As Barnes had said, the weapons books contained the histories and strengths of a great many tools of destruction, but not one of them mentioned the ones I'd seen. The bestiary was a massive tome and I'd be spending weeks reading through its content. At about page sixty, I'd decided to number the pages and create my own index, but the book rejected any alterations and indexing took a skill set I realized that I didn't have.
When the three men sat down, I wondered why they were here. Was the Blackwing mercenary dead? Were the crowds calling for my blood? Or was this about Anna? I refused to let myself think it was about Mordon. Uncle Don started the conversation.
“The Hunters have decided to intervene in matters. Lyall has...investigated privately and found some discarded documents which link Safe Streets to the Blackwings.”
That made my ears pop. “Safe Streets has that kind of money?” Chewing the inside of my mouth, I mulled over the information. “Why would they be interested in a baby?”
Uncle Don spoke with coolness. “Were they interested in her capture, or yours?”
“Both, I imagine. But they threatened to kill me if I put up a fuss, and I don't think they were bluffing about it. I think they wanted the child, and it would have been convenient if they had me as well. However, they didn't need me. That was my impression.”
“They could have been bluffing,” Uncle Don said. “A scared victim is easier to handle.”
“I don't think they wanted me as a primary target. I think I was a bonus.”
Barnes said, “This changes things. We were working under the assumption they wanted Feraline.”
“It's still risky,” Leif said. “I don't like it.”
“What is?” I asked.
The three men shared a moment of silence, each coming to his own mind. Leif explained, “The Hunters became involved because they are … not in competition with … that's not the right way to put it. They are peers with the Blackwings. They leave one another alone in general, however, if one of them makes trouble with someone under the other's protection, things get gruesome.”
“But what if this isn't about me, after all?”
“That point does not matter,” Uncle Don said. “The fact is that you are my niece, that you are still considered a candidate for joining the Hunters, and that the Blackwings laid hands on you. That makes three points which they transgressed upon. If one of our members were to interfere like that on one of their people, they would be contesting us. Things being as they are, your account opens us to some possibilities.”
Leif ran his hand over his scalp. “Mordon would not approve of this if he knew.”
“Neither would my brother,” Uncle Don said. “And neither do I. Personal feelings, however, should not be taken into consideration in this matter. We have wasted time in stalling as long as we have. Constable Barnes, is there a good reason Feraline Swift cannot go to the dungeons?”
My jaw dropped. Force of will kept me from demanding to know what they meant. Barnes was watching, and if I overreacted, he might decide I needed to rest longer.
“There is none,” Barnes said. “Feraline Swift is fit, sound of mind and body, and free to refuse.”
“Donald?” I asked, turning to him for an explanation. “Is this about the Blackwing?”
“He has spoken during interrogations. Five words were all we could get out of him.”
I had a dreadful feeling that two of those words were Feraline Swift. What I wanted to know was the verb of the short sentence. “And what were those words?”
“I will see Feraline Swift.”
Rubbing my tired eyes, I mulled the words over in my mind. It could be a trap. A way to get me. But why? If they'd wanted me dead, they'd have killed me. And if he wanted to capture me, he'd better have an escape route out of the dungeons. That seemed unlikely from what Barnes had said. He'd know that I wouldn't come with Anna, too, and if it was Anna who they wanted, it wouldn't do them a lot of good to kidnap me and make a miraculous prison break. Which meant the next logical thing was that he wanted to talk with me. To what end?
“A dungeon visit with the special forces of the ruling class?” I pondered the idea, knowing that I'd already decided. “I'll do it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The dungeons were cold, what with having been blasted into the cliff face of the market at the last turn of the century. The guards who allowed me access were of the surly, sarcastic lot designed to be bullies from the very first day of training. By now they'd perfected the art of disguising aggression with excessive respect. Were their comments directly transcribed, it would seem they worshiped those within their walls. I didn't remember even a third of what they said.
I was checked for metal items, checked for pins in my hair, checked that I wore red clothes. Guards wore green. Prisoners wore orange. Wardens wore brown. Everyone got a wristband with their name and status on it. Mine read Swift, Feraline, Guest and had symbols surrounding the information.
“Everyone else wears red,” said the warden in charge of me, Barnes, Leif, and Uncle Don. “Then there's no risk of confusing you for an inmate if anyone is stupid enough to cause trouble.”
He met my gaze when he said it, a direct warning to me. We hadn't been introduced to him and some protective spell prevented me from seeing him. To me, he looked like a hazy blob which was tallish, bulky, and fair-skinned. Only his voice came clearly. It was punctual and drill-sergeant-like.
