The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  A pause and the dark head dipped lower, almost sinking between the thin shoulders. “Wilfred,” was the soft answer. “Wil.” The voice was quiet, nearly gentle, so why did Dallin get the impression that the name had been shoved out from between clenched teeth? He tried not to smirk. It hadn’t been hard to peg Payton through his thin veneer of charm the first time Dallin had met him; it was somehow vindicating to know that he wasn’t the only one.

  “Mm,” said Payton then peered up at Dallin. “Wilfred Calder. Wil. From Lind.” Said with a slight roll of the eyes. “Wilfred Calder, this is Constable Brayden. He’s to be your new friend, because frankly, you’ve bored me.” The chair thumped and Payton stood, moved aside to let Dallin have it. “I’ve got nothing from him we don’t already know. You handle it, Brayden.” The tone had changed, from pleasant and conversational to cool disregard. “P’raps you speak the same language.”

  Dallin let the slur go, but not the insolence. “Since it’s my case,” he said levelly, “I suggest you should not have been questioning a witness without my presence to begin with.” He kept his voice even, but allowed a slight edge of menace into the tone. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

  Payton’s cool look turned sour. A glare he couldn’t possibly back up kept wanting to stretch at his face, but to his credit, he kept his expression to mere calculation. Dallin let him look. Dallin had rank and seniority, his size and Jagger’s ear; Payton had what passed for charm, his looks and Elmar for a friend—Dallin gave him a moment to draw his own conclusions. Thwarted, Payton turned his ire on the witness.

  “Wake up there, Calder, and give the Constable his due respect.” The word curled up in sarcastic mockery. Dallin ignored Payton’s bit of a smirk, but took a step forward when he gave a light cuff to the witness’s ear. “Look up and greet your new friend, he’s likely the only one you’ll have here.”

  Calder flinched away from the blow, shot a murderous glare up at Payton. Dallin only just kept from snorting. It died in his throat when the man turned his head, leveled his gaze with Dallin’s.

  Frozen—both of them. The hamstrung silence nearly rang his ears. It was like looking inside a liquid pool of verdigris, deep and dense, murky depths shifting with swirls of sage and emerald. Not just looking at him, but seeing him, seeing him profoundly, and into depths Dallin himself had never plumbed.

  I know you, he thought, grasping at a purling wisp of recognition that slipped through the saner fingers of reason. No. No, I don’t, but… why does it feel like I should?

  The face should have been pale, but layers of sunburn flaked about the nose, one atop the other, and a thin swarm of new freckles flecked the high cheekbones, as though the man had spent his life locked up in a dark room and had only recently got his first bite of the sun—and the sun had bitten him back. The features were sharp and angular, too thin and too young, but not young at all. Dark circles bloomed beneath his eyes, and a new bruise flowered along his right cheekbone. None of it served to mar the comely features; none of it took away the sheer beauty.

  Disturbed and disoriented, Dallin tried to pull his gaze away—couldn’t.

  Is this what those men saw just before they’d come to blows? Was this witchcraft, as they’d claimed? Or merely the animal reaction of men confronted with something they’d never seen before and perhaps wanted to possess?—a reaction, Dallin was dismayed to find, to which he himself didn’t seem immune.

  Stop looking at me, stop seeing me.

  Dallin shook his head, opened his mouth—a greeting, an introduction, he didn’t know, just something to shock him out of his own absurd stupor—but he was suddenly, embarrassingly mute. Instead, he tilted his head, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes.

  It was the movement that brought Calder to action: a sudden jerk and lunge as he leapt from his chair, stumbled a bit as he backed over it and then pressed his back to the far wall. Payton was instantly on alert; he took a step, but Dallin shot a hand out, held him back. He’s taller than I’d thought, Dallin realized with the small part of his normally-analytical mind that was still working, wider, too—he was only trying to make himself small, unthreatening. Remember that later, you might need it. Dallin didn’t move, alert himself, but confused, too—just kept staring at the man, at the trapped-animal look in those shocked-shocking eyes.

  Payton was the first to recover, but under the circumstances, Dallin decided not to chide himself too harshly. He let Payton shrug himself loose. “Sit down, sir,” Payton said evenly, request and warning both, and he took a step forward.

