He jogged back into the lanes, an eye out for trouble and assigning tasks to anyone who seemed aimless or eager to throw a fist. The sound of a massive fight juddered from somewhere within the tier, a buzz of a hundred voices all shouting at once. He scooped up an abandoned spear and ran toward the noise.
Two women dragged a groaning man toward him, his head lolling and face bathed in blood. Gannon raised a hand. “What’s happening?”
“Fight by the barracks,” the younger woman said and smiled. “Thick with guards, but we got numbers.”
“Who’s in charge?” He already knew the answer. She looked at him as if he’d asked her the color of sound. “Head to any of the stairs, sit there, and wait.”
“The old plan?” she asked.
“The only plan!” he replied, furious. “You know what to do. Tell others to do the same.”
He sucked in a breath and left them to their tasks. The plan all along had been to secure the tier and leave a formidable barrier at the base of each staircase to the second tier.
A siege until the high ward yielded.
More stragglers congested the lanes as he ran toward the clamor, a sound more like revelry than battle the nearer he ventured. He halted at a wall of backs jamming a cross lane and then shoved his way through. Three barracks bordered a market plaza of shattered stalls. A hundred men and women of the warrens formed a human barricade bristling with knives and spears. In the middle, a score of tier guards faced the mob, several already bloodied by shallow cuts. Knives poised, they crouched with the terror and fury of caged animals. At their feet lay a handful of dead, both guards and men of the warrens.
Three men darted in from the ring of spectators, knives gripped to thrust. One took a swipe at a female guard’s face, slicing her forearm as she raised it to block the attack. She kicked him in the knee, and when he fell, she stabbed him in the neck. The crowd hissed and chanted for blood. The other two men in the fray retreated into the thundering throng, sidestepping a man with a spear who leapt forward and ran her through.
Gannon thrust aside the men jostling for position and stepped to the circle’s edge, white rage searing his veins. The spectators’ baying stuttered, some cheering, others silent, all eyes waiting to see what he would do. They knew him, understood the plan, and they’d betrayed him.
The man with the spear put his foot on the woman’s body and yanked it from her back. He turned and smiled uneasily at Gannon, licking his lips. “She killed Arten.”
“Respect. Dignity. Justice.” If Gannon’s words had been carved of stone, they would have broken every bone in the man’s body. Instead, he strode up to the offender. His arm swept up and his dagger flashed across the exposed throat, releasing a fountain of blood.
***
Gannon took the seat offered him at High Ward Manus’s carved table, the edge inlaid with black and white stone. A score of whispering advisors, influencers, guild councilmen, and guards ignored him as they waited for their superior to make his entrance. A servant offered water and Gannon accepted, playing the role of dignitary despite the blood drying on his clothes and the swollen bruise purpling his cheek.
He’d left Tiler below, the big enforcer… enforcing. It had taken the better part of the day to hammer down the mobs and reclaim any sense of sanity. If Gannon hadn’t been sitting at the high ward’s table, he would have condemned the entire strategy as an utter failure.
The door to the chamber opened, and a tomblike silence preceded the high ward’s entrance. The podgy man’s heels clicked across the floor, and he sat at the table’s far end with a huff. He wore a jacket embroidered with thread-of-gold, and a fluffy bouquet of ruffles encircled his jowls. A curly black wig topped his head, disturbingly similar in style to Gannon’s own locks.
Before he said a word, Gannon tendered a letter written by Lelaine that suggested Manus was the recipient of her gracious forbearance. A generous gift, considering the man threatened war with his neighbor and dabbled in treason. Manus picked absently at a mole on his cheek while he read. Then he held the letter to a candle, lit it on fire, and dropped the flaming missive to the floor.
Gannon cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose you are eager for our terms.” The high ward’s eyes roamed the room, looking everywhere except at him, a blatantly rude response if not somewhat comical. Gannon sighed and began, “First, I should advise you that any agreement made under the sway of influencers will be void.”
The high ward tapped his fingers on the table, ignoring him along with every other person in the room.
