Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4)

by D. Wallace Peach

  “That was you?” Vianne whispered.

  Whitt glanced between them, the reference eluding him.

  “I was a little girl on a farm,” Catling glanced down at her hand around the ambassador’s wrist. “The world should have let me be.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The ferry cast off after Misanda dipped behind the trees. Clio and Sogul still burnished the sable sky, and the horizon had yet to pearl with dawn. Too tangled up to sleep, Catling idled on the deck, watching waterdragons roll in the current ahead of the bow. Migrating blackfins swam upstream in schools of hundreds, their sleek forms mottling the surface with luminous rings as they hunted the night’s waterflies.

  After Vianne stitched Linc’s jaw, Whitt locked him in a cabin. He returned to sit on the vessel’s transom and leaned back with his arms crossed and eyes closed, legs stretched in front of him. Catling would have assumed he slept except for his tiny reactions to the conversation.

  Vianne’s composure had returned though frayed around the edges. The pallid tone of her skin lingered. She didn’t acknowledge Kadan’s glares but stole glances at Whitt, his dramatic scars surely frightening to one who found herself the object of his anger.

  Kadan’s glare appeared no less threatening. Whitt and Linc had freed him with little trouble once Linc convinced the Cull Tarr sentries of his sincerity. They’d all stolen down the pylon as the tiers slept.

  “I sent word to Guardian.” Kadan glanced at Whitt and continued despite the lack of response. “I didn’t know how to reach you and didn’t know Jagur and Gannon hadn’t made it back. My deepest regrets that I failed.”

  “Where are Jagur and Gannon?” Catling asked.

  Vianne flinched as she did in response to every question directed her way. “The slave markets. It was the only way I could save their lives.”

  “I wonder if Jagur will approve of your reasoning,” Whitt said, his eyes still closed.

  “We’ll attempt to rescue them as well.” Catling sighed, weariness catching up with her. “Linc can purchase them and save his slavemasters’ lives. Or we can kill them.”

  “The time of influencing is coming to an end,” Vianne said.

  “Not a day too soon,” Whitt mumbled.

  Vianne exhaled a hint of irritation. “Markim-Ava and his assistants are dead, the pools drained, and his equipment gone. Unless we recreate his methods, we are the last.”

  “Someone will learn the trade,” Kadan said.

  “I don’t believe so.” Vianne flicked a speck of dirt from her jacket. “It’s complicated. The luminescence wasn’t merely distilled; it was separated by color, by its inherent power. No one but Markim and his needlers knew the secrets, and it’s all gone; they’re all dead.”

  Catling’s fingertips brushed the rose surrounding her eye, and