  Calder ignored him, like he wasn’t even in the room. “Aire,” he breathed, eyes locked to Dallin, disregarding Payton completely, and vibrating now like his bones would shake loose. “Gníomhaire!”

  “Oh, you’re from Lind, all right,” Payton snorted. Disgusted now, he stepped around the table, righted the chair. “I asked you to sit down, Mister Calder, I won’t ask again.”

  Calder only kept staring, didn’t even seem to hear. “Guardian.” He spat the word like it tasted bad.

  They all three stared: Dallin and the witness at each other, Payton shifting his glance between them. The fear and betrayal in the witness’s eyes mystified Dallin, near wounded him with the intensity. People reacted to his size, it was a natural thing, double-takes and instinctive backward twitches; Dallin had been used to it since before he’d sprouted his first patchy bit of beard. In the line of work he’d chosen, or had chosen him, depending on how one looked at it, it was sometimes a handy tool—useful, and so therefore useable. Still, this seemed a bit extreme. What have I ever done to you? he wanted to ask, and only just kept himself from actually voicing the question out loud. Instead, he stood silent, staring into eyes that seemed to swallow his sense, set him swaying. Bewitched. He isn’t beautiful. Those oracles he’s got for eyes just make one think he is. Enough that a man was willing to do murder to have them look at him like he’s looking at me. Even the fear is beguiling. He came back to himself when Payton cleared his throat.

  “You will agree, Constable, that the witness has turned hostile and presents a danger to himself and the Constabulary officers.” Payton held out his hand. “May I have your manacles, please?”

  The benevolent, sympathetic part of Dallin’s mind registered the flare of panic in Calder’s eyes at the prospect of restraint; the still rational part of it understood immediately the advantage of that fear—useful, and so, therefore, useable.

  He tore his gaze away from Calder, blinked at Payton then stared down at Payton’s open hand. Dallin could break Calder in half, if he really wanted to, shackles were hardly necessary. Anyway, the anticipatory gleam in Payton’s eye filled Dallin with vague disgust; he almost refused just for the pleasure of spiking the smarmy git. Still, it would take hours of steady pressure to get the same level of discomfort the mere threat of confinement had brought. Dallin calculated that carrying out the threat would ramp up that discomfort and save them all some time and trouble, perhaps trip the man into anxious confession before lunchtime. And considering the raised hackles at the back of his neck, the swarming sense that something was going on right beneath his sight but not where he could see it with his eyes, magic seemed all too likely at the moment.

  He handed over the shackles, their wide cuffs etched with charms and suppression spells. Dallin had always thought those engravings a silly pretension before—now he only hoped the engraver hadn’t been asleep on the job.

  The snap of the metal over his wrists seemed to pull Calder back to the room entirely. His eyes widened, gaze turning bright with dread for a moment, near-terror, before it deliberately dulled then sank to the floor. His shoulders hunched again and he bowed his head—a perfect imitation of submission—but Dallin had no delusions; the calculation in the lack of resistance as Payton all but threw him into the chair and the limp defeat of the posture all but screamed buried defiance, calm cunning.

  “Well, that was the most excitement I’ve seen in months,” Payton said. There was an
eager light in his eyes and his breath came in a near-pant. Dallin was reminded again why he didn’t like Payton. “I think perhaps I’ll stay after all,” Payton informed him.

  “No,” Dallin told him, voice calmer than he’d expected it to be, but his nerve-endings were jittering, keeping the hairs at the back of his neck at rigid attention. “I don’t think you will.” He ignored Payton’s glare, merely stepped to the door and hauled it open. He merely stared, expectant. It was a handy reminder that if Payton didn’t do as he was bidden, Dallin could very well make him.

  It worked. Payton loosed a small growl under his breath then lifted his chin, straightened his coat and swanned to the door. He shot a sour sneer over his shoulder. “Don’t think I won’t—”

  “You’re not leaving me in here alone with him, are you?”

  It was shaky, high-pitched, and frantic. Payton and Dallin both turned back to the witness, manacled hands clenched atop the table now, the dull look of defeat forgotten in new panic. Dallin could hardly credit it. He knew his size was intimidating, but this man looked at him as though he’d done murder right in front of him—like he knew him and had cause to fear him.