“I see. What else? I should also advise you that High Wardess Glain agreed to our terms without modification.” He paused for a reaction and received none. “Well then, the warrens citizens demand the right to undeveloped land at reasonable terms, the right to merit-based apprenticeships with the guilds and guild membership upon completion.” He smiled at the frowning guild masters. “Oh, and open the first tier markets to all. And equal justice.”
His statement finished, Gannon sipped his water and waited.
After several awkward minutes, the high ward raised a hand and fluttered it toward the door. “Out. All of you out.”
The men in the room slid back their chairs and rose. Gannon didn’t think the order applied to him until a stern-faced advisor tapped his shoulder and beckoned. Unsure what came next, if anything, he followed the others into the hallway, the high ward left behind with his thoughts.
“This way,” the advisor said, tapping open a door to a room with a round table and four armchairs. The man’s eyes glinted, his jaw clenched. Gannon entered the room, followed by two influencers, colorful woads curling from their collars and sleeves. The advisor closed the door and paced. “You expect us to agree to these terms after your animals murdered our citizens? You demand we provide opportunity? Open our guilds and markets? Even the queen wouldn’t approve if she beheld what happened here.”
Gannon dragged in a breath, hands clasped behind his back. “Am I being influenced?”
The gray-headed man glanced at the influencers, and they shook their heads. He faced Gannon. “They’re here should you prove as uncontrollable as your mob.”
While the man paced and cast him furious scowls, Gannon sized up his present situation. He faced the true power of the tiers and didn’t know whether Lim-Mistral’s traitorous ambitions belonged to Manus or this man. Regardless, the negotiations would now begin. He bowed. “My respects and regrets.”
“Words,” the man spat. “I’m Darton-Lim, Advisor to High Ward Manus. He leaves the… intricacies of governance to me. What did the letter say?”
“It accused the high ward of insurrection bordering on treason.” Gannon raked a hand through his hair. “She knew Manus intended to use the people of the warrens here and in Rho-Dania to usurp the tiers of his neighbor and seize the east for himself as part of a larger plot. The actions would cost thousands of lives, mostly those of the warrens and Rho-Dania.”
Gannon’s ire rose to his skin. “Despite how naive it sounds, I never intended anyone harm. Emotions flared out of control, and I’m ashamed of it. But violence breeds violence, Darton-Lim, and the warrens have suffered injustice since the Founders left us on this rock. Manus—or you or whoever planned this action against Glain—wasn’t troubled by the lives he would waste for his ambition. For all its horror, this morning amounted to a pebble in the river.”
The advisor rubbed his jaw. “What happens if we don’t agree?”
“We sit on the first tier and wait you out.”
“Starve us out?”
“I trust that you will see reason before then.”
Darton halted at a window with a view of the river. “We will be selective regarding the apprenticeships.”
“Agreed,” Gannon said. “As long as there’s a reasonable effort to open positions.”
“Land will be confiscated if the terms aren’t met.”
“The same rules apply to anyone else in the province.”
Darton
nodded. “Agreed.”
“You’ll open the first tier market to the warrens,” Gannon said, expecting the man to balk.
Darton pivoted from the view. Gannon held his ground, bearing the unflinching scrutiny. The advisor blew out a breath. “We will take this step at a crawling pace, but we will take it. You and I will set our terms in writing, and you will clear the first tier by nightfall. I would offer you my influencers, but I believe I will need them to pacify the guilds.”
On the inside, Gannon grinned like a crescent moon. What Darton witnessed was a tentative nod. “Agreed.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Pillars of smoke rose from morning cookfires. Guardian’s camp spread through the trees south of Nor-Bis, Jagur’s headquarters crowning a hilltop with a view of the seaport. Whitt stood outside the commander’s tent, gazing north toward the Cull Sea. Against the glittering backdrop, the city rose ten tiers high on five giant pylons. It rivaled Bes-Strea in height, yet its breadth doubled that of its sister city.
Dirt roads meandered west into the countryside connecting farms like beads on a string. A sprawling man-made second city congested the banks of the river and sea with shipbuilders and smithies, mills and woodshops, sailmakers and storehouses. Whitt smelled old smoke from the night’s fires that had raged through the seaside quarter, leaving little more than a black scar when the sun rose.
