The Aisling Trilogy

by Cummings, Carole

  He shook his head, rubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, as sincerely as he could make it. “I’ve had a long day, and I thought… I’m sorry.”

  The woman accepted this with a small nod, but she wouldn’t look at him now. “The Mother’s blessings upon your path, sir,” she said softly

  Dallin tried to smile another apology, swept her a respectful bow. “And on yours, Mistress,” he answered and turned off, the fragrant meat in his hand somehow not even the least bit tempting now. He waited until the woman’s little fire was no longer visible behind him then chucked it into the weeds beside the road.

  Shaking off his odd little go at insanity, he stepped along with purpose. He’d do what needed done at the Constabulary and then head to the Kymberly. He’d take supper there to make up for having missed lunch and the lamb he’d just discarded, and perhaps spy on Calder while he was at it. Anyway, he wanted to go over a few things from Ramsford’s statement with him, too. And perhaps punch him in the mouth for having requested Dallin on this bloody case.

  The bailiff’s shift had changed; instead of Beldon, Dallin met—what was his name again? Woodrow, that was it—just making himself comfortable, propping his feet up on the wide desk and stretching out for a long, boring evening. Big, like all of the bailiffs, wide-shouldered and thick-armed, but none of it could take away from the round youth in his face, the bit of naiveté still left in his wide-eyed gaze. Choking almost comically on an involuntary gasp, the young man’s boots thumped to the stone floor when he spotted Dallin; he sprang to his feet.

  “Constable Brayden!” He gulped, stood like someone had just rammed a poker up his arse. “I was… I just…” Pale, sweaty fingers flicked about the hem of his blue surcoat, curled about it, then clenched tight. “I’m only just back from supper, you see, and I—”

  “Ask for my sidearm, Woodrow,” Dallin cut in, trying not to let the amusement into his voice.

  Woodrow twitched a little, gulped again. “Er… sorry?”

  “The first thing you do when a Constable comes down here is to ask for his weapon,” Dallin told him. “Then you record it in your book there—” He pointed. “—to prove that no arms have crossed the threshold on your watch.”

  A faint nod. “Yes, sir. I did know that, sir, I would’ve done, it’s…” He trailed off, lapsed into miserable silence.

  Dallin took pity. “Your first week, innit?”

  Woodrow gave a loose bobble of his auburn head, face so bright beneath his sea of freckles it almost competed for color with his hair. “First night on duty by myself, sir.”

  Dallin nodded back, considerably less bobble-ish. “You’re doing fine,” he assured the young man. “Here.” He handed over his sidearm. “Careful with that, it’s new and I’m rather fond of it.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the shaky agreement.

  “And don’t call everyone ‘sir,’” Dallin advised brusquely. “It’ll only remind them you’re new and green, and they’ll fob off all the disagreeable tasks to you. And for pity’s sake, don’t ever let a prisoner or witness see you blush and stammer like this. They see a weakness and your size won’t make a damned bit of difference. They’ll have you spitted and cooked before you even remember your first defensive stance.”

  Another bobble. “Yes, s— Brayden. Um. Right.”

  Dallin allowed a smile. “Good. Now, if you please, I’d like to see the prisoner Orman in whatever room you’ve available.”

  “Um…” An uncomfortable shift. “It’ll do you little good, s— Brayden. The Chief’s been down to see him this afternoon with some toff-nosed Dominion stick. The prisoner was well enough when they went in, but came out gibbering. Chief sent for the physick and then the shaman, but…” He shrugged. “No one could make heads nor tails, and then he just up and turned mute.” He shot a nervous glance to all points then leaned in, lowered his voice. “Looked like magicking to my eyes, and I reckon that Dominion blackguard done the work, right under the Chief’s nose.”

  Dallin was silent for a moment, trying to dissemble this new information, then jerked a nod, said, “I suggest you speak to no one else about what you ‘reckon,’ Woodrow. Gossip can be a deadly thing.” He narrowed a hard stare at the young man, satisfied when he flushed and nodded. “I’ll see this man in his cell, then,” he went on. “Sign me in and take me to him.”

  ***

  He found Jagger in his office, head in hands. “I was just about to send Seward out to find you,” he said when he saw Dallin, leaned back and flung his pen down. “I spent a rather… interesting afternoon with Ambassador Einín’s man.”

