Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2)

by D. Wallace Peach

  “Infiltrate Lim-Mistral’s warrens, share their good fortune with the poor sods there, and cause a riot.”

  “And force the same concessions on Manus?”

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Whitt entered the commander’s quarters, an ivory tent, eight paces square with a rough table and hodgepodge of folding chairs. Jagur puffed on his pipe, clouding the interior with a gray haze and the aroma of burning leaves and roasted nuts, a pungent blend from the Far Wolds.

  Officers girded the table, and those without seats stood behind the chairs, leaning in. Captain Nordin, a tall guardian with scarred hands from his days as a smith’s apprentice, unrolled a map. Vianne perched on a stool within earshot of the discussion, her eyes on the commander and lips ready to offer her opinion if she saw fit. By all appearances, she’d recovered from her ordeal in the warrens without any lasting damage, her clothing pristine, hair curled and coiled, her expression under iron control.

  “My regrets for my tardiness,” Whitt said with a slight bow. He joined Mostin where he stood by Vianne. At the tent’s other side, Tavor gripped his forearm in a mock salute.

  “I assume you have a good excuse.” Jagur frowned through a ring of smoke.

  “Yes, Sir.” Whitt had misplaced his last pair of dry socks, and every soldier knew the importance of dry socks.

  “Then no need to share the details.” Jagur eyed his officers until they quieted down. “Let’s begin. Major Parso.”

  The major, a wiry man with a sharp nose and halo of silver hair, wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead and cleared his throat. He shuffled through a stack of papers. “Camp logistics are improving. We’ve organized the compound by company. We’re intercepting supplies traveling downriver from Dar-Callin, and we’re starting to receive assistance through the canal from Se-Vien and Kar-Aminia. Local resources have been more difficult to wrap our arms around.”

  “The tiers were closed as of last night,” Tavor said, sliding a hand over his shaved head. “We have archers positioned with a view of the ramps, but not close enough to get their hides pricked with holes. It’s a mystery how long the tiers can hold out, but we’ve got them under siege.”

  Captain Nordin leaned over the map. “It’s reasonable to assume that a great deal of Bes-Strea’s surplus went north with Sianna.”

  “The tiers can endure a shortage for two or three weeks,” Vianne said. “After that, life will become increasingly uncomfortable.”

  Whitt glanced at those around the table, concluding that Vianne would know more about stockpiles in the tiers than the rest of them. A handful of the officers grew up in Guardian, and many of the rest had found their ways to the fortress from the warrens.

  “The warrens won’t last that long.” Mostin planted his hands on his hips. “We need the warrens markets opened. You don’t help your cause by starving anyone.”

  “Will the tier guards allow it,” Tavor asked, “or will they shoot a bolt through anyone who ventures into the open? Whose side are the warrens on?”

  “No idea.” Mostin shrugged. “I’d guess that anyone lured by Sianna’s bait went north, leaving us with the young, old, and those loyal to the queen.”

  Tavor leaned on a tent pole. “Like the major said, supplies are floating down the waterways, and the crofters are moaning about early harvests going to waste.”

  “We’ll move the market out of bow range,” Nordin said. “The treeline isn’t far, and it will provide shelter from tier archers.”

  Mostin raised an eyebrow. “The warrens folk can’t get there without safe passage from the tier’s edge. We’d need to build a roofed walkway.”

  “Impossible. We don’t have the supplies.” Major Parso balked, tapping his reports. “And we can’t acquire them in a reasonable time.”

  “Thoughts?” Jagur asked, throwing the question to the blank faces.

  Whitt scratched the scruff on his chin. “We could use the planking from the piers.”

  “Rip up the planking?” The major grimaced. “Those piers are necessary for the war.”

  “Not all of them,” Whitt said.

  Jagur blew a fog of smoke across the table. “Sianna’s going to spit darts. Tavor, you and Cale will remain in Bes-Strea with a third of the troops under Lieutenants Bram and Danil while the rest of us trek north. I’m putting you two in charge of building the pathway. Use labor from the warrens, and pay a fair wage to anyone with a strong back and a mind to work.” He turned to the two guardians who would manage the siege. “Lieutenants, shoot an arrow through any tier guard who raises a bow and otherwise keep them caged in their city. If they choose to surrender, give reasonable terms and make—”

  “Commander,” Mostin interrupted, “the warrens demands more than fair wages for temporary work.” The force of his voice halted Parso’s paper shuffling, and every face turned his way. “The people of the warrens claim a voice in developing the terms for our future. An oppressed people with few choices is kindling begging a match. If the warrens weren’t so wretched, Sianna wouldn’t have found an army willing to perish for a few coppers.”

