Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2)

by D. Wallace Peach

  “If we’re successful, none of it will matter.” He swept a hand toward the metal chests and pushed himself off the rail. “If Sianna wins, you’ll have some explaining to do, but you’ll survive.”

  She frowned at him as he sauntered away, conceding that he likely spoke the truth.

  They rode the West Canal for Bes-Strea and would arrive well ahead of Jagur’s troops. She shouldn’t have agreed to this mission. Minessa had advocated in favor, Brenna against, and Dalcoran had waffled in the middle, acknowledging the benefit of her oversight as well as the risk to her life and the guild’s neutrality. The decision had fallen to her, and she’d agreed for all the wrong reasons.

  To protect Jagur, to lay her eyes on him again, to follow the spark they’d reignited in Elan-Sia… if it had ever faltered.

  Why had he demanded her presence? Was he equally curious, equally willful? He was the Commander of Guardian at the other end of the realm, she an influencer with a power he despised. Even if he weren’t bonded, their relationship could never survive. Did he desire her, or simply wish her to witness the carnage, as Whitt suggested? What if she decided to stop the war; could she without the other doyen’s consent? Had she the power if the battle turned to chaos? She thrust a lump of oakum into a chest and jammed in a fish, the smell so strong she tasted it.

  The truth of Whitt’s words echoed in her head. They needed Catling.

  ***

  As the barge drifted within a day of Bes-Strea, Whitt stowed his Guardian greens. He dressed as a riverman and worked alongside the crew, using his staff to push off the banks when the craft drifted near. It was lazy work traveling north with the flow, and he spent hours fishing to keep the river rats fed.

  Bes-Strea rose above the distant trees, twelve tiers high and rivaling Ava-Grea in breadth. The fertile flats to the west grew food faster than weeds, and the southern grasslands made plentiful pasture for terran and native stock alike. The tier-city enjoyed a wealth of resources and would waste it all away.

  Wearing her gray jacket, Vianne joined him as a well-manned carvir rowed toward them. A lanky tier guard in a russet jacket stood at the slim boat’s prow, his hands bracketing his mouth. “Haul aside by order of High Wardess Sianna. Tie up for inspection.”

  The barge’s grizzled captain glanced back at Whitt and shouted orders to the crew.

  “Do your magic, Vianne,” Whitt muttered.

  “Your guidance is unnecessary,” she said from the side of her mouth.

  He leaned on his staff as the rivermen took to the oars. The barge veered into the sloped bank with a jarring bump and scrape. Several men jumped to the muddy grass with cleated lines and tied up to a bollard planted at the bank’s peak.

  The carvir glided alongside, and the guards lashed the two crafts together. Whitt gestured toward the crossbows at the vessel’s stern, and Vianne sighed. The long-range weapons had begun showing up in the tiers with greater frequency. They’d found their way to Mur-Vallis a decade ago. Now they entered the current conflict, a perilous disadvantage to those below the tiers.

  Biding his time, the russet-cloaked officer from the carvir surveyed the barge’s length, his watery eyes lingering on the metal pay chests, recognizable despite their filth. He nodded a greeting to Vianne, his sharp goatee failing to hide the boyish affection lighting his eyes. He swung a leg over the gunwale onto the barge’s deck, two of his guards following in his steps.

  “You have concerns in the west?” the man asked the barge’s captain.

  “I have business with High Ward Sianna.” Vianne stepped forward, her bearing regal. The lanky guardsman raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed with her, the cargo, the balmy day, and the sweet perfume of passion permeating the air. He sucked on the influence like a man on a binge. Whitt almost felt sorry for him.

  A smile topped the goateed chin. “Captain Paulin-Bes, and may I ask your business?”

  “Vianne-Ava, doyen of the Influencers’ Guild. I bear a gift for Sianna-Bes.” She gestured to the chests as if they were plated with gold. Softening her voice, she leaned toward the younger man. “Wars require allies and sponsors, and well-paid soldiers win more battles than those grumbling about copper and hinting at mutiny. My guild wishes anonymity, yet it has made a choice.”

  Paulin nodded at the imparted wisdom as if one of the Founders had materialized on the wooden deck and blessed him.

  “How fares the campaign?” Vianne took the man’s arm in hers and drew him toward her cargo, his two guards in tow.