  If he hadn’t already been aware of today’s odd happenings, the grimace alone would have been enough to tell Dallin the meeting hadn’t gone well—at least from Jagger’s end. “So I hear. I’ve just been down to Orman’s cell.” Dallin shook his head flung out a hand. “What the deuce happened? Surely he wasn’t like that when you brought him in?”

  “Oh, no, not by a long stretch,” Jagger answered tiredly.

  “And how’d the Dominion get here so quickly?” Dallin wanted to know. “I would have thought we wouldn’t have to deal with them for another day at least. And in person. Have they spies we don’t know about?”

  “Not so far as I can tell.”

  Dallin chewed his lip. “Was this ambassador’s lackey on the road already or something, then? Did Corliss go for nothing?”

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess. Corliss didn’t get her overnight away after all, though.” Jagger shook his head, sighing. “She tells me the ambassador had his offices hopping thirty seconds after my request left her hand. Wouldn’t wait for a post, but insisted she escort his man back here post-haste.” He paused, rubbed his eyes with a frown. “Oddly, the man was all ready and saddled up, like he was waiting for her.”

  Dallin frowned, too, but had no real response. “Well, what happened? Surely they found no fault—”

  “Oh, painfully polite, this one, and careful to thank us for a job well done, but… I don’t know. There was something behind the man’s eyes I didn’t like. I don’t know what happened downstairs, I swear I saw nothing strange, not even a twitch of a finger, but one look at this Síofra fellow—that’s the ambassador’s emissary—and Orman fell to blubbering and gibbering.” A small shudder. “I don’t mind telling you, it made my skin want to crawl right off my bones.”

  “Woodrow says conjuring.”

  An impatient wave of a hand. “Woodrow’s just wet out of the fields, and thinks an eclipse is conjuring. Although, I won’t deny the possibility. That’s what shamans are for, and they at least got him to shut up.”

  “So well that he’s gone mute!” Dallin objected. “And if there’s anything going on behind that blank stare, it’s—”

  “Not the doing of the shaman,” Jagger assured him. “The sense went out of the man the moment we stepped into the room, I saw it happen.” He wrinkled his nose, as though he smelled something foul. “Like the mere set of the man’s beady little ferret-eyes did Orman in.” Dallin was uncomfortably reminded of his own reaction when he’d first laid eyes on Calder, blinked it away when Jagger went on, “You’ll just have to use the statement I squeaked out of him, I expect. Fairly cut-and-dry, at any rate; he admitted to everything. Several times.”

  Dallin found his teeth clenching. “It’s all a little neat, innit?” He didn’t like any of it. A growing sense of alarm and suspicion was vibrating unpleasantly over his skin.

  Jagger only shrugged. “Anyway, you’ll like this: that Síofra—he doesn’t want Orman back. Says he committed a crime against Cynewísan and should pay whatever price Cynewísan demands. He was especially careful to point out that, should Cynewísan’s price be blood, the Dominion—oh, do pardon me, Ríocht—would not be displeased.” A roll of the eyes this time.

  “It’ll make things a bit easier, I expect,” Dallin offered grudgingly.

  “Likely,” Jagger admitted. “But that wasn’t the whole of it.” He peered up at Da
llin, sardonic. “He wants Calder.”

  Dallin’s teeth clenched again. “I knew it.” With effort, he turned a growl into an annoyed sigh on its way out of his throat. “What’s he done?”

  “That’s the thing,” Jagger said slowly. “Apparently nothing, or at least nothing they’ll admit to. You see, if he’s wanted for a crime, according to the latest treaty, the extradition would have to go through the Citadel in Penley. A quorum would have to view all the evidence and then decide whether or not they want to let them take him. It would take months.” He shrugged, lifted his mouth in a sour smirk. “On the other hand, if he were, say, their Chosen and he’d gone and run away from home…”

  Dallin’s legs almost went out from under him. “You’re joking.”

