Bardian's Redemption_Book Four of the Guardian's Vambrace

by H. Jane Harrington

  Malacar allowed Kir to pull him along. His face did not ease, even through the triplet spar, the massage that followed, and the brief visit to Bertrand's tent to check on Avalir. It was only the cover of Kir's chamber flap that walled off the distress in his eyes.

  After washing herself down over the water pail, Kir dressed for bed, still restless from the flood of vigor that hadn't settled in her veins. Lili issued her evening wishes and slipped into her own bedroll. Kir lay awake with one of Vann's poetry books, reading by a dim Inferno lamp. Her busy mind would not settle and she figured calming cadences might relax away the excitement. She read them silently with Vann's voice in her mind. It was just starting to work when a shrieking alarm outside prodded her heart to full gallop. Lili sprang upright and jettisoned from her bedroll just as Kir did.

  “Another attack?” Kir wondered aloud as she threw a long-vest over her nightdress.

  “By Eskanna, I hope not,” Lili said.

  After tugging on her boots, Kir was as presentable as she intended to get. She launched toward the flap as a brick wall instantly materialized in the doorway. Crashing headlong into it, she bounced off and landed smartly on her sitter.

  “Wenchin furies, Lunchbox!” Kir growled as Malacar welcomed himself through the flap. It seemed like all they ever did was collide these days. “We might'a been indecent. Didn't you learn the proper way to knock?”

  “Can't knock on canvas,” Malacar said hastily, without a lick of mirth or apology. He grabbed Kir's elbow and pulled her to her feet.

  Kir could have argued the point, but there were more important things to fuss about. “Never mind. Let's go find out what this wenchin wailing signal is about,” Kir huffed, trying to brush past.

  Malacar blocked her path with an extended arm. “Safety procedure demands you wait here. Ulivall is already off for report. He'll be back directly. Ithinar Steel has ringed the tent perimeter. I'm charged with defense within.”

  Kir rolled her eyes, but she begrudgingly understood.

  Corban shuffled into Kir's bedchamber on sleepy legs. Lyndal was right behind him, dancing and raring for a fight. He parked himself at the tent flap with his sword drawn, ear pressed to the canvas. Malacar stood beside Kir's bedroll, quiet and alert. The rest of them found comfortable places to sit. Kir pulled her loaner sword from its scabbard and checked it over to be sure it was ready, mostly for something useful to do. She hated sitting idly while things happened around her. The urgency and shouting outside the tent meant something was going on. Whether it was more kaiyo, an invading force, or Alokien himself, Kir just wanted to know one way or the other. She had not been born with an overabundance of patience. The whole situation was trying what little she had.

  After ages, eons and three antsy sword-polishing jobs had passed, Ulivall finally returned, with Copellian behind.

  “It's bad news,” he reported grimly. “Chamberlain Gensing has escaped.”

  “How in the wenchin furies did he manage that?” The irritating alarms finally ceased, just as Kir asked it.

  “We don't know yet. Eshuen, Rendack and a team of Jorrhen's trackers are investigating. Gensing was bound securely with beshinta vines. The initial round of interrogation yielded little result, but he was thought to have lost consciousness. Given his nature as a trickster, special precautions were taken. He should not have been able to escape. Preliminary findings indicate...” Ulivall hesitated.

  “Go on,” Kir urged.

  “It appears it was an inside job,” Ulivall managed. “Someone aided his escape.”

  “One of Jorrhen's men did this...? Or one of ours?”

  “We just don't have enough information yet. Gensing may have agents among the troops. There were sentries posted around the perimeter. It's like Gensing disappeared into thin air. He never physically exited the tent.”

  “He's a trickster,” Kir sighed. “Maybe we were naive to think we could restrain him in the first place.”

  “What do we know for sure?” Malacar asked.

  “The camp is in procedural lockdown,” Ulivall reported. “Search is underway, but Rendack doesn't believe tracking will be possible. Whoever it was left very little evidence. He thinks some manner of device was used from within the interrogation tent. That would account for the lack of evidence from without.”

  “A device? Like a mage cloak?” Lili asked.

  “Maybe. That's Rendack's theory,” Ulivall confirmed.

  “What damage can Gensing do, now that he can make contact with Alokien?” Lyndal put in, just as Kir was about to process the same thought.

