Shattering the Ley

by Joshua Palmatier

  Allan nodded. As they made their way to the platform, he searched for Moira among the frantic servants, the wine already being poured, the babble of conversation rising yet again as the musicians took up a lighter background strain. The conflagration of white light continued outside as the skies began to darken, the glow of the Flyers’ Tower and its beacon becoming more prominent.

  From his position on the platform, the Barons to his left, kitchens to his right, Allan scanned the room with a frown, thinking about Lord Gatterly, about the detailed map they’d found in the room beneath his estate, the Amber Tower circled in red. He thought about Gatterly himself, unyielding no matter what Hagger did to him. He could still feel the lord’s blood on his hands, could see his mutilated face. During the entire interrogation, he’d insisted that the Kormanley had infiltrated the Dogs, that they’d already set up some kind of demonstration in the Tower on the day of the Baronial Meeting. But the Meeting was nearly over.

  “Perhaps Gatterly was wrong,” Hagger said, as if following the same train of thought.

  “He never broke. He never broke because he believed we couldn’t stop what would happen here. It was what kept him alive.”

  “Then what’s supposed to happen? What have the Kormanley planned?”

  Allan shook his head, thinking.

  Then he caught sight of Moira.

  “Wait here. I see Moira.”

  Hagger scowled but said nothing as Allan darted down from the platform, catching Moira as she turned from one of the tables, plate in hand, the remains of a pheasant littering the surface. As soon as she faced away, the smile plastered to her face fell away, replaced by anger. She didn’t notice Allan until he snagged her arm.

  “What do you want?” she spat, spinning on him. Her glare held until recognition flared and she gasped. “Allan! Shouldn’t you be watching over Baron Arent?”

  “I am. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, these gods-cursed lords and their demands. Or rather, the ladies. They’re worse than the lords. This pheasant had too much fennel. But she ate nearly all of it before deciding to complain. Not to mention the servants who arrived this morning. They’re supposed to keep the carts close. Useless! All of them! And now where are they? Nowhere! Probably off somewhere watching the Wielders’ display.” She huffed and headed back toward the kitchens. “But I can’t talk right now. And you should be up on the platform with Hagger. You don’t want him getting angry at you again. Not over me.”

  Allan followed her. “Wait. What new servants? I thought you’d been preparing for this for days.”

  “We had. But someone suggested we use the carts to bring the food out, instead of doing it all by hand. The carts appeared this morning, the new servants not long after. But what good are the carts if they aren’t here to be used?”

  They’d reached the doors to the kitchen, but Allan reached out to halt her, pulling her up short.

  “What?” she asked, irritated.

  “The carts,” he murmured, and his eyes darted around the room.

  The carts had been scattered throughout the tables.

  Including three directly beneath the Barons’ platform.

  He spun on Moira. “Get out of here. Now.”

  Then he turned and sprinted toward the platform. “Hagger! The carts! Like the wagons in the park. It’s the carts!”

  Hagger frowned in confusion, head spinning toward the hall spread out before him—

  And then realization dawned and he moved, barking, “Captain!”

  On the platform, Baron Arent turned, a forkful of pheasant half raised to his mouth, Daedallen on his other side. The captain of the Dogs saw Hagger charging toward them and reached across Arent’s chest, hauling him back from the table, taking his chair with him. The captains of the other Barons were reacting as well, as looks of confusion began to spread throughout the room. Someone screamed, Baron Iradi bellowing in protest. Glass shattered as it struck the floor, followed by the sharp crack of a plate as it was swept from a table.

  Only Allan saw Baron Leethe grimace with annoyance and motion toward the floor before rising and stepping back, his captain at his side.

  At the signal, all of the carts exploded, those at the front first.

