“I have to jump!” he said to Vianne. “You should be fine, but—”
“No.” She slowed to a walk, her grip on his sleeve, eyes on the guards.
“They’ll kill—”
“No.”
The air stuttered, movement lurched, and sound faltered. For a single heartbeat, time stopped. People stood as if suspended, eyes and mouth’s gaping. Then the nearest guards collapsed to their knees, others falling in an odd wave, hands to their heads as the howl of pain rose in a discordant chorus.
Whitt halted, reason tangled until the reality of influence dawned on him. Others on the piers and quay fled. Those working or wandering in the market panicked, voices joining in the chaos as they bolted for the warrens’ safety.
The guards twisted in agony and everyone who stood in her line of vision fell to her inflicted suffering. She hadn’t spread her influence across the market in complete randomness, but she was hardly selective.
“They have bows,” he said, gripping her arm and urging her on.
She glanced at him, understanding dawning, and they ran for the midday shadows beneath the tiers. “As soon as they’re out of my sight…”
“I know,” he replied. Her influence would end. He stooped and freed a spear from a downed guard. “We keep running.”
He towed her into the dim light, his heart thumping too loudly in his ears to fully acknowledge the change in timbre of the bellowing men on their heels. He and Vianne would find the entire guard after them, charging into the underworld as far as they dared. Years ago in the Mur-Vallis warrens, the underlords would never have tolerated an incursion into their territory, but this was Bes-Strea and times changed. He could only hope for resistance, that the vestiges of the old divisions and animosity remained.
“Where are we going?” she panted behind him. They wove through the tiers’ twisted underbelly. Whitt gripped her hand and dragged her around a corner into a narrow alley. It dead-ended, and he backtracked without a thought, hooking another bend, his sense of direction in the maze sharpened by his last visit.
The lighting improved and the walls stood straighter, giving him a bearing. They neared the underlords’ inner world, dens of power he planned to avoid. He paused, hauled in a breath, and split off to their right into another alleyway. The sounds of pursuit faded but didn’t disappear.
“Where are you taking me?” Vianne ripped her hand from his, halting in her tracks.
He looked back at her, at her soiled clothes and disheveled hair. The warrens had never been kind to beauty. “Nearer the trenches. They’re opposite the waterfront… usually. They stink, and only the poorest of the poor live there.”
“Or criminals.”
“We need to go,” he insisted. “The guards won’t follow us that far, and you can use your influence.”
“We can’t stay down here.” She glanced at the filth and darkness.
“People manage it, Vianne. I did and you can, at least until the guardians arrive.” He pointed with the spear. “I’m going that way. Follow if you wish.” Without waiting for her reply, he loped down the alley and veered into a lane branching to the left. She muttered behind him and he sighed. Explaining to Jagur that he’d lost her in the warrens would have cost him his head.
Four men and a woman stepped into the alley ten paces in front of him. Vianne huffed behind him and then yelped, her body slamming into his back. He staggered and twisted. She lay with her face in the dirt, two men behind her, one tapping a stub of wood against his calf.
The butt end of Whitt’s stolen spear swung up, clipped one thug on the chin, and knocked him into the wall. Whitt twisted and caught the other man on the side of the head as his weapon returned to ready position. He swung around and faced the five assailants ahead of him.
“That’s enough!” A polished man barked and stepped forward, a glittering throwing knife brandished in each hand. “Impressive.”
Whitt didn’t move, his stance unchanged and poised for a fight. The man with the knives sported the genteel bearing of one born to the tiers. A ribbon secured his waves of brown hair, and bronze buttons adorned his jacket. The rest of them wore the plain garb of the warrens. Which side they fought on, Whitt couldn’t fathom.
“She’s an influencer?” The ponytailed man’s eyes flickered to Vianne. One of the knives twirled in his hand.
Whitt nodded. He could take one of them before the knives struck, maybe another while he died. Behind him, he heard his first victims cursing. He spared a glance over his shoulder. A man held a knife tip to the base of Vianne’s skull, waiting for a word.
“Which side are you on?” the leader asked.