  “He knows where we are, and he believes Vann is with us,” Copellian stated. “That's good—his eyes will remain on us and not be searching elsewhere.”

  “His kaiyo are defeated here,” Malacar said, “but he will probably return to Arcadia for more. By the time he collects another force, we should be safe in Hili. Unless he plans to abduct Kir and Lyndal himself, somewhere on the road.”

  “I doubt he'll try again,” Kir said. “Not by himself. Gensing is too smart for that. Now that he knows I can hold my own, he won't risk it.”

  “We can tailor our Defensive magics to him,” Ulivall supplied. “He won't be able to enter the encampment now. As long as you and Lyndal stay within the perimeter, he can't get near you, even with his trickster illusions.”

  “The Chamberlain obviously knows Aquiline stands against Alokien now. But does he know about General Farraday's deception?” Lili asked.

  “We don't think so. That intelligence has not been shared with anyone outside the upper circles,” Ulivall said. “For what it's worth, I am sorry, Kir. The responsibility is partly mine. We should have posted men on him inside the tent at all times. We thought it safer to keep anyone out of the potential of his illusion, but obviously, our paranoia cost us dearly.”

  “We're not sunk,” Kir assured him. “It would have been nice to have Gensing's secrets, but so long as he doesn't have ours, we're no worse off than we were before we caught him.”

  Everyone filtered back to their bedrolls to make use of the few hours of night that remained. Kir had tried to seem optimistic about Gensing's escape, but it was more of a devastating blow than she cared to admit. There was nothing to be done about it, and she only hoped it did not spell disaster for them somewhere down the road.

  -25-

  To Abscond and to Stand

  “May the size of your blade lend credence to the size of your bluff.”

  - Guardian Toma Scilio

  “How are we gonna stop it?” Dailan shouted to Emmi, who was a length ahead. The wagonback rubbish skiff was speeding away down the avenue at a faster pace than two human feet could chase. If they didn't catch it, Saiya Kunnai's shortsword was in danger of being melted down for scraps with all the other contents of the refuse barrel.

  “Short cut!” Emmi cried back. She darted sidelong and jumped the curb. Dailan followed her down an alley and through a narrow passage. It led to a far street. Emmi dropped anchor on the walk. “This is the route to the furnace. It should be here soon, after it makes another stop or two on its rounds.”

  “Why are we waiting here, then? We should get on while the workers are collecting another barrel.”

  “There's no time for that. They're quick on the load. We'd never get on and off so fast. It's considered theft of property to be rummaging through a contracted rubbish bin. So here's the plan. When the skiff stops here, climb aboard. There's a motion Barrier around the wagonback that activates when the skiff is moving, so you'll have to wait until you see the flicker of the Barrier fall.”

  “Do you know which barrel it is? Looked like there's twenty or more. How we gonna find it?”

  “Raall's services Chalice House. Every barrel is stamped with the business name, so they know where it goes back to. Find Nistenhauh's Hand Laundry branded on the side—the emblem looks like a steaming hand holding a cake of soap. Your sword is stuck down the side near the top. I wr
apped the hilt with an old rag so it wouldn't stand out. The rag is purple and moth-eaten.”

  “Ain't you gonna help? It was you done stashed it in the first place,” Dailan complained.

  “I'm the diversion. Go hide behind that hedge. You'll be closer to the wagonback. This street is a quiet one so there shouldn't be much traffic, but you'll have to hustle once I get the skiff stopped. I don't know how long I can distract them.”

  Emmi waited until Dailan was parked at the ready behind the bushes. She shoved her hands in her pockets and started whistling a jiggy tune, trying to look all innocent and time-frittering. After a minute or so, she called, “Here it comes! Get ready, Dainn!”

  Timing her launch right to match up with the skiff's coming, Emmi stepped off the curb and into the cobbled street. Just as it approached, she slammed her hands on the side for a good THUD, then rolled a few times in a pretty decent theatrical stunt. It looked close to what Dailan imagined the aftermath of a hit-by-an-airskiff accident might look like, except she didn't go flying through the air or splatter blood everywhere. The airskiff swerved around like a drunken monkey and came to a screeching stop against the walk. Emmi rolled a few times in the street and cradled her ankle, howling and caterwauling.