Sianna’s army held the tier city under siege on three sides but had lost control of the Fargrove. Guardian troops directed supplies to the tiers from the river, and Sianna wanted the breach in her barricade closed. The worst of the fighting occurred there. It was the only route into the warrens, a path his commander intended him to maintain.
Jagur strode toward him, a grim-faced Captain Nordin at his side. Vianne marched on their heels as furious as Whitt had ever seen her. If Jagur attempted to outpace her, he failed.
“Inside,” Jagur barked, and Whitt followed the three of them in. The commander circled the table, placed his palms on the surface, and glared at Vianne. “You’re staying here, and that’s an order.”
“You can’t order me to do anything,” Vianne bit back. “I bear a duty to Ellegeance.”
“That changes to suit your fancy.” He slapped the table. “I can order Whitt to tie you up and sit on you until this is over.”
“I dare him to try,” Vianne growled. A spike of heat shot up Whitt’s legs, and he yelped.
The commander frowned at him.
“She sent a bolt up my legs,” Whitt explained, trying to remain on his feet.
“Founders balls, Vianne!” Jagur bellowed, his eyebrows colliding. “Blasted, highfaluting, self-aggrandized, interfering influencers. Do you know what’s happening down there?” He began to pace and jerked a thumb at Nordin. “Tell her.”
The captain rubbed his neck with a scarred hand, and his gaze shifted between them. “It's chaotic, Vianne-Ava. Influencers on both sides are applying pressure on our guardians, Sianna’s mobs, the tiers, anyone in visual range. My guardians report a complete loss of control. We’re lucky for our greens; otherwise, we can’t distinguish who's mad at whom and who’s fighting for what. It’s a dire mix of fear, hatred, pain, and death. Everyone’s killing everyone else. They’ve turned us all into animals.”
Vianne stared at him. She swallowed, her jaw quivering. She swung her gaze to the commander, the fury gone from her voice, “That’s why I must go there, Jagur. You ordered me here. Let me do what I must.”
“Pah!” the commander grunted, pushing off the table. It was his way of conceding, an outburst Whitt had observed before. “This is a damnable mess, and trust me, the queen will hear about it.” He scowled at her. “Indulge me and don’t wear white. We depart in an hour.”
“Commander.” Nordin’s chin drew back in alarm. “Your place is here. I’ll accompany Vianne.”
“Like Founders’ Hell, you will!” Jagur shouted. “If the damned woman’s heading into battle, I’m seeing her there myself. Captain, you’re in charge until I return.” He held up a hand to quash any further argument and pointed from Vianne to the door, ordering her out. Her lips opened in protest. Then she snapped them shut and marched through the tent’s flap. Jagur hiked up his trousers and waved to Whitt. “You’re with me.”
Whitt followed the commander from the tent to the camp’s lookout where the view of the city’s riverside was unimpeded by trees. Jagur hauled in a breath. “Vianne and I have a bit of history we’re playing out. Suppose you noticed.”
“Yes, Sir.” Whitt kept his eyes on the tiers.
“Women will complicate your life, Whitt. I don’t recommend them. Soldiering is simpler.”
Whitt kicked a stone into a patch of tall grass. “I don’t quite believe you, Sir.”
The commander chuckled. “Well, they turn us into fools, I’ll say that. Bloody influencers.” He sat on an old stump, wriggled his pipe from a pocket, and filled it. “I’m figuring you never killed a man.”
“I don’t think so,” Whitt said, reflecting back. “I’ve knocked heads in plenty of fights and came close a time or two.”
Jagur eyed him. “If you’re not certain, I’m going to reckon it’s a ‘no.’ ” He held the unlit pipe on his knee. “Wars are packed to the brim with horror and fear and chaos, even without influencers making it worse. Most of us have a powerful resistance to killing our fellow man. Would you believe only one or two guardians out of ten will kill someone in their entire lives?”
“I can imagine.” Whitt found a seat on a weathered log, expecting the old man had more to say.