“The warrens,” Whitt replied. “She too… for the most part.”
The man’s eyebrows popped up, and a smile stole to his lips. “An evasive answer considering the situation. Who are you?”
“Whitt from Mur-Vallis.”
“You delivered gold to Sianna’s ships,” the man said.
“Not exactly.” Whitt shrugged. “Were you there? You might have noticed some petulance concerning our efforts.”
The man slipped his blades into his belt and waved the knife wielder away from Vianne. “Why are you here, Whitt from Mur-Vallis?”
Whitt lowered the end of the spear. “Which side are you on?”
“The same as you, I think.”
Vianne moaned, and Whitt spun to help her up before she lashed out. “No influence,” he warned. She narrowed her eyes but nodded, a hand to the knot on her head. Whitt faced the man and bared the ink on his arm. “I’m Whitt from Guardian. A two-thousand-man force heads this way at the queen’s bidding. She wishes to preserve the realm. I want to prevent the high wards from using warrens lives to further their ambitions. The plan is to claim the tier while Sianna is distracted in Nor-Bis, but I think we might also earn a chance to change the warrens’ future, a chance we may not see again.”
“Mostin.” The man introduced himself. “You sound like someone I know.”
“Gannon,” Whitt guessed. “He’s single-handedly conquering Lim-Mistral.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gannon propped his hands on his hips at the bottom of the ramp to Rho-Dania’s first tier. Roughly three thousand men, women, and children loitered at his back, his ragtag warrens army. If the sight didn’t terrify the tiers, the smell would. This moment had taken every wheedling, cajoling, bullying, and charming bone in his body to coax into existence.
Behind him, the seaport’s markets bordered the Wiseling, a brown snake of a river coursing north from Lim-Mistral in a muddy torrent. To his right, pavers and stalls sprawled to the harbor of the Cull Sea where shipbuilding sparred for space with the city’s fishing fleet. Cull Tarr skudders and double-masted dragnets rode the waves on the glimmering horizon. The morning sun blazed in a cloudless azure sky.
He looked up at the rows of nervous tier guards forming the backbone of the city’s defense. Probably three hundred of them bunched up beyond the fifteen fidgeting men at the slope’s peak. The ramp was spacious, but not that spacious, and it would make for an absurd battleground. Two influencers stood at the tier’s rim with a view of the market. If he’d planned it well, if everyone cooperated, and if the influencers didn’t muck it up, he figured his scheme might work.
“Traggy bung-pickers, Gan,” Tiler whined beside him. “This is taking so long my stones are shriveling. How many more days do we stand here waiting for the sodding gloryholes to make up their minds?”
Gannon eyed Tiler, the big man huffing and rolling his head from shoulder to shoulder. “As long as it takes.”
“Four days so far. I’m wasting away here.” Tiler stretched his arms behind him and then rocked from side to side at the waist like a tumbler warming up for a show.
“Everyone behind us is committed,” Gannon said, staring at the performance. “You can leave, but I have to stay.”
“I’m not getting ass-shafted again.” Tiler pursed his lips. “If you’re staying, so am I.”
“Suit yourself.”
They’d been standing there since dawn, the fourth day in a row, tier-dwellers sidling warily through their ranks to reach the markets and water trades. No one was threatened; no one harmed or stopped. If his horde bore weapons, they’d tucked them from view.
All he demanded of the high wardess was an amiable conversation, a negotiation if he could finagle it. Each passing day his number of followers grew. The influencers hadn’t attempted to clear the chattering masses, a wise choice for calm in light of his overwhelming numbers. If they helped keep the peace, they worked in his favor.
The line above cracked, guards stepping aside to clear a path for another tier resident to descend the ramp. Gannon straightened as the white-haired fellow strode toward him, flanked by a brace of guards. The rigid man sported a brocade jacket with a stiff collar and iron gray vest. The snarl on his lip and ink on the back of his hand identified him as Justice Guild, which shed light on his snooty bearing. He looked down his nose at Gannon. “You’re breaking the law.”