  “I wish I were.” Jagger ran a hand through his thinning hair, sighed. “In truth, I’m surprised they even told us as much. Shifty lot they are. Although I expect they’ve nothing to worry about—we’ve no way to verify any of it. No one lays eyes on this Chosen but for once a year, and then it’s from the Guild’s turrets—he could be anyone.” He growled. “This… honesty, cooperation, polite compliance, whatever it is—it isn’t like them. I don’t trust them, especially not after what happened downstairs. If he’s a criminal, why not just take the time to extradite him? And if he’s this Chosen, why tell us? Apparently, even their own people don’t know he’s missing.”

  “There’s… yes,” Dallin agreed slowly. “You’d think they’d just kidnap him and have done.” It wasn’t as though they hadn’t done it before. They were a little too good at the sneakier bits of ‘diplomacy.’

  Damn. Dallin had known there was trouble, hanging over Calder’s head like a black cloud, but this…

  “That’s more their method, yes, and I expect they might’ve done,” Jagger told him wearily. “Except when I sent Corliss out to Ramsford’s to collect him, he’d already hied off.”

  It just kept getting worse. Dallin shook his head. “Gone?”

  Another tired nod. “And word from our ambassador is that we are to use any means necessary to find the man and deliver him safely into Einín’s hands. Or Síofra’s hands, more like, seeing as how he’s gone and dug in at the Kymberly and looks to be staying until he’s got his Chosen back. I’m sorry you missed him. I would’ve liked to know if you saw something in him I couldn’t, because I can’t for the life of me figure out how one such as him managed a position as powerful as his. Eager, pompous little shit, him. All hot and bothered, beady little eyes agleam—I swear I thought he was going to mess his trousers, right up until Corliss got back to say Calder’d flown. Then he showed his colors, all imperious and officious.” He blew out a breath between clenched teeth. “Little shit. I don’t like it, but we’ve no choice. It seems the progress of the talks in Penley depends entirely upon our ability to bend over and smile, or so that axe-faced, thin-necked, squawky ambassador’s weasel would have me believe, and our man backs him.” Jagger’s head dropped back into his hands, the same pose as when Dallin had walked in. “Who’d’ve thought the peace of our little corner of the world would hinge on that skinny little catamite.”

  “I don’t think he was,” Dallin murmured absently, wondered why he’d said it and shut his mouth.

  Jagger didn’t call him on it, though, only looked up, shrugged. “Didn’t even wait for the purse he was owed, says Ramsford. Two weeks’ pay due him tomorrow, and from what we can figure, directly after he was released from here, he skulked back to the Kymberly’s stables, snapped up whatever was his, and took to his feet.” He waved a hand. “Lucky for us he didn’t steal one of the horses, so he’ll be on foot. Ramsford was very insistent that we record somewhere that he took nothing that wasn’t his and left without a two-week purse that was.”

  “Brilliant,” Dallin muttered. “An honest skiver. I suppose they want us to—” He stopped, closed his eyes and groaned. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” Jagger said. “Your case, your man. And keep this closer than close—no one’s to know who this man is but you and me. The extradition papers are on Elmar’s desk. As soon as you find him, he’s Putman’s property and your responsibility until you get him back here and hand him over to the Guild.” He gave Dallin a tired shrug and a rueful grimace. “You’d best get along before the trail runs cold.”

  Chapter Two

  Putnam had been a mistake. Almost as big a mistake as Old Bridge had been, and Old Bridge had nearly cost him… well. Old Bridge had nearly cost him everything.

  One day, he would learn to ignore his instincts, no matter the pull on his mind and sanity. They seemed to be a little too intent on his destruction, even more so than…

  Wil gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on the strap of his pack. No good could come of letting his mind wander there, so he didn’t; he slapped it in its cage and closed a lock on it. He hunched down into his thin, scraggy coat and walked on, mouth set in a hard, grim line and eyes to the ground. The chill had already worked its steady way into his bones, and exhaustion kept whispering treachery in the guise of reason—rest, close your eyes, only for a moment—but he locked that away, too. There weren’t nearly enough miles between him and Putnam yet.

  A lawman. Wil shook his head, snorted, soft and bitter, and rolled his eyes. A lawman, for pity’s sake. How… predictable that the Coimirceoir would choose a mask of righteousness and safety.

  If it’s so predictable, why were you so eager to stumble into the trap?

  He growled, clenched his teeth.