  The man’s demand didn’t surprise Whitt, and he smiled at the bravado. Mostin had talked about little else during the week he and Vianne hid in the warrens. Gannon’s words echoed in Mostin’s throat with the same urgent plea for hope.

  “Your opinion?” Jagur looked at Whitt.

  Whitt dropped the smile and straightened. “The warrens are as much a part of Bes-Strea as the tiers. They’re Ellegean citizens, Sir. They deserve a voice.”

  “It’s a legitimate request,” Nordin said. None of the other officers raised an objection.

  “Fine,” Jagur sucked on his pipe and blew another suffocating smog into the tent. “Have a workable agreement by the time the war is over or the queen will pen one that she’ll force you to live with. That should scare the tiers as much as the warrens.”

  “We’ll be reasonable.” Mostin bowed, his grin tickling his ears.

  “Are there influencers in the tiers?” Jagur asked the group. He glanced at Vianne, and she gave him an imperious look in return. Since Jagur’s arrival two days ago, he and Vianne circled each other like wary crag bears trying to decide whether to mate or run each other off.

  Tavor shook his head. “If any influencers are up there, they haven’t revealed themselves. No one’s howling in pain or fear. No odd behaviors beyond the usual madness.”

  Ignoring the sergeant, Vianne smoothed the skirt of her cream jacket. “Captain Paulin-Bes of the tier guard said Sianna has taken them to Nor-Bis. If she hadn’t, they would have contained us on the docks.”

  “What’s the condition of Bes-Strea’s river craft?” Jagur shifted his frown to Whitt. Clearly, his vexation about Vianne’s involvement in the antics with the river rats continued to curdle his mood. He’d thumped Whitt on the head for the reckless decision, despite the fact that it had forced the Influencers’ Guild to take a stand.

  “According to reports, they’re having a few unexpected problems,” Whitt replied.

  “Enough to make it worth it?” Jagur asked, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Probably not, Sir.” Whitt pressed his lips between his teeth. “We control the waterways around Bes-Strea, and we’ve prevented Sianna from returning for supplies or reinforcements.”

  “Any word from Nor-Bis?” Jagur scanned the assembly.

  Captain Nordin pulled the map closer. “Nothing dependable and whatever we hear is a week past.” He rapped a scarred finger on the tier city at the mouth of the Fargrove. “Sianna’s camped south of the city. Last we heard, she’s stirred the warrens, and they’re creating havoc for the tiers, though less than she expected. If she has any allies in the tiers, they haven’t made a move, yet. Again, this is week-old information.”

  “Are the Cull Tarr keeping their distance?” Jagur tapped the ash from his pipe onto the arm of his chair and brushed it to the dirt floor.

  “Distance is the perfect wo
rd for it,” Nordin replied. “They aren’t aiding Sianna, but they aren’t doing us any courtesies either. The Nor-Bis fleet has taken to sea, presumably to avoid falling into Sianna’s hands. Our Ellegean fleet, for what it’s worth, is ensuring it stays that way.”

  “Any other news?” Jagur asked, and after a pause, he heaved in a breath. “We depart in two days. Commandeer anything that floats. If we control the Fargrove, we control supplies. Guardians will travel by foot. We don’t want to press Sianna into the tier city, but it’s going to happen regardless. Whitt, you and Mostin will work the Nor-Bis warrens. Make sure they know what’s coming and mobilize them.”

  “I’m remaining here,” Mostin said with a glance toward Whitt. “This is my city, and I need to be part of the negotiations.”

  “Civilians,” Jagur groused. “Then find me three others, equally effective, who can take your place down there.” Mostin nodded and the commander eyed the map. “We drive Sianna west, away from the city, the river, the sea, and from home.”

  “Her influencers?” Vianne’s green eyes were riveted on the commander.

