Would you?”
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