After our party passed our fourth security check confirming we had nothing which could be used against the dungeon guards, the warden stopped and addressed me explicitly. “If there should be a riot and you are taken hostage, the dungeons will be returned to the proper authority. Eventually. It will happen, given time. If you are hostage in the duration, be prepared for the prisoners to assert their dominance. In every fashion imaginable. It is your call if you think it would be better to submit to it quietly, or to fight. Which way is right depends upon who the ringleaders are and what mood they are in. They may treat you all the worse for resisting, or they may respect you for it. The prisoner you are to see is among the worst. He's trained. That makes him dangerous. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you? Are you prepared to take the chance that you'll have terrible and horrible things done to this dainty little body?”
Dainty and little? I checked myself before I could raise a skeptical eyebrow at him. Compared to the inmates, I probably was just as he described. The rest of it was half genuine question, half mocking—or was it half repressed desire? I decided to give him the opposite impression of who I was, and kept my eyes on the ground.
“I know the risks, sir.”
“How would you like a tour, lady?”
Uncle Don cut in. “We are on borrowed time, Warden.”
“And you think my own time is free for me to make of it what I would? But if you're impatient, Hunter, I will show you the way.”
The hallways had been built so that sections of the dungeon could be closed off in an emergency. We went through multiple locks and guard stations, sticking to halls where orange-clad prisoners walked in neat lines without chains or any visible spells on them. The air was thick and suffocating, the mood sapping all energy. I felt claustrophobic and kept as close to Uncle Don as I dared.
At one point we had to walk across a gymnasium. At both exits were guards armed with staffs and automatic weapons. The warden caught me eyeing them as we waited for a door to open.
“Hey, Jones, show the lady how you work your weapons,” the warden said.
The curl of his lip while he said it made me want to take a swing at him. He was plainly doing all he could to intimidate, perhaps he even flattered himself that he was flirting with me. The guard, Jones, hefted the gun in both hands while the warden explained, “See the symbol shorthand? Here and here? This means that there's a ward on the gun to keep anyone from touching it—except for the man who was assigned it. If anyone else tries to grab it, it'll spread a flesh-eating rash
over his skin. Contagious. Not lethal, though, had a few prisoners try to escape like that. Ha! You've noticed, too, that fairy lights are used instead of dangerous electricity or torches.”
So it was we got our tour anyway. While the warden was pointing out to me how the doors worked, “Every ward here is like a solid piece of armor. It's hard. It'll take the roughest of blows and disperse them throughout the framework. No place as secure as these dungeons,” my uncle interrupted the warden with, “It seems you are deliberately delaying us, Warden.”
“I just want the little lady to feel secure,” the warden said, a muscle in his cheek flickering. “To let her know that no one gets in, no one gets out.”
“Ask her if she feels she needs an explanation, then.”
“That's hardly courteous of her natural timidicy, but very well. Little lady, is there anything you would like clarified at this point in your visit?”
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Does everyone have their own shorthand symbol, like the guard? Can these wards keep a particular person from entering or leaving a specified area?”
The warden radiated disapproval at the direct question, and I sensed a bit of animosity from him. “Yes,” he said and continued down the hall. By the time we stopped again, he had recovered his normal ill-humor. “See, Hunter, the girl had questions after all.”
Leif nodded to the cell door. “Is this our destination?”
The warden bowed. “Yes, Your Honor.” His tone said the opposite.
“Well, don't keep us waiting,” Leif said, calm and collected, but I knew that he was too tense, that he recognized all too many people within these walls.
Grumpy, the warden turned around and unlocked the door. He said, “When you enter, he will be within the center-most of three concentric circles. Stay within the first circle you'll encounter. This will protect you from any outside forces who may force their way into the cell. Do not step into the middle circle since this will trigger an alarm. If you are threatened from the outside, then do step into the middle. It will give you an added barrier from your assailants and signal the alarm. The center-most circle is highly defended, but if you set foot inside it, then you will be unable to step out of it again. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The warden stared at me, measuring me from head to foot and shoulder to shoulder. “You will be unable to tell time within the cell. You will be unable to identify faces. The inmate may lie to you. If you are scared of him, do not let him know. Just do not talk to him. They feed on fear. Know that we will come for you. We will always come. You are to wait for us. Once you step into the outermost circle, do not try to step back out. It will have unpleasant consequences for you. This is the only warning we give you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
The warden laughed. “I did not think that the roguish Feraline Swift would be so complacent. Like a fat cat in the sunshine. Fit to be eaten alive.”
I did not respond to the taunt. He said, “In you go then.”