  The air sucked inward, toward the carts, and then flung Allan back from the platform, his ears ringing, fire sheeting out in all directions as the carts, tables, and glassware from the dinner shredded, the bodies of the nearest lords and ladies and servants rising from the center of the explosion, silhouetted against the flames. Allan struck the hard amber floor of the hall, pain knifing down from his shoulder as it twisted awkwardly beneath him, and then debris began to rain down, striking the floor with dulled thuds. Plates and glasses splintered, sending up deadly shards. A mangled and bloody but elegant hand landed an arm’s length away, gold rings glinting with firelight. More of the carts exploded, the crump of each like softened cloth in his ears, felt more than heard as the floor shuddered. Black spots skated across his vision at each flash and he blinked fiercely, tears stinging his eyes. The black taint of smoke struck his senses; not the scent of burnt wood but something sharper, biting into his nostrils. He wrinkled up his nose in distaste.

  Then, debris still clattering down around him, he thought, Moira.

  He rolled, wincing, his arm tingling with the motion, and pushed himself into a crouch. Bodies lay strewn across the hall’s floor like dolls, lords and ladies screaming, the sounds still muted. A few staggered around in shock, blood staining their clothes. Fires blazed along the length of the tables, most tilted onto one side or flipped onto their tops, chairs and the remains of the carts scattered. Overhead, the ley globes, candles, and crystal chandelier swayed. The platform that had held the Barons was scorched and still burning. At least one Baron was dead—Ranit, he thought—along with a few of the Dogs and other guardsmen. Hagger’s body lay on the far side, Daedallen and Baron Arent beside him, but before Allan could react, he saw Hagger stir.

  Beyond them, moving casually, Baron Leethe and his captain stepped through the doors to the main entrance to the hall, flanked by the rest of the Tumbor guardsmen.

  Anger pulsed through him, but Allan turned his back to both Leethe and Arent and began searching for Moira. The sounds of the hall—the crackle of flame, the moans of the wounded, and the sobs of the shocked—became clearer, no longer muffled. He flung aside a chair, knelt over a crumpled form dressed in the servant amber, but the man was dead. Moving on, he rolled aside servants, focusing on those nearest to where he’d left Moira, but she wasn’t here.

  He sat back on his haunches. He’d told her to run. His gaze flicked toward the main entrance, where Baron Leethe had vanished, then shook his head.

  She was a servant. She would have headed for the servant stairs.

  The kitchen.

  He spun on his heels and began working his way toward the kitchen, noticed flames through the door beyond. A woman clutched at his legs as he passed, stared up at him with half-glazed eyes, and muttered, “Help me. Help me, please.” Her arm lay cradled across her chest, a gash along her neck bleeding profusely, her finery ruined. He tugged out of her grip. Men were beginning to rise. He heard Daedallen barking orders, caught the Dogs who were mobile moving to surround Baron Arent. Servants were beginning to help some of the lords and ladies to their feet. Clusters of other guards surrounded the surviving Barons, all of them hostile and defensive.

  Then he spotted Moira.

  She sat up slowly near the doors to the kitchen, one hand rising to her head in pain. Her black hair lay matted to her scalp with blood and she grimaced as she moved, weaving slightly, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

  Allan heaved a shuddering breath of relief and stumbled the last few steps toward her. He trembled as he brushed the hair out of her face. “Moira, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

  “My ears.” She touched her han
d to her hair, frowned at the blood on her fingers.

  “Lower your head.” She did as he asked and he examined the wound. “It’s nothing. A minor cut. You’ll be fine.” He gripped her shoulders and caught her attention, her eyes still dazed. “You have to get out of here. Can you move?”

  She considered for a moment, then nodded. “I think so.”

  Allan helped her to her feet, turned toward the main entrance, Daedallen, Hagger, and the other Dogs already rushing the Baron toward them, their formation tight. The other Barons wavered, uncertain. Hagger caught sight of him and bellowed, “Allan! Get your ass over here! The Baron—”

  His voice was drowned out by the roar of another explosion. The floor shuddered beneath them, the entire tower trembling, and a moment later flames poured through the mouth of the main entrance. Daedallen and the Dogs dove for the floor, dragging the Baron with them. Those deeper inside the room cried out, some of the lords stumbling as the massive chandelier clattered, pieces of crystal dislodging and falling to the floor.