  I don’t know you, have never seen you before in my life, so stop looking at me like you know me.

  “Out,” he said to Payton, and when Payton didn’t move fast enough, Dallin let go of the door, its weight swinging it home; Payton didn’t yelp, but his arms wind-milled a bit as he pulled them hastily through the steadily-narrowing doorway. Dallin allowed himself a small smirk before turning back to the… he kept wanting to think of this Calder as a prisoner, and had to remind himself the man was merely a witness, manacles and impassable doors notwithstanding. He shook his head, pulled in a long, steadying breath then pushed it out slowly. Calmly, moving deliberately so as not to alarm again, he lowered himself into the empty chair, taking up the folio and splaying it open.

  “These papers name you Wilfred Calder. Do you hold to the claim?”

  Green eyes narrowed in confusion and suspicion. A slow nod was all Dallin got by way of answer. He sighed. This would go hard, he could tell already. He mentally waved goodbye to another cup of coffee, and probably his lunch, and prepared himself for a long morning. “They further claim that you are from Lind.” This time he peered up, lifted an eyebrow.

  The gaze didn’t hold this time, but dropped, shifted to the table. “I’ve done no wrong.” Calder’s voice was soft again, but with threads of rebellious bravado. “Do you intend to keep me prisoner here, or…?”

  He trailed off, didn’t finish; Dallin wondered what that ‘or’ meant, but refrained from asking.

  “You are not a prisoner.” Dallin pointedly didn’t look when slender hands shifted on the table, deliberately dragging the small chain across the surface. “You were witness to foul murder, and a statement is needed.”

  “I’ve given my statement—twice. I saw a man who introduced himself as one Orman beat another who introduced himself as Palmer to death. May I go now?”

  Dallin only smiled inwardly, mildly amused at the cornered audacity, despite the circumstances. “I’m told they fought over who would keep company with you.”

  Calder’s mouth screwed up in an uneasy scowl. “I encouraged no such contest. Nor did I want it.”

  First hit.

  “So, they did quarrel over you, then.”

  Calder’s eyes closed and his head sank lower; Dallin could almost hear the inner shit, shit, shit at accidental confession in the long, loose breath.

  He kept his countenance serene and indifferent. “Did they argue over price, one trying to outbid the other?”

  A clench of the teeth this time. “I am no doxy.”

  And there’s another.

  “A witch, then?”

  Calder snorted, as though he’d expected the accusation. The dark head shook once, back and forth. “Magic is illegal, but for those registered and sanctioned to practice by the Commonwealth,” he recited.

  “I know the law, thank you.”

  “As do I.”

  “Then you know that failing to register is a minor infraction, and you’d not be likely to spend even a fortnight in jail—if you confess.” It wasn’t a lie: failure to register was a small violation; practicing magic without license, however, was decidedly not. And magicking with criminal intent was another matter altogether. Dallin had every intention of sharing those bits of information—after he got whatever confession there was to be had.

  Calder’s head was still down, so Dallin couldn’t see his face, but there was no mistaking the abrupt, rigid set of the jaw. “Men would see witchery where there is only vice. I cannot be blamed for another’s lack of control.”

  Dallin smiled a little. “Vice, then, as you will. So, you accepted attentions from one and not the other.”

  “I accepted nothing!”

  Dallin let the slight roll of his eyes speak his skepticism. “Do you say you didn’t intend to sleep with either man, or that you didn’t intend to charge them for it?”

  The long fingers curled in, fisted, knuckles turning yellow-white. Heavy, pinioned silence.

  “Prostitution has not been a hanging offence for decades,” Dallin ventured quietly. “A fine the first time, nothing more. If you cooperate, I can see there’s not even that, but I must—”

  “I do not sleep with men for money.” It was almost a hiss.

  Dallin sat back, lifted an eyebrow. The same mark, and hit harder this time; he went for a third. “What do you sleep with them for?” he asked mildly.

  “Why?” The sudden smile was coy and cold. “Interested?”

  Not at all the wrath and loss of control he’d hoped for. Dallin kept his face blank and free of reaction, followed the turn. “And if I were?”

