The high ward’s eyes snapped to his bewildered influencers. They shook their heads, and he scanned the crowd. Catling chuckled, her glee beyond her control, and she drowned the spectators with undulating waves of loathing and anguish, rage and righteousness. The market exploded in violence, and she laughed at the sight.
Fists pounded and tables turned. Women screamed and flew into the fray abandoning their children to the madness. Guards shoved the accused man from the tier, and his neck snapped. The crowd clawed and shoved for a chance at the littered coins, tearing aside anyone in their way. Cudgels snapped out as guards jogged down the ramp to the market. They beat at the rioting mob. Men swarmed over them, venting their fury with hammering fists and feet.
Two bloodied men fell at Catling’s feet, one pounding the head of the other against the pavers. She severed her influence over the entire crowd and drew her shield back to herself. The violence exhaled but simultaneously acquired a life of its own. If the tier’s influencers attempted to quell the market, she saw little effect.
A gang from the warrens streamed up the ramp to the tiers. Catling ducked behind an overturned table and discarded her cloak. She scraped blood from the pavers and wiped it over her cheek and the red blemish encircling her eye. She held a hand to her face and ran for the ramp, joining the throng of fleeing servants, bloodied guards, and men bent on murder. Sentries formed a barricade at the top. They shouted orders to halt and beat back any who attempted to break through.
Catling hurried up the slope, sticking to the railed edge. A wounded guard with blood dripping into his beard veered toward her, and she blasted him with love. “Help me! I’m from the tiers. I need to get home.”
The guard blinked and whatever he intended slipped from his head. “Come with me. I’ll get you out of here.” He folded a paternal arm around her shoulder and ushered her up.
Another guard stopped them at the ramp’s peak. “Who is she, Nial?”
“Take a good look. She’s from the tiers, and she’s wounded.” Nial pushed open a break in the line, rebuffing the sentry’s caution. He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and guided her toward the spiraling stairs. “I’ll escort you home.”
“No.” Catling turned to him, her hand holding the cloth to her eye. “Thank you, Nial. I’m safe now. You’re wounded, and others require your help.” She cupped his bleeding cheek, applying a small dose of healing along with comfort and peace. “Thank you. I’m so sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Not your fault, Mistress.”
Oh, but it was. Yet, it worked; she stood in the tiers. “Please, I’ll be on my way.” She added a hint of intimidation, and he acquiesced with a courtly bow.
Mur-Vallis lacked a lift, so she hurried up the stairs to the fourth tier, the home of mid-level guilds unlikely to question her presence. She dipped the handkerchief in the icy pool of a fountain and dabbed her hands and face clean of blood and tears, the horror of what she’d created sweeping her with regret.
Until the next bell, she wandered the tier, calming her heartbeat and regaining control. In one of the three pylon’s alcoves, she tried the key and frowned when the door didn’t budge, her mission complicated tenfold.
She strolled to the promenade and looked up at the rising tiers on their massive struts. More than once, Gannon had led her inside the hollow pylons that streamed with warm air and tubes of luminescence. All those years ago, he’d secreted her to the fourth tier. They’d stood at the promenade rail and gazed over the vast southern wilderness. He’d promised one day she would witness the view from the top. That day drew near.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Two nights,” the pleasant woman echoed. “Do you have baggage?”
Her composure restored, Catling stood in the foyer of The Artist’s Eye, a modest inn on the fourth tier’s interior. “I fear my porter lost it in the market to the mob. I could hardly blame him. The chaos frightened both of us.”
“Ghastly business,” the woman said. “A long time has passed since we had riots in Mur-Vallis. The high ward should carry out his hangings over the trenches. That’s where they bury the bodies anyway, and it wouldn’t stir up the rabble.”
“I suppose such thoughtfulness wouldn’t suit his bloodlust, though, would it?” Catling smiled, hiding her censure.
The woman frowned. “No, I suppose not.”
“Might I impose on you for paper and ink?” Catling asked. “I’m afraid my loss of baggage will require that I request assistance during my stay.”