“Not unless you’ve conjured up a new one,” Gannon replied. “We aren’t harming anyone, trespassing, or impeding the tier’s business.”
“What do you want?”
Gannon rubbed his jaw, the necessity to repeat himself tiring. “To inform High Wardess Glain how she might defend her province from Lim-Mistral.”
“Is that so,” the man scoffed. “Last Harvest it was a Cull Tarr invasion. The year before, the Founders were returning to bless the poor. The warrens breed rumors like river rats.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “What will it be next? Ah, yes, the moons are due to collide.”
“You’re telling me your high wardess has no idea what’s headed her way?” Gannon wanted to knuckle the pompous prig in the chin. “You deserve your fate. We’ll be back to pile the bodies in the trenches.” He glanced at Tiler with a look of utter disgust and jerked his head toward the river. “We’re done here.”
“A city of nut dippers, Gan,” Tiler sighed with relief, and they turned into the crowd.
“Why don’t you educate me,” the justice called. “I’ll convey your thoughts to the high wardess.”
Gannon swung around and strode up to the man, ignoring the jumpy guards. “Fine, you tell her this.” He pointed a finger at the puffed up chest. “As we speak, Sianna closes in on Nor-Bis. The queen ordered Guardian to Bes-Strea to deal with the upheaval in the west. You are on your own, and Manus fancies your tiers. To be perfectly frank, the warrens don’t care who wins this little skirmish, and we’ll negotiate with either city.” His tolerance for Rho-Dania’s leadership threatened to bubble over its limit. “I’ll give High Wardess Glain-Rho until the day’s end. Then we’re heading to Lim-Mistral to see what Manus has to offer. Perhaps he’ll arrange for you and me to trade places.”
Tiler snorted beside him.
The justice didn’t spare the big enforcer a glance. He clamped his jaw shut, spun on his heel, and marched up the ramp, disappearing between the guards.
“Spanking corker,” Tiler muttered. “I figured you were slapping his shaft for certain.”
“A hard yank.” Gannon flicked a bug from his sleeve, relieved the justice hadn’t let him walk away. “Glain’s the better mark. She’s vulnerable, and as high wardess, she has to realize it.”
Manus-Lim had infiltrated her warrens, and the throng behind him had only grudgingly agreed to his brainstorm of a negotiation. If she turned him away, her city would face its doom. He’d take the river south to Lim-Mistral and try to convince Manus that the warrens’ cooperation came with conditions. Whether the man cared was another matter.
“You might as well get us some food.” Gannon thumbed a few coppers into Tiler’s palm. “It’s going to be a long day.”
“Could chow down a meat pie.” Tiler rubbed his hefty belly. “I’m wasting away.”
“I’ll be here.” Gannon watched Tiler lumber off through the nattering crowd. The man was a mass of brawn and bulge, and it would take longer than one night of fasting for him to make a credible claim of starvation.
Above him, the guards parted and the sour-faced justice peered down. He crooked his finger as if beckoning a headstrong child. Gannon glanced through the crowd for Tiler, didn’t see him, and started up. The big enforcer would crap a terran cow when he discovered he’d been left behind, but Gannon couldn’t do a thing about it.
The guards patted him down for weapons and let him through to the first tier. He followed the silent justice to the lift, the man stewing as if forced to be cordial to a half-cracked twitcher. They rode the pylon to the top tier and stepped out to a pristine view of the sea and the clean smell of salt.
“This way,” the justice ordered, flicking a palm toward a central hall.
Gannon brushed his sweating palms down his jacket and raked a hand through his curls. Presentable, if a touch ripe.
The white-haired man tapped open the door. “I’m Justice Forren-Rho. You’ve won your audience against my better judgment and sound advice.”
“I’m certain High Wardess Glain is comforted to know she has you to counter her witless folly.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Yet, it’s what you said.” Gannon strode into the hall and let his eyes adjust to the interior light. The décor reflected the city's sun-bleached hues of sand and shell. The art on the Founder-made walls displayed the whimsy of the sea, from fountaining breakers thrashing the shoreline’s rocks to tranquil sunsets and inky silhouettes of square-rigged sails.