  The question was a good one, and by the way every eye swiveled to Jagur, the rest of his leadership thought so too. If strong enough and positioned with a broad view of the killing field, one influencer could swing a battle.

  “Your recommendation, Vianne-Ava?” Jagur eyed her, his gruff manner softening. Whitt’s gut told him that the commander didn’t ask for an opinion as much as he was deferring to her decision.

  Squaring her shoulders, she nodded. “The Nor-Bis influencers will be loyal to High Ward Jullien. If they use their sway, it will be in the tier city’s defense. Jullien knows full well that Guardian comes to the city’s aid; therefore, I expect no violence from his tiers. It’s Sianna’s influencers that concern us.”

  She threaded her fingers together and tapped a knuckle to her lips. Whatever words she planned to say hesitated to leave her mouth. With a resigned sigh, she lowered her hands to her lap. “I recommend, if at all possible, they be given one opportunity to surrender. If they refuse, you must kill them before they kill you.”

  Whitt frowned. Vianne’s recommendation had one mighty big problem staring them in the face. The lanky Captain Nordin raised his eyebrows. “Vianne-Ava, no one will get close enough to tender such an offer. Sianna’s influencers will strike him down before two words brave the air.”

  “That’s why I shall attempt to speak with them.” She lifted her chin to the commander.

  Jagur scowled. “Like Founders’ Hell you will!”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Dawn slanted through the ferry’s window. Kadan kissed Minessa’s cheek and gazed into her eyes, worry staining his every thought. “I wish you’d stayed in Ava-Grea. Mur-Vallis is no friend to you.”

  She smiled, head at a tilt, her hazel eyes rich with patience for his repeated cautions. “I will stay hidden within these floating walls, Kadan, I promise.”

  “The ferry is yours. If I don’t return in three days, leave for home, and let the guild’s doyen decide the next step.”

  “You forget, I am a doyen.” She smoothed her hands over his black cloak, his uncle’s preferred color. “I will heed your advice, however reluctantly. Find her, love.”

  Kadan climbed from the ferry to Mur-Vallis’s weathered pier. This far south, Springseed’s warmth lagged behind its neighbors, yet the air blew fair and the land sprouted with emerald greenness. Though his cloak fell open, the woads on his neck stayed hidden beneath a light scarf, and he’d buried those coloring his wrists in gloves. Influencers in his uncle’s province had never been highly regarded.

  The warrens markets crawled with crofters’ wagons and merchants’ carts. Tier servants shopped under the protective eyes of hired guards, riverfolk hawked fish, and the poor sold trinkets and crafts or bits and bobs scraped from the trenches. He wrinkled his nose at the miasma of human sweat, animal filth, dead fish, and braziers of sizzling meat.

  The tiers of his youth towered over him, blocking the sun, his judgment knotted and unraveling like old lies. Catling’s window had passed without word. Vianne has sent an urgent message, demanding her presence in the western provinces, and the queen had reluctantly acquiesced. He could no more argue with both women than he could give birth, and unable to convince Minessa to stay behind, they headed south. Each day on the river had slogged by so slowly that it seemed the gleaming waterdragons had sloughed their harnesses onto absent-minded snails.

  “Need a bag carried up?” A boy leaned on a piling, hands stuffed in his pockets.

  “To the fourth tier.” Though capable of toting the bag himself, Kadan handed it over.

  “I’m Beni. That will be two coppers,” the boy said as he headed up the pier.

  Kadan nodded, the price high but worth a conversation. “Any trouble here lately?”

  A shrug rolled Beni’s shoulders. “Not more than usual.”

  “Is Algar still hanging the poor?”

  “Not as many as after the riot.” The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Thought for a while he’d hang us all.”

  “A riot? How long ago?”

  “Not in four weeks or so. The hanging day before last.” Beni led Kadan through the nattering clusters of warrens dwellers to the ramp linking them to the first tier. “Should be more on Darkest Night if you’ve a mind to watch.”

  “I’ll be back on the Blackwater before then.” The chill on Kadan’s neck spread to his arms. If Catling had initiated a riot four weeks ago, what had happened to her since?