  “You hit me! You practically popped the curb, you lunatic!” she cried to the stunned driver as he jumped from his cabin seat.

  His assistant hopped from the other side of the cabin and they both commenced to trading apologies, accusations and all manner of panicky garble.

  “But, she stepped right out...” the driver said to nobody in particular.

  “I was just crossing the street, minding my own, and you came speeding like a wild kaiyo out of nowhere!” Emmi played up on the fuss, like she was acting on a stage. She grabbed her leg with a moan. “My ankle! It's either sprained or broken and liable to fall clean off! Aaaaichi!”

  Dailan bolted for the wagonback and scrambled up the footboard. It took a clean minute of climbing and looking before he found the right bin, and another minute of fishing before he finally hooked the moth-eaten purple rag. He could hear Emmi sobbing like a wailing widow. He hoped her overzealous performance didn't clue the stunned lummoxes in. They sweet-talked her and fanned her face, figuring she was about to pass out from hysterics.

  Dailan tugged the dirty rag away from the hilt and there was Deynartrial, gleaming and winking in the sun, like the prince of shortswords it was. Dailan let out the nervous breath he had been holding in for two days.

  “Sorry I'm late,” Dailan whispered to the sword like it could hear him.

  Saiya Kunnai said swords had souls of their own. If it was Dailan, he'd be pretty damned insulted to spend the night in an incinerator-promised rubbish bin with the moth-eaten cast-offs of the world. He'd have to be real tender loving, to make up for the sting to Deynartrial's fine pride and honor.

  Dailan leaned over the side board of the wagonback and caught Emmi's eye with a wave of the sword, to let her know it was found and she could wrap up the act. She blinked to say she understood, then picked up a fresh line to buy Dailan time to bail.

  “My poor mother can't afford another trip to the healer,” Emmi moaned to the driver. “My baby brother Jorrlah is likely to starve if we spend all the bread money on my healing. Whatever am I to do? I have to talk to Master Raall. He'll be able to help me, for sure. It was his airskiff that caused all this...”

  “There's no need to worry Master Raall, young miss. I'm sure we can figure something out,” the driver was saying, all frantic and beside himself. He slapped his assistant's arm and motioned to the airskiff cabin. “Pouch, Lankhins, get my pouch! On the seat. Here, here, sweet-em's.... I got fifty-two lorans. How'd that be? That'll more than buy your healer and an extra few loaves for the little one. And we don't even have to involve Master Raall. I'll even give you a ride to the healer myself!”

  Dailan was climbing over the barrelheads. He hadn't made it to the back of the wagon when Lankhins got the the cabin door. The man leaned across the cabin bench and found the driver's pouch. Dailan's motion must have caught his eye through the back glass panel. Lankhins slipped out of the cabin and rounded the skiff side, then he just stood there staring. It took him a moment to yell, “You there! What is this?”

  In his scramble to climb over the last few barrels at the back of the wagon, Dailan didn't notice the bent piece of iron that ringed one of the bins. It snagged his tunic at the hem and hung him up.

  The driver skirted the skiff to find out what Lankhins was fussing about. When he saw Dailan, his eyes narrowed. He was obviously quicker of wit than the Lankhins was. His poker finger aimed at Dailan and he shouted, “Oi! Avast, you. Thief!”

  Rather than waiting to be nabbed because of a snare of bad luck, Dailan ripped the tunic hem free from the snag and launched himself off the wagon. He stumbled a step or two while he regained his footing on the uneven cobbles. The driver's own feet stuttered as he glanced back and forth between Dailan and Emmi. He looked about to chase Dailan down, but he couldn't exactly leave the girl he'd nearly killed.

  Dailan motioned to Emmi to make connection, so she'd know he was about to split and wasn't abandoning her. That was a mistake. The driver put two and two together with that one action.

  “I see what goes on here. Call the law-arms, Lankhins. We're being swindled. They're a team.” Rather than chase Dailan down, he turned back to Emmi and hauled her up by the scruff of her tunic. “You little hustler.”

  Dailan set his feet to running like his britches were burning. The alley they'd come through earlier was the closest escape. He skid to a full stop in the mouth when nobody made chase.

  Emmi was trying to struggle against the driver's grip. The moment she put weight on her foot, it gave out and she strangled a pitiful cry. “My ankle!”