“Killing isn’t something we're proud of, Whitt. We do it when forced to, and hopefully, in the end, our cause is just and we save lives, including our own. That said, when you take another life and you look at the dead body, you can't go back and pretend it didn't happen.” He paused. “Tavor tell you about my younger days?”
Whitt nodded. “You fought in the Far Wolds War. He said you fought like an immortal.”
“He’s a damned idiot then.” Jagur pursed his lips. “I killed a lot of men, and it’s a miserable thing to say. To this day I can still picture the face of one man I was about to slay. We were close, breathing the same air. It was so personal I felt as if I could read his entire life in his eyes. I was caught in a situation where I had no choice but to kill him before he killed me.”
The commander sucked on his cold pipe. “I think if I had faith in the Founders then, I lost it. In battle, I fought without fear, driven by pure survival. The day I returned to Ellegeance, the commander said I was a fine guardian who did what needed doing. He also told me I would be haunted for the rest of my life, and he spoke the truth. People think the world is black and white, Whitt, but it’s a whole lot of gray.”
Whitt furrowed his brow. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Am I talking to myself?” The commander shook his head and pointed at Nor-Bis with his pipe. “Because Sianna’s little war down there is as ugly as any I’ve seen. Because choice bears consequences, and the reach of war respects no boundaries. Surviving is the right and honorable thing to do. Survive, Whitt… whatever that requires of you.”
***
Vianne gasped, breathing through her mouth, the raw smell of blood and bowels battling for control of her stomach. A surge of fear dizzied her, and Jagur yanked her to the tall grass. Her hands shook, the pressure on her chest unbearable. She covered her head, waiting for the sensation to pass. “It isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
“Influence.” Jaguar’s arm pressed on her back as if he might stave off the terror with a touch. She lay on the ground, a dozen warriors armed with spears and recurve bows beside her. They were ahead of Guardian’s main force, seeking a safe path for her into Sianna’s territory. To her, the influence felt more like a cloud than a spear, cast over the landscape like a broad net, meant to trap anyone in its reach. Finding cover, hiding from the influencer’s ranging sight was the only way to escape the onslaught.
“I need to reach
whoever’s doing this,” she murmured, knowing the task lay beyond her. She hadn’t come close to Sianna’s line, if a line existed in the rolling landscape of pastures, ditches, stone walls, and copses of green. Before her courage failed her, she climbed to her knees in the rambling meadow, a pretty place littered with dead. Her hand returned to the man she attempted to heal and retracted from his dead flesh. She crawled through the grass to the next victim, a guardian with a deep laceration in his chest.
Healing was never her strength, though her prowess as a mercy proved sufficient under ordinary conditions. Killing came naturally, as effortless as buttering bread, but it hadn’t been random, disconnected from her goals, from her oath.
Anger flared in her skin, a blinding fury that unraveled reason and wiped her thoughts clean of any drive for self-preservation. She jolted to her feet and ran through the green grass, throwing fear and pain and rage where she believed the enemy fought. If they weren’t wearing green, she thundered the full power of her influence into them and watched them flee and fall, screaming.
A hand snagged the collar of her jacket, jerking her from her feet. She landed on her back, choking, the anger replaced by desperate gulps for breath. The guardian let go and crabbed backward to give her space. She rolled and clambered to her feet, glaring, her emotions yanked from beneath her.
“Stay down!” Jagur yelled, dashing toward her, his expression livid. Other guardians sprinted after him, brandishing swords, knives, and spears, their jaws clenched. She flung a spray of agony at them all, every man tumbling with a wild cry. A bolt caught Jagur in the thigh with a wet thump, and his leg gave out. He crashed into the field, disappearing in the tall weeds.
She dropped to her hands and knees, severing her influence. Nausea rolled back her eyes as she scrambled toward him, fighting the urge to vomit. Six warriors darted on, shouting orders to secure their position. The others crouched in the grass, loosing arrows into the trees. A guardian issued orders to two other men. “Run for a medic! Tell them the commander’s wounded. We’re bringing him to camp.”
Oathbreakers' Guild (The Rose Shield Book 2) Page 29