  Beni turned up the sloped walkway. Six guards dressed in black manned the peak. Unsure of his welcome, Kadan strode the length as if he hadn’t been gone a day, as if his uncle’s corpse rotted in the mud and he were High Ward of Mur-Vallis. He loosened the scarf wrapping his neck, his woads carrying their weight. Half of the guards he recognized, a handful by name, and he assumed the reverse was true. Beni reached the human barricade before him, huffed at the inconvenience like an upper-tier guildsman, and waited.

  “Kadan-Mur.” The ranking guard, a stocky man with a thicket of a beard, stepped forward.

  “Nial.” Kadan smiled, his influence supplying a dose of good cheer. “It’s good to be back.”

  The stocky guard eyed the fractal designs arcing around Kadan’s neck. He scratched his jaw, whiskers twitching up in a smile. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

  “An unplanned visit.” Kadan gestured for his bag, dropped four coins in Beni’s calloused palm, and canted his head back the way they’d come. “My thanks.”

  A grin split Beni’s face. “Easiest copper ever. Respects, Kadan-Mur.” He bent at the waist and trotted down the ramp.

  Kadan turned back to the guard. “I’m here to surprise my mother before my uncle assigns me new duties and corners my time.”

  “Surprised you came back at all,” Nial said.

  “My other responsibilities were always temporary.” Kadan looked up at the tiers, infusing the air with a kindly ease. He added a hint of fear. “I imagine my uncle will have strong feelings regarding my return. I’d prefer to greet him on my own terms unless the tier guard has other instructions.”

  “Nothing I’ve heard. Best to you.” Nial stepped aside and pursed his lips. “Kadan-Mur…” The guard rubbed his jaw.

  “Yes?” Kadan waited.

  Nial shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary, just… keep your wits about you.”

  “I plan to.” Kadan nodded a farewell and passed through the barricade. The first tier was the domain of the lower merchants and tier guards. Shopkeepers boasted higher quality wares than the warrens and set up outdoor tables along the promenade, its snaking pathway clogged with pedestrians. Goods of the Artisans’ and Tradecrafters’ Guilds were accessible to tier dwellers, Blackwater traders, and the provincial speculators from the north.

  Lacking a lift, he strolled the promenade, his eyes alert for Catling. He climbed the eastern stairs where he caught a view of the luminescent river, the roll
ing timberlands, and Fangwold Mountains snow-capped on the blue horizon.

  For the entire trip south, he’d planned his next move: pen his mother a note announcing his arrival and wish to see her. Now that he’d entered his uncle’s lair, the strategy seemed ludicrous. He’d sent Catling down the same path, one failing to lead her back. He climbed up beyond the fourth tier, strolled the arc of the sixth to the western staircase, which would place him nearest his mother’s chambers.

  The moment Kadan placed his foot on the first step, Captain of the Tier Guard Baltan-Elan appeared at the top and started down the stairs. Kadan pushed a ripple of pleasure at the tall man, bringing a grin to his face. A heartbeat later, he followed with a dusting of love and fear, a combination meant to instill respect for authority.

  The guard paused to offer a bow, his hand on the rail. “Kadan-Mur, my respects.”

  “Captain.” Kadan dipped his chin in return.

  “May I accompany you?” Baltan asked as if eager for a genial chat.

  “Of course.” Kadan continued his climb until the two men met, curious about the man’s objective.

  Baltan swept a hand upward and fell in step. “Just arrived?”

  “This morning. I intend to surprise my mother.”

  “Ah.” Baltan nodded, his hands clasped behind his back. The captain of the guard was an exception in Mur-Vallis, a stickler for the law. “I wondered why I found you on the western stair. Your return should comfort her.”

  “Comfort her?”

  The captain turned his chin for a sideways glance. “For the past four weeks, your uncle has confined her to her room. He cares for her himself.”

  Kadan’s stomach twisted, his uncle far from a nurturing man. “Is she ill? I’ve acquired some skill with healing.”

  The captain studied his feet as they climbed. “The high ward shares little with me beyond my duties, Kadan. I’m afraid you’ll need to judge for yourself.”

  “How is my uncle?”

  “No different. An exacting ruler. He continues his experiments on the walls and has made some interesting modifications. Lately, he strikes me as… preoccupied.”