  Stumble. Ha! He’d all but run into it, blindly following his feet, giving himself over to the pull, as though his heart was whispering cryptic suicide to his mind, and he’d been too stupid or desperate—likely both—to notice his own betrayal.

  Perhaps he really did want to die.

  His eyes stung and he blinked.

  I don’t want to die. I don’t. I only want… I don’t even know, just not this.

  Hunger and weariness and fear—they welcomed him back like old friends. Two weeks this time, one of the longer stretches in memory, of a full belly instead of a gnawing pit of emptiness that sapped strength and will and even thought when it got bad enough. An actual bed, with blankets, not hard ground and fending off snakes and rodents for the best place to lie up for a night. People who actually spoke to him, and looked at him when they did it, with kindness and the closest he’d probably ever come to respect, and not with a predatory gleam in their eyes and murder behind them.

  One second of panic, one momentary loss of control, and all of it gone. Just… gone. A puff of smoke, water sluicing through his grasping fingers; damn it, he knew better. Perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt so much, if he hadn’t almost talked himself into believing it could last this time.

  An owl blatted a mocking cry, whizzed past his ear, its dinner still squeaking a helpless agony in its razor-talons. Wil jumped a little, brushed at his ear and shivered. He decided it probably wasn’t the good omen he would have once thought it.

  Pausing, he peered to all points around him then strained his ears and listened. He hadn’t been paying attention for who-knew-how-long, and anyone could’ve been creeping up behind him. His mind conjured blond hair and dark eyes, boring into his soul from behind the camouflage of a kind, handsome face.

  It is possible that I could help you, if you would but trust me.

  Ha.

  Ha bloody ha.

  Help. What a laugh. Anyway, what the bloody hell was the Gníomhaire doing in Putnam? Why wasn’t he in Lind where he belonged? Bastard. And the great oaf probably believed what he was saying, too. And would go on believing it, until… What?

  Wil stopped, frowned. How could he not know? How could he be what he was, born to a destiny as dark as his, and not know? Could it have been the same for Wil? If they hadn’t been forewarned, if his mother hadn’t known, if he’d never even seen the corrupt interior walls of the Guild—if, if, if—could he have grown to be a normal man, just as blissfully ignorant as the Guardian?


  And would he have been drawn to Brayden’s presence, spiraling slow and unknowing into his orbit, as though there was a fish hook tugging at his breastbone, dragging him along some invisible line, whether he wanted to go or not? If they met—by chance or by fate—neither knowing what they were, would Wil still somehow end up dead by Brayden’s hand?

  He shuddered.

  The scar on his wrist tingled and he scratched at it absently. Then again, death was perhaps the better alternative, in certain cases.

  Where did you get that scar?

  A small, sour laugh butted up against the infuriating blockage in his throat.

  Wouldn’t you like to know.

  He shivered again, glanced at the moon to gauge the time then started walking again. Two more hours until sunrise. Best he find somewhere to hole up before then. The thickness of the wood was diminishing and wood smoke was more frequent on the air now; he was closing in on a more populated area and the chances of running into some random traveler or hunter—or worse, a not-so-random traveler or hunter—were growing steadily higher. He’d have to chance a market or go begging at a farmstead soon, if he didn’t want to starve, but coming up on someone in the dark—or having someone come up on him—was too great a risk, and he didn’t dare travel by day.

  An inn, he decided. He’d gone through the fens that skirted the north of the city to get out of Putnam, and the rank, moldy stench still clung to his boots and trousers. He’d just about kill for a hot bath, but would settle for a stream or rain barrel to wash his clothes. And filling his water skin would be helpful, too—only a few mouthfuls sloshed about in its near-empty bladder and the scent of rain was notably absent from the night air. All good and well for sleeping but not for growing thirst. He’d only been able to snatch up a little when he’d fled, and he’d made it last for six days now, and that was pushing it, but it hadn’t been much and it wouldn’t last much longer. He wouldn’t last much longer. Trekking cross-country with only three sausages, a crumbled handful of cheese and two apples for fuel wasn’t enough for even a day, and his body was starting to feel the lack. Game was almost non-existent, and he didn’t have time to stop and hunt, at any rate. Anyway, he’d left his sling behind at Ramsford’s. Idiot. He deserved to starve to death for that one.