  “Nice try,” the driver huffed. He dragged her to the wagonback and tossed her in gruffly. “You'll stay put until I can deliver you to the law-arms. Lankhins, I'm going after that thieving runty bogtrot. Guard her for a minute.”

  It wasn't in Dailan's nature to throw in a winning hand. He had Deynartrial. That was all he'd really bargained for in their little partnership. But it also wasn't in Dailan's nature to let someone else take the fall for him. Even if she was an annoying, big-eyed wenchlet who'd lie the tin cup off a beggar. If Dailan skinned out now, Emmi would be hung out to dry.

  Saiya Kunnai once told him, Talk a walk bigger than your step, or something like that. Dailan figured it meant if you bluff good, you won't always have to resort to fighting. Made sense to him.

  Deynartrial rang like it was singing as Dailan drew it. He came out of the alley hellbent on the bluff. He puffed his chest and pinched his brow firm, like a seasoned pirate who'd known blood and gold. He held the sword in the practiced stance Saiya Kunnai had taught him, like a seasoned Master Swordsman who'd known blood and glory. Dailan wasn't tall or stout, but he made up for it in gumption.

  There were a lot of things Dailan had been expected to do in their months in High Empyrea. He had been playing Saiya Kunnai's servie, which meant he had to look the part when particular folks were paying attention. Most of the time, she had him put to studies, and his favorite of all them was combat training. He wasn't all that far along, but he had been practicing a flashy, whirly twirly wrist-flickery of swordplay that wasn't meant to do much more than impress wide-eyed looker-on'ers. Flower moves, that's what Saiya Kunnai called them. He made sure to perform them to perfection here, dazzling the rubbish haulers with the pretendings of a higher skill level than he was actually at. It must have looked pretty convincing.

  The driver, who'd been fixing to take out after Dailan, skid fast and held his hands up. “Put the sword down, son. There's no need to do anything rash.”

  “Back on that'a way,” Dailan ordered, making his voice deeper and older than it was. “You too, Lankhins.”

  The two men eased backward slowly. Lankhins held out the money pouch. “Here. Just take it.
We don't want any trouble.”

  Dailan hadn't really figured on nabbing their fifty-two lorans, but it was fifty-two lorans more than he'd had a minute ago, and the guy was offering. Dailan bobbed his head in the standard okay, toss it here motion. Lankhins was apparently fluent in reading the language of head bobbing, so he obliged. Dailan caught the pouch in his left hand, never missing a beat.

  “Now, take off your britches,” Dailan commanded, trying not to snicker.

  The men cocked their heads, trying to figure if he was joking or not.

  “C'mon gents. We're burning daylight! You seen my warm up. I guarantee you do not want to see my Saiya Kunnai strike.”

  Lankhins chuckled with a twitter. He was testing the waters of his confidence. “Now, I never heard of no strike by that name.”

  “That's 'cause nobody who ever seen it ever lived to tell nobody else about it,” Dailan breathed real cool, so as to look like an honest swordsman who really did know a deadly vicious strike called the Saiya Kunnai (even though he pure made it up). “Now strip 'em. I want to see some underdrawers.” Dailan lurched forward a bit to add some urgency to his command, and the two men started. They rummaged up the fuss-and-hurry in their unbuckling. The driver almost fell over trying to kick out from the stubborn leg that got hung up on his boot.

  Emmi was still sitting in the back of the skiff between two barrels. Her one leg was hanging down for her shoe to prop on the footboard. The other leg was stretched out on the wagonback. Her eyeballs were glued to Dailan and his puffed chest.

  “You just sit right there, Lady Glenndown. Might want to avert your peepers. Bare underdrawers ain't a proper sight for proper highborn ladies,” Dailan called to her.

  Emmi blinked a few times. She couldn't believe what she was seeing, and it took her a minute to realize Dailan was talking to her. Using a false name would steer the men in the wrong direction when they finally found law-arms to report it all to. Dailan didn't know Lady Glenndown from Dornsendul Manor. He'd overheard someone mention her while he was picking once. They said she was a high-strung redhead, so he figured it'd be a good misdirection. By the time the law-arms came to the Glenndown place to investigate, Dailan and Emmi would be long gone and safe at Chalice House.