  The smile faltered, sliding away. Calder looked down again. “You like to play with people, don’t you, Guardian? Makes you feel powerful, I expect.” He lifted his hands, chain jinking and jangling. “You already have all the power, why do you prolong this? Can we just get on and have an end?”

  Dallin resisted a puzzled frown, tilted his head. “All right—tell me who you really are and I’ll see what I can do.”

  The defeat was back again, real this time—Dallin could read it in the slope of the shoulders, the desperate grasping of the hands as Calder pushed his fingers into his hair, clutching at it, and groaned, small and helpless. That weary impotence was what made Dallin narrow his eyes—a truth, finally, or more deflection of it? The body language was speaking volumes, but actual information was apparently going to have to be dug out from between verbal feints and weaves.

  A livid scar drew his gaze, jagging around the left wrist and over the back of the hand to the knuckles, lumping the skin into tight pink puckers; Dallin noted it but put it aside, didn’t allow an overt analysis to distract him from tracking Calder’s dips and turns. He’d come back to it later.

  “Just do it and get it over,” Calder whispered, shook his head. “I’m tired and I can’t do this anymore. Stop playing, Gníomhaire, and just do it.”

  The frown won this time. “Why do you call me that?”

  “Because it is what you are. We should call things by their proper names, shouldn’t we, you and I? Now, of all times.”

  Annoyed now, Dallin allowed a tolerant sigh. “I am Brayden, First Constable of the Province of Putnam.” He dipped his head: a small, ironic imitation of a respectful bow. “I suppose ‘guardian’ is a more delicate term than some would choose, but what is the other? Are you swearing at me? Or are you speaking in tongues?” A tilt of his head and Dallin leaned in, smoothed his voice. “That in itself is enough cause for an accusation of magicking.”

  Slowly, the dark head came up; eyes that too obviously held back tears blinked across the table—curiosity, disbelief, and… something Dallin couldn’t name. Hope?

  “You don’t…” Whisper-quiet, but not as shaky. Calder’s eyes narrowed again, and he tilted his head. “Guardian?”

  “Brayde
n,” Dallin repeated patiently. “Constable Brayden.” He leaned in, a bit of concern now leaching through the irritation; the man was far too pale beneath his unfortunate overdose of sun and his eyes looked unfocused. “Are you well? Do you need rest, water?”

  “Am I… well?” Calder laughed a little, bitter-soft.

  He stared, like he was looking for something, trying to dig into Dallin’s head, pick apart what he found there. Dallin stared back, wondering why he’d thought this man beautiful—handsome, surely, in an angular sort of way, but nothing to stop one’s breath, nothing to merit a fight to the death for the honor of his ‘company.’ The green eyes weren’t even all that spectacular, now that Dallin really looked up close—they were fine, certainly, clear and deep as forest pine, and unusual in one with hair dark enough to be called black—but still merely green. Perhaps there had been some kind of enchantment involved.

  And then Calder shook his head, squared his shoulders, leaned into the table. “Stable help.”

  Dallin blinked. “Sorry?”

  “I work in the stables of Ramsford’s inn—with my back and not on it.”

  It was said with conviction and an earnest gaze. Dallin noted it then once again curved smoothly along with the sudden turn in conversation. “You don’t look like you’d be much help in a stable.” It wasn’t meant as an insult. Calder was nothing like to the sort. Not broad enough by halves, for one, and not rough enough about the edges.

  “I’ve no doubt someone like you would think as much. Looks can deceive.”

  “No doubt,” Dallin muttered. “For instance, you don’t look like you’re from Lind.”

  That brought a slight twitch, quickly covered. “Oh? And what do those from Lind look like, then?”

  “Fair-haired, for one. Without exception.” Dallin noted the aborted reach toward dark hair and the swift resistance of such. His smirk was entirely inward. “Like me, for two. I am from Lind. They grow them a bit bigger there.” He waited a moment for a reaction; when he didn’t get one, he went on, “Hill folk. Clannish. They don’t breed outside their own, and I’d venture to say that if there was a black-haired child born among them, he’d be strangled for a witch with his own cord before he’d drawn his first breath. The green eyes wouldn’t’ve helped. Superstitious lot, Linders.”