Copper-skinned tier guards stood like statuary against the walls in taupe jackets and wide brown trousers tucked in at the boots. Across the room, a woman worked at a scrolled desk in an alcove, flanked by tall bookshelves. The light from an arched window at her back created a fiery halo of her spiked red hair and cast her face in shadow. She peered up after finishing whatever occupied her attention and gestured to a single, plain, stiff-backed chair set before the desk. “Sit.”
Gannon bowed. “My respects, High Wardess Glain-Rho. I’m Gannon, emissary of Queen Lelaine-Elan.”
The woman slapped her palm to her desk. “Don’t waste my time, Gannon. Tell me what you and your rabble want before I instruct Justice to hang you from the tier.”
“A woman after Algar’s heart,” he said, the comment as rude as it was fitting.
“Get him out,” she barked, waving a dismissive hand at the justice. Four of the guards stepped forward.
Gannon reached in his pocket and flipped up a folded card, scissoring it between two fingers. “A message from the queen for your eyes only.”
The high wardess cocked her head and reached out to accept the missive. She opened it and slowly read through the contents. “Sit, Gannon.” She looked up at her justice. “Forren, send in my influencers.”
“They’re at the ramp, Glain-Rho,” the man reminded her.
“And unnecessary here,” Gannon added as he took the offered chair. “It’s in our mutual best interests to conduct an honest negotiation. And I should inform you that I won’t honor anything reeking of influence, even if I sign it in blood.”
“Fine,” Glain said. “I suppose they’re needed more where they are anyway.” She tossed the letter at him. “Lelaine sends you here to coerce me.”
“She offers assistance to you first,” Gannon said, reframing the threat.
“And if I refuse to negotiate with you, she orders you to negotiate with Manus.”
“She didn’t create this situation, and neither did I. Her goal is to maintain the peace and prosperity of Ellegeance.”
“We have nothing to do with this trouble,” Forren stated. “We shouldn’t have to ‘negotiate’ and churn out concessions to keep the peace.”
“The alternative is worse,” Gannon said. “Manus wants the east and that includes Rho-Dania. You’ll lose your tier and hundreds of your loyal citizens. Any who resist Manus and his incursion will end up dead.”
Glain scratched a hand thr
ough her fiery hair. “Guardian marches on Bes-Strea?”
“Lelaine-Elan was forced to choose. Sianna represented the greater threat to the throne.”
“So, I’m to negotiate with you. What’s in it for you, Gannon?”
He bobbed his eyebrows. “I fancy I’ll make an excellent king if I’m successful.”
“You, our king?” Glain threw back her head and laughed. “Precious.”
He smiled and crossed an ankle over his knee. He hadn’t lied, but it wasn’t his primary motive. “My main concern is protecting the warrens, but I won’t complain if we prevent a slaughter in the tiers as well. My rabble wants nothing unreasonable in exchange for their cooperation.”
“Their cooperation?”
Gannon leaned forward, catching her eyes. Pocked scars marred her features, harder to see with the backlight shadowing her face. “Manus has infiltrated your warrens, doling out promises in exchange for their allegiance. Promises made of smoke, no doubt, yet hard to resist.”
“Handfuls of copper,” Forren snarled, and Gannon held his tongue, praying to the Founders for patience.
The high wardess steepled her fingers. “That’s not what they desire, is it?”
“Rights,” he said, holding her gaze.
“Vague at best.” She settled back in her chair.
Gannon smiled, the negotiation begun. “The right to raw land in the province at reasonable terms.” She said nothing, so he continued, “The right to join a guild through a merit-based apprenticeship.”
“I suspect they’d like accommodations in the tiers,” Forren mocked.
“Open the first tier markets to all,” Gannon said, ignoring the man. “And equal justice.”
“A given.” Forren narrowed his eyes.
“Not in my experience,” Gannon said without a glance back.
“Anything else?” Glain asked, her face a mask of stone.
“Nothing unreasonable.” Gannon smiled. “Dignity, respect, fairness.”
“And what will the warrens do for me in return?”
Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 25