  Allan spun toward the balcony. In the backwash of light from the Great Hall and the pale white of the ley outside, he could see the ship still berthed at the railing.

  “The ship,” he said, and steered Moira toward the windows, noting that two had blown outward in the explosion and the rest were crazed with cracks. The captain of the barge and his crew were already herding people toward the deck. One of the Barons—Iradi—was already there, tight in the center of his own guard. The rest of the Barons hung back.

  As they picked their way through the remains of the dinner party, Allan glanced back toward Hagger and Arent, saw them hurrying toward the balcony, the main entrance still engulfed in flames.

  “Here, here, come quickly!”

  Someone snagged Allan’s arm and he turned back to find the captain of the barge helping Moira out onto the crowded balcony, the lords and ladies jostling for position near the railing, one of the lords forgoing the steps and leaping from the railing to the deck beyond. Panic had set in with the second explosion, arguments breaking out, tensions escalating. Someone bellowed, “Unhand me! Let the lady on first!” while someone else shoved her to one side sharply. She screamed as she vanished beneath the mob’s feet, her soot-streaked face pale in the ley light.

  “Steady!” the captain roared. “Steady, there’s room for everyone and more ships on the way!”

  Cursing, the captain let go of Moira and thrust himself through the crowd toward the railing.

  Allan glanced out into the night sky, the air chill against his skin. The Flyers’ Tower glowed balefully to one side, cool and white, the Nexus beneath. But the captain was right; at least two other ships were making their way toward the balcony.

  His blood sang, adrenaline piercing through the numbness, the tingling in his arm, the shock.

  He turned to Moira, met her eyes.

  “Allan?”

  “Follow the captain,” he said, leaning in to kiss her, short and quick, but with fervor. “Get back to our flat and Morrell. Don’t go anywhere else. Pack whatever you can.”

  Frantic confusion filled Moira’s eyes. “Allan? What do you mean pack? I don’t understand.”

  “Just do it. We aren’t staying in Erenthrall. Not like this.”

  She held his gaze, still confused, her mouth pinched tight in denial. But she nodded.

  Relief coursed through him and he shuddered. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  And then he pushed her toward the barge. She was caught up in the mob trying to get onto its deck instantly, and after a quick look back she began shoving forward, a look of determination in her eyes. Allan watched her a moment, then thrust himself against the throng, working his way back into the Great Hall. Hagger, the Dogs, and the Baron were almost to the balcony now, the Dogs seizing anyone in their way by the collar and tossing them out of the Baron’s way.

  Allan had just stepped back into the hall when another explosion rent the air.

  The remaining glass windows imploded, the force of the blast shoving Allan past the balcony doors and into the room beyond. Fire scorched his back. He struck, skidded across the debris-strewn floor, heard a sharp retort, stone cracking, followed by a ponderous groan of tortured wood. As he slid to a halt, his arms and legs weak and limp, numbed but already recovering, he rolled to face the balcony.

  The ship was an inferno, the flames eating into the wood and roaring up through the ley-induced sails like wildfire. Even as he watched, unable to move, it listed, the ropes that held it tied to the balcony straining at its weight. Horror engulfed him, seared into his chest. No one on the balcony was moving, the bodies lying like cordwood, those closest to the barge already burned beyond recognition.

  “Moira.” The name meant everything and nothing to him. He couldn’t think, his head throbbing, but the horror crept through him. He struggled onto his elbows, raised himself up onto his hands and knees. “Moira!”

  Then hands grasped him beneath his armpits, Hagger on one side, another Dog on the other. They dragged him back from the balcony, the ship tilting farther outward, wood moaning at the stress as fire ate into its hull. Its weight settled completely onto the ropes as the ley sails disintegrated into wisps of flapping cloth—

  And with a horrendous crack the balcony gave way.

  Baron Leethe glanced skyward at the final explosion, already moving through the gardens beneath the Amber Tower. He paused, Captain Arger halting beside him, the rest of his enforcers fanning out around them at a discrete distance.