Inside, the cell was white and sound-proofed. If I had stepped into a bubble at the bottom of the ocean, it couldn't have been more stifling or silent even though it was a fairly sizable room. It had plenty of space between the outermost circle and the walls, and each circle had a few feet to move around within. The wards on the floor liked to wriggle and morph before my eyes, but I placed them easily enough. They were all written in the prison shorthand.
“This line here,” the warden pointed at it, “will obscure all your vision outside of your lines. You will be able to hear the inmate, but you will not be able to hear voices from the outside. When your time is up, we will deactivate this last line and return you to the front. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Can you say anything else?”
“Will you be able to hear us?”
This made the warden scowl. “That is our matter. Not yours. Mind what you tell him. That is all you have to be worried over. Now are you going to cross the line or do I have to nudge you?”
I ducked my head so I wouldn't glare, and took one step into the outermost circle. Two lines away, a man with dark shoulder-length hair sat cross-legged. I glanced behind me. It was distorted like water falling down glass. The warden waved and was gone. Back in the center, sapphire-blue eyes met mine.
The Blackwing dropped his gaze and said, “Milady Feraline Swift of Kragdomen Colony and Merlyn's Market, please know that my name is Valerin Wolds of the Selestiani Settlement and I am working with Julius Septimus to return his daughter to him.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Following those words, I didn't know quite what to say. The wards made a faint humming around us. Much as I didn't want to follow the warden's advice, I was doing it by staying quiet. Another thought occurred to me. I didn't know if they could hear what we were talking about. Despite that they'd taken some metal things from me, I still had a trick up my sleeve. Quickly, I formed an illusion which essentially turned my finger into a glowing marker and I made the ward my father had taught me ages ago. It'd keep outside interferences outside and our talk private.
I recognized him now. I'd had tea with him in Merlyn's Market. He'd held my hand and led me through the crowds. He was a Blackwing, which meant a few things.
“Were you hiding me from your chief in the market?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you take me then?”
“You didn't have Josephina with you.”
“Were you at Mason Security?”
“No. I was meeting with Julius Septimus instead. The arrangement was difficult to manage until the chief was gone for an hour.”
The wide room suddenly felt small and intimate, the hard floor unforgiving. The warden's words returned to me, words about how I would have to remain here for now—and how if anything went wrong, I would have to wait. A dozen terrible scenarios ran through my mind if I were to make a mistake in trusting Valerin without good cause. He shifted his weight, drawing my attention.
Valerin said, “If I may ask your ladyship a question?”
“You can ask, but if I'll answer will depend on what it is.”
“If our enemies break down that flimsy ward separating you from them, will you break out us out of the dungeons?”
I laughed at the absurdity of the question. “Will I break 'us' out of the dungeons? Why would I do that?”
Valerin spoke again, still kneeling, while I finished up my spell. “I missed your fire drake deliberately.”
My heart lurched as I remembered the gun drawn on Mordon, the way my imagination made his injury gruesome because I hadn't been able to see him. That the shot had intentionally not clobbered him square in the jaw hadn't occurred to me. “Why?”
“Because if injured him, I'd injure you. And any odds of returning Josephina to Julius.”
Sweat trickled down my back. It wasn't just nerves. These wards radiated heat, creating a sauna-like environment in addition to the waterfall distortion. I stared at Valerin, wondering what his game was. “Why didn't Julius Septimus just ask for her?”
“The Blackwings wanted her, as well.”
“You're Blackwing.”
“I'm getting out before I meet with Chief's incendiary bullets. The fee for your ladyship and the kid would do it.”
Getting out, how? Was there a contract he would have to buy himself out of? Did he have debts to pay first? The Hunters weren't paid for their services, it was an honor duty. What was it like for the Blackwings? Uncle Don hadn't said, maybe he didn't know. I crossed my arms. “I'm a little confused here, Valerin. You say you work for the Blackwings, yet you're working instead for Julius Septimus?”
Valerin frowned. “I want to reunite Julius Septimus with the infant. The Blackwings will not let me go until I pay a fee, which Julius Septimus will give me the money for in exchange for the infant. In the meantime, I can keep close watch on both the Blackwings and on their progress with obtaining the infant.”
This was star
ting to make sense? Maybe?
It seemed that he was lying about something. Not that I could fault him too heavily. Were I in his position, I'd be wary about telling an interrogator the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Bearing this in mind, I said, “I think I'll wait until Julius Septimus comes.”
“I could take you to meet him.”
“No.” What I meant was absolutely not but I didn't want to give the impression that I was afraid. I paced, processing what he'd told me so far. “If Septimus didn't hire all of the Blackbirds, who was footing the bill of the attack squad?”
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