  Whitt stepped back a pace and dipped his head. Paulin lowered his voice, his gaze on the payload. “Well enough. High Wardess Sianna treks north with half our force. We employ every vessel in the river to transport supplies and men.”

  “Her influencers?” Vianne asked.

  “With her.” Paulin wrinkled his nose at the stink and smiled at the same time.

  “A pity,” Vianne sighed. “In addition to distributing my… support, I’m to impart instructions for full cooperation in the interest of Ellegeance’s future. All the more reason I’ll need to continue north. What of Sianna’s sons?”

  “Rordan-Bes remains here in the city’s defense. Rames-Bes travels with her.” Paulin wiped his nose. “Forgive me, Vianne-Ava, but the smell of these chests is enough to empty a stomach.” He gave one a push with the heel of his boot, and the scuffling inside jerked him upright. His hand slapped to the hilt of his belted knife, and his eyes narrowed to wary slits. Whitt’s grip on his staff tightened just as the man’s shoulders relaxed, his gaze enrapt by Vianne’s dazzling smile.

  Vianne laughed as if delighted with her ruse. “Forgive me; I should have warned you. We are a cautious guild, Paulin-Bes. Even in a time of peace, this much gold is bound to raise interest. Each chest has an unwelcome guest to discourage inconvenient interest.”

  “Throwing us off the scent?” he chuckled at the cleverness of his pun. “What’s in there?”

  “Tufted minx, furry little creatures from the hummocks near my home. You must visit when your duty here is done.” She steered him away from the chests. “Might I beg a favor of you, Paulin-Bes? Would you escort us to Bes-Strea and aid me with the distribution of our cargo? I guarantee your assistance will not go unnoticed by High Wardess Sianna.”

  Whitt thought the man looked like she’d offered him the Ellegean throne. The rest of the tier guards on the carvir stood out of hearing but appeared no less agreeable to whatever occurred on the barge. They sat on their benches, gossiping, tossing knucklebones, and a few nabbed an opportunity to nap.

  “I’d be honored, Vianne-Ava.” He bowed.

  “Please, call me Vianne.” She accompanied him as he delivered new orders to his crew, the mission received with nods of approval and a half-silver per man. When she returned to Whitt’s side, the tier guards freed the lines and shoved off, the barge following in their wake.

  “That was too easy.” Whitt dropped his shoulders, releasing the tension stored there.

  “For now,” she said. “We shall see when they’re out of my sight, when I sleep, and when the chests are opened and they realize they’ve been duped.”

  He leaned on the rail, eyeing her. “With your power to sway hearts, why let the realm fall apart at all. Why allow plots and intrigue to proceed?” Blame riddled his tone, but he couldn’t comprehend the guild’s reasoning. “Why permit Algar to hang innocents and the conflicts in the Far Wolds to continue? Why don’t you stop it and ensure peace, when you have the means?”

  “We don’t rule Ellegeance.” She glared at him. “You would have us usurp the throne and manipulate the realm to our own vision? You despise influence when it counters your wishes and beg for it when you see a use. Decide which one you want, Whitt, because your inconstancy is tiresome. Why hasn’t Guardian taken action against Algar? Why hasn’t Guardian ended the conflicts in the Wolds? Why only now, at the queen’s behest does Guardian march on Bes-Strea? Your primary oath to Ellegeance is no different than mine.”

  He set his
jaw, unable to reply, the words gritted between his teeth.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Vianne said, her calm restored, “because you aren’t the rulers of Ellegeance either.”

  He slumped to the rail and rubbed his forehead. A slap across the face would have stung less than the truth. “How does any one of us make the right choices?”

  “We do our best,” Vianne said. “We seek guidance, and sometimes we are wrong.”

  “You implicated your guild.” He wasn’t sorry, and perhaps she could influence her way out of a confrontation if need be, yet he couldn’t help feeling surprised.”

  “I told you I couldn’t make a corpse smell like roses.” She met his eyes. “You left me no choice.”

  “It wasn’t my intention, but I don’t regret it.”

  “Well then, Whitt, you had better win this war.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  For the third day in a row, Whitt’s eyes stung as he carried a reeking metal chest on his shoulder. He hadn’t fed and watered the remaining rats that morning and hoped a thieving crewman would pop the lid before the creatures died or began eating each other.