“Of course.” The woman retrieved a lidded box from a graceful writing table in the next room. “Shall I send up a message boy with a candle?”
“At the next bell, please.”
Catling followed the hostess to a tidy room with a single window, well adorned with paintings of the Fangwold Mountains and the Blackwater cascades. She set the box of paper and ink on a round table and took a seat. From the pocket of her jacket, she removed the letter Kadan had sent her from Ava-Grea. She’d received it in Se-Vien enclosed within a parcel for the ferry’s captain. With a sigh, she read it once again.
My dearest mother,
As you certainly now realize, my guild has rescinded my oath and recalled me to Ava-Grea for service to the realm. If this has created a hardship for you, please know that I intend to make amends, both to you and Mur-Vallis. With this in mind, I have sent my dearest friend to join you, hoping you may be of assistance to each other. Your discretion is greatly appreciated.
Your loving son,
Kadan
She folded the letter and placed it on the table, selected a piece of paper and dipped her pen.
Dearest Livia-Mur,
By way of introduction, I enclose a letter from your son, Kadan-Mur. I have arrived in Mur-Vallis and would be most pleased if we might visit during my stay. Though I don’t expect to be in Mur-Vallis long, I am at your disposal. I am residing at The Artist’s Eye on the fourth tier where I shall await word.
My sincerest respects,
After a pause, she signed her name, Rose. She folded Kadan’s letter within hers, and when a boy arrived with a candle, she melted a dab of wax and sealed it, imprinting it with a button from her jacket for lack of anything more fashionable.
“Deliver to Livia-Mur personally, no one else, seventh tier.”
The boy nodded, his pensive face giving way to a smile when she pressed a whole silver into his palm.
Then she lay on the bed, stared at the gray ceiling, and waited.
The response arrived two bells later, the boy handing it over with a bow and scampering off with another coin. Catling slid the door shut and opened the reply.
Dearest Rose,
I would be delighted if you would join me for dinner this evening. Seven bells. Please present this invitation to the guards, and they will escort you.
Respectfully yours,
Livia-Mur
Catling held the reply, her hands trembling. She blew out a breath, running reminders through her head. She had her shield and the power of influence, an ability to kill with a touch. One brief touch was all she required.
On the sixth tier, she paid for a bath, a wash of her hair and simple up-sweep of braids and curls. She purchased a cloak and settled her rumbling stomach with a cup of greenleaf and a buttery pastry, the only food she’d eaten all day. As the sun stole the afternoon, she walked the promenade, shivering in the twilit breeze, but too anxious to sit in her rented room and simmer.
If she miscalculated, her life would end in a matter of hours. Even if she killed Algar, escape might elude her. She sensed the looming specter of death, envisioned a noose around her neck as she walked to the first tier’s edge. Would she block Algar’s influencers and embrace the freedom to feel her fear? Or would she rather smile and dance into thin air?
Blue Misanda winked behind iron clouds, and golden Clio hovered in the pines across the river lighting the branches afire. Shy of full, Sogul balanced on the Fangwold’s peaks as if a breath of w
ind might roll it down the foothills and over the home of her youth. Whitt knew she loved him, but she wished she’d told him so.
The bell pealed.
She drew in a breath and climbed the stairs to the top of the city. A dozen sentries milled on the landing. One examined her invitation, and two escorted her onto the tier.
The Founder-made hall occupied the tier’s center with a courtyard garden, the potted trees in a haze of new leaves, branches flexing with spring’s return. Lanterns brightened the walking paths, and stunted shrubs flanked the windows. A guard tapped the panel by a side door, and the portal slid open. Another guardsman and a dour woman in a servant’s jacket stood at attention within.
“A guest for Livia-Mur.” One of her escorts handed over the invitation.
“We’ll accompany her from here,” the woman said. “May I take your cloak?”
“Yes, thank you.” Catling stepped into the enveloping warmth and untied her cloak.
The woman draped it over her arm. “This way.”
The quiet corridor bent into a wing, and they climbed a narrow stair to the second floor, the private nature of her path reassuring. The guard fingered a panel beside a double door, and it glided open.
A blond woman in a butter yellow jacket swept toward her, the smile on her face frozen to perfection. “Rose, how wonderful to meet a friend of Kadan’s. I’m Livia.” She pressed her thumb to her fingertips, Kadan’s old signal for danger. Catling donned her shield, though she doubted the woman was aware of what she’d done. Livia clasped Catling’s hands and kissed her cheeks. “Please, come in. As you can imagine, I worry endlessly about Kadan with him so distant. He used to sit right below my watchful eye.”
“He’s well.” Catling smiled.
“Oh, that’s lovely. Ava-Grea is much warmer isn’t it, than Mur-Vallis. Here, Winterchill arrives before Harvest has bid us farewell, and Springseed has lazy bones. But such is life in the south.” She waited in silence while the servant set a tea service on a low table between two cushioned chairs.
“Do you wish me to pour?” the servant asked.
“Oh,” Livia blinked. “No, not at all. Thank you.” She poured the tea while the woman retreated to stand by the closed door.
Catling inspected the room: the lavish furnishings, fusty books, and glass vases crammed with last year’s flowers. The luminescent lights were shaded in blue, and damask curtains covered the windows. Her boots sank into the plush carpet crowning the floor, no less rich than the queen’s.
“Are the paintings Kadan’s?” she asked. Landscapes peppered the walls and rested on folding easels atop tables and bookcases. She would have liked to view them in a more natural light. “He told me of his paintings but reported a lack of talent. These are lovelier than those of the Artisans’ Guild.”
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Livia glided to her side and gestured across the salon, her fingers signaling danger as she smiled. “Those are his earlier ones. If you start there and walk around the room, you can see how he’s improved.”
“He’s talented.” Catling strolled in a slow arc. Most of the work reflected a view from the seventh tier, a vision that grew darker in mood as his talent progressed.
Catling waited while Livia sipped her tea and then joined in while a servant set the table for dinner. She talked of Ava-Grea and told stories of fishing with Kadan. Livia’s shoulders relaxed beneath a soothing coat of influence.
“Dinner is served,” the servant said with a bow.
“Shall we?” Livia said.
“Yes, please, I’ve hardly eaten all day.”
Livia took her place at the table. “It’s so wonderful to entertain company. I never have company.”
With a flourish, the servant presented an array of delicacies from silver platters. The dinner surpassed Catling’s expectations with roast terran lamb, an exotic root bake and glass house greens, savory and sweet sauces, and Cull Tarr wine. Livia drank and chatted, her tension draining from her shoulders. Catling ate with relish and avoided the wine, careful to keep her influence and shield intact.
The room felt warm, Livia’s face flushed and her eyes bright. She signaled danger, and Catling tilted her head, returning the signal. Livia laughed. “You are so kind to visit me, Rose.”
“I can help you,” Catling whispered, blinking to clear her head. “Kadan knows, and he wants to protect you.”
“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” the woman said, her head bobbing. “It will be fine.”
Catling inhaled at a sudden wave of dizziness. A stifling heat bloomed on her forehead. She looked at Livia, the woman’s eyes dilated and face drawn with terror. Catling rose to her feet and swayed, holding the back of her chair and gathering her focus. She shoved a knife of pain through the woman’s head.
Livia’s fingers massaged her temple, but she should have been shrieking.
“What did you do?” Catling asked. “The food? What was in the food?”
“I… I had to.” Livia covered her mouth and rose to her feet. She stumbled, pulling over her chair, and fled to a room’s corner.
The door slid open. Catling reeled, her head fuzzy and eyes unfocused. Algar strode in, his confidence curling the corner of his mouth. The servant scurried out before the door closed behind her. Catling growled, summoning a bolt of agony that should leave the man screaming. Nothing came, her influence thin and weak as watered wine. She staggered toward him, her hands reaching for a single touch before she lost all control of her senses. With the grace of a dancer, he sidestepped out of her way.
“You’ve made a terrible miscalculation,” he said, his eyes eager. “I’ve poisoned you with godswell. Do you know what that is?”
Catling sagged against a bookcase, her bones turning to water. She knew from her work with the mercys. Godswell was a sleep aid, a narcotic, and anesthetic, and in sufficient doses a source of painless death.
“I doubt you’ll die,” he said, keeping his distance, “but it would be no great loss.”
“Livia?” Catling blinked, her mouth hanging open, fear and shock ripping through her veins.
Algar smirked. “As I said, no great loss.”
The roaring in Catling’s head drowned out the rest of his words. Livia crouched in the corner, hiding her face. Catling sank to her knees, helpless, her consciousness fading. Algar strode toward her, grabbed her wrist, and yanked her up. With one arm, he swept the table clear. Silver clattered to the floor; glassware shattered like Winterchill ice. He bent her over the table, a hand in her hair as he tore her clothing. Then he raped her while she wept.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Vianne grimaced over one of ten metal chests. She wore a gray jacket embroidered in a mottled palette of dusky grays that she hoped would hide the filth of travel on a barge with two hundred hairless rats. Whitt had assigned her responsibility for the evening feeding, and for some unfathomable reason, she hadn’t refused. At the time, she’d neither understood the full horror of the duty nor whiffed the stench emanating from the boxes. The first encounter was foul enough to strike her dead.
“Oakum, first,” Whitt instructed. He stood over her shoulder, altogether too patronizing for her taste. Biting her tongue, she scooped a glop of pungent resin from a bucket. If the acrid sealant singed her sense of smell, all the better.
One hand on the lid’s handle, she cracked open the chest and rammed the flat spoon into the dark. The spoon juddered as the creatures scratched and snarled. Curved claws stuck out through the slim opening. The reek made her head spin. She scraped the spoon out and worked the lid closed, the scaly feet retracting. “Eayuch!”
“Now the fish,” Whitt said.
Beside her on the deck sat a bucket of dead razorgills and yellow pippets Whitt had caught throughout the day. He’d agreeably sliced the sharp fins from the bodies, so she wouldn’t bleed to death while finishing the chore. She inhaled and picked up one of the slippery fish. In one frantic motion, she cracked the lid, jammed the fish in, and slammed it closed
.
“Nine more chests to go.” Whitt smiled, crossed his arms, and leaned on the barge’s gunwale.
She narrowed her eyes, tempted to give him a case of queasiness worse than her own but decided against it. She’d promised not to influence him and wouldn’t break her word over a smirk.
The pong from the next chest was utterly spectacular. “No one’s going to believe these stinking, scuffling boxes are filled with coins.”
“Use your influence,” Whitt said.
“Even I’m not that powerful.” She crammed a fish into the box and gagged.
“Convince them with fear or love, whatever blend will get them to disregard their good sense and carry those chests aboard their ships. If we’re lucky, half of Sianna’s fleet will founder.”
“Once they’re out of my sight, the influence has no effect,” she warned him, the whole plan ridiculous. “They’ll hurl the chests in the Fargrove the moment they regain their senses.”
“Not if there’s gold inside,” Whitt said. “They’ll check first. I put two gold coins in each to make it worth their while. No common man will walk away from a fortune.”
“Sianna will realize the Influencers’ Guild sabotaged her plans.”
“Guardian sabotaged her,” Whitt said. “Blame me for the scheme. You had no idea I’d stolen the coins and filled the chests with river rats.”
“No one in his or her right mind will fall for it,” Vianne huffed. She narrowed her eyes, curious if this had been his strategy all along.
“Use your influence to convince them.”
“It isn’t as simple as you imply, Whitt.” She crawled to the next chest, dragging the buckets of oakum and fish with her. “Influence isn’t permanent, and it relies on logic to retain any power beyond the moment. Fear is most effective if it magnifies discomfort. Love will last longer if it amplifies affection. It can’t force a fetid corpse to smell like roses.”
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