  “Do you think Baron Arent is dead?” Arger asked, his deep voice uninflected.

  “No. Not unless we were extremely lucky. We had to set the plan in motion too early.” Leethe considered the burning barge as it hung from the edge of the tower, grunting when it began to fall, the retort of the stone breaking free coming a moment later.

  “Then the Kormanley failed,” his captain muttered.

  “Yes. I do not think we shall use them any longer. They have proved ineffective. The other Barons were not threatened sufficiently by their attacks. They signed the agreement after only a token resistance, even Calluin. In fact, they wanted the Wielders to build Flyers’ Towers in their own cities.” He watched the barge crash to the ground, flames and sparks shooting up into the night, mimicking the fountains of ley that still surged from the ground throughout the gardens as entertainment for the Meeting.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the fires blazing in the Baronial manse in his own city of Tumbor fifty-four years ago, after he had witnessed the slaughter of his father by Arent’s Hounds. He’d been nine. The Hound had turned to look at him, eyes cold, considering, his body covered in Leethe’s father’s blood. But then the Hound had sheathed his knife and grabbed the nearest lantern, splattering its oil about the room, lighting it with another lamp before departing.

  Leethe had scrambled to escape the flames.

  His jaw tightened in hatred, a throb beginning in his right temple.

  “Fools,” he said, turning his back on the tower. “Don’t they see that Arent already has too much power? And yet they offer him more!”

  He seethed. Arger remained silent.

  They emerged from the gardens, a ley carriage and escort waiting in the street beyond, the Tumbor crest in gilt on the door. Servants tore their gazes away from the spectacle in the Amber Tower and sprang into action, opening doors. Arger gave orders as Leethe settled into his seat.

  He stared out the window as Arger joined him and the carriage slid into motion.

  “No,” he said, more to himself than to Arger. “The Kormanley have failed. I need to find a different way to seize power from Arent. He cannot be allowed to dominate the Baronies with his control of the Wielders and the ley.”

  He turned and met Arger’s flat gaze. “We need to find another way to loosen his grip.”

  PART III

  Four
teen

  THE WET NURSE screamed when Allan burst through the door into his apartment in Hedge. She clutched Morrell to her chest, body curled protectively around the small form, shoulders hunched. Her initial shock snapped instantly to anger when she recognized him.

  “Don’t ever barge in here like that again,” she scolded.

  “Get up. Help me pack.” He strode across the room, pulled a trunk out from under the bed, opened it and scanned the contents, then dumped everything inside onto the floor.

  The wet nurse—Janis—rose from where she sat near the fire, bouncing Morrell, who’d begun to fuss. “What do you think you’re doing? Where’s Moira?”

  “She’s dead,” Allan growled, and something hard and fluid punched into his chest, right beneath his breastbone. He struggled with the sensation, fought it back—as he’d fought it back since slipping away from the chaos of the Amber Tower and fleeing here—and said roughly, “The Kormanley attacked the Tower. She died in one of the explosions.”

  Janis gasped, hand going to her mouth.

  He began shoving clothes into the trunk haphazardly, moving about the room in short, jerky steps, his mind seething. It wouldn’t take long for the Dogs—for Hagger—to realize he was missing, even with Baron Arent enraged and screaming orders at Daedallen. Once they did, they’d be after him. Hagger knew he’d survived the final explosion; he’d pulled him away from the balcony before it snapped free. They’d come here first. He needed clothes, food, protection, money. He snatched a knife from the kitchen, tucked it into his belt, stepped to the stone recess of the fire and pried a loose rock from its place, reaching into the hollow to retrieve the stash of errens in a cloth sack hidden there.

  When he turned back, he saw Janis watching him, her expression set. “Just what do you think you’re doing? I know you must be upset, but this—” she waved around at the scattered mess on the floor from the trunk, the rock he’d tossed aside “—is unacceptable. You’re upsetting the baby!”