  In hindsight, it was as mindless an idea as Vianne insisted. Gannon had inspired him with tales of sinking the Cull Tarr’s gold, and it had given him an excuse to spend a couple days in the swamps without his nagging worries about Catling. He’d almost told Vianne to stop the feedings and dump the chests in the canal, but clogging the waterway with trash would earn the barge a fine at best. And he rather enjoyed seeing her suffer the stench, a condition immune to influence.

  His last trip to Bes-Strea had uncovered the depth of Sianna’s ambition. If his information proved true, she’d paid off the warrens’ underlords and recruited an army for a strike against Nor-Bis. The northern tier-city would see it coming, and if they didn’t bend over and dip their chins to the dirt, they were in for a thrashing.

  Vianne strolled ahead of him with Paulin, the man sallow-faced with sleepless rings hollowing his eyes. He mooned over the doyen when wrapped up in her magic; yet, he had to question his sanity in the wee hours of the night. If he worked up any courage before dawn, it dissipated like dew before Vianne’s sunny smile.

  The rats scratched and snarled within the box, and Whitt winced. The dockside marketplace lacked the optimism that bloomed with Springseed and the hopeful prosperity of ripening fields. Instead, an air of fretfulness gathered like thunderheads before a storm. Guards cordoned off the ramp to the first tier and manned it with thick cudgels and steel-tipped spears. Women from the warrens hurried children ahead of their skirts, and crofters from outlying farms haggled with guardsmen for a fair sale. Old men watched versions of their younger selves drunk on promises of plunder and glory. Green recruits rallied for a place on the barges and ferries, knives glinting in their belts.

  Whitt followed Vianne and Paulin down a pier that stretched into the Fargrove from the quay, one of a score fringed with small skiffs, carvirs, dories, and fishing boats. Sianna’s tier guards had commandeered the few larger vessels that strained at their moorings, laden with supplies and men. The river rushed by, high and wild with southern snowmelt and seasonable rains.

  “This way.” Paulin stepped down to the deck of a crowded ferry and offered a steadying hand to Vianne. He signaled to the captain, a tall woman with a sheathed dagger who glowered at them from the ship’s stern.

  Whitt spat into the river. The shouldered chest drew interest among the ill-clad men and women idling at the ferry’s rails. They lacked any hint of discipline, but the russet doublets thrown over their clothes marked them as Sianna’s recruits. He bobbed his eyebrows and mouthed the word “gold,” revealing the contents secreted behind the metal clasp.

  “Paulin-Bes.” The surly captain strode across the deck, the milling onlookers stepping out of her way. “I have a river to ride, a deck full of laggards, and orders to get my ass moving.” She pursed her lips at Vianne, chin tucked in her neck.

  “I’m adding to your assignment,” Paulin said, his voice conveying an authority Whitt doubted the man had. Vianne’s influence toiled doubly hard.

  “Vianne-Ava,” Vianne said. “I bring gold for Sianna’s effort.”

  The captain stepped closer, her lips nearer Vianne’s ear than necessary. “A word best not spoken aloud in this rabble.”

  “Yes, of course, artless of me.” Vianne smiled and the woman smiled in return.

  “It’s to be delivered to Sianna immediately.” Paulin inserted himself between them.

  “My porter will stow it below decks, out of your way.” Vianne waved Whitt toward the shallow hold.

  Whitt didn’t pause for the captain’s confirmation, leaving Vianne to occupy her competing suitors. He jerked his chin at two men watching his progress. “Give me a hand?”

  The men nodded and followed Whitt to the open hatch. One of the fellows hurried down a short ladder. “You can hand it down if it suits you.”

  “Saves my back,” Whitt replied.

  The other man helped lower it from his shoulder and wrinkled his nose. “You add a load of shit to that gold? The thing stinks like the tier’s pits.”

  “Puts a little damper on prying fingers,” Whit said with a chuckle. They lowered it into the hold. “There’s a tufted minx in there too. I’ll admit that wouldn’t stop me from pocketing a silver if I got the chance, let alone a gold. I’d live like a king for a year on half that.” He brushed his hands off on his trousers and nodded to Vianne on his way to the pier.

  She cooed at whatever the captain said and followed Whitt up, Paulin tailing her.

  “I’d be surprised if it isn’t already open,” Whitt said under his breath. “Did you influence the crew?”

  “Unnecessary.” Vianne patted her pinned braids into place as they returned to the quay. “Four more. I’ll be relieved when this is over.”

  With a grunt, Whitt shouldered another smelly chest.

  Vianne caressed Paulin’s arm. “I suppose the barge on the next pier?”

  “As you wish, Vianne.”

  “I must confess,” she said with a sigh, “I’d hoped we might have finished by now. You promised me a goblet of wine from a tier garden with a southern view, and I owe you an expression of my gratitude.”

  If the man was prone to swooning, Whitt thought Paulin would crack his skull on the quay. Paulin patted her hand. “There are only four left Vianne.”

  “Do you think we might impose of the last two captains to take two chests each?” She tilted her head. “Perhaps that’s wiser than waiting another day.”

  “An excellent thought,” Paulin agreed, his expectations swelling with his chest. He snapped his fingers at three barefoot recruits who shambled over, eyeing him with suspicion. “Each of you shoulder a chest and follow us.”

  Two of the young men hoisted up the chests and grimaced. The third, a gap-toothed twitcher, gagged and blew a wad of spittle to the quay. “Stinks like a sweaty biffer.”

  “That’s an order,” Paulin barked.

  The man scowled and heaved up the chest, his face canted away and eyes pinched into slits. “What you put in here?” he asked Whitt as they headed toward the pier.

  “Gold, mostly,” Whitt replied. “For paying recruits like you.”

  “I haven’t seen a clipped copper,” the man complained. “Give me a shirt that don’t even cover my arms. How come it reek so bad?”

  “There’s a minx inside.” Whitt chuckled.

  The twitcher spat. “Stupidest thing I ever heard, getting gold all fouled up with bung.”

  “Tiers think we’re spooked by a little stink.” Whitt shook his head. “I’m from the warrens. Except for Winterchill, they smell like the trenches all year.”

  “Got that right.”

  “They’re not locked, you know,” Whitt whispered, his head tilting toward the chest on his shoulder.

  The man’s eyes bugged. “Now that tops the last stupidest thing I ever heard.”

  At the barge, Whitt waited
while his gap-toothed associate and another recruit delivered their chests to the hold. The crew cast off the lines. Vianne and Paulin gave the captain rushed instructions, the man too harried to care about anything but picking up the current and not breaking every last oar in the effort.

  The two recruits popped from the hold and jumped the gap to the pier with eyes bulging. They looked at Whitt with a twisted smile somewhere between a grin and grimace, and the twitcher gave his own pocket a loving pat. Paulin waved them off.

  Three piers to the north, crates stacked the deck of the last barge. Vianne held Paulin’s arm like a bonded couple out for a stroll, Whitt and the third recruit trailing behind. Whitt didn’t bother conversing with the scruffy man, the end of their ruse in sight. He and Vianne would disappear into the warrens, gather information, and wait on Jagur and the guardians.

  “What you tell Genny?”

  Whitt looked up at the ragged man traipsing beside him. “What?”

  “What you tell Genny?” the man repeated.

  “Nothing,” Whitt replied, figuring Genny was the twitcher. “There’s…” His voice trailed off. Three piers to the south, the ferry’s captain strode toward the quay, a contingent of guards loping ahead of her and an equal number on her heels. She shouted orders, turned her head, and pointed a dagger directly at Vianne.

  “Vianne!” Whitt dumped his chest into the river, darted forward, and snagged the doyen’s arm. She stiffened, and Paulin leapt forward to protect her, a knife flashing to his hand quicker than Whitt anticipated. He blocked the thrust and rammed a fist into Paulin’s jaw. The captain stumbled back, and Whitt kicked, knocking him from the pier. Vianne hurried toward the quay. Whitt dashed up behind her, grabbed her hand, and yanked her into a less stately sprint.

  Tier guards bearing spears ran from the ramp, and those with the irate captain jogged onto the quay. Whitt steeled himself for a fight he couldn’t win and glanced toward the cold river, weighing his odds in the current. He didn’t believe they’d kill Vianne, a doyen, but he was no one, a saboteur and warrior of Guardian in the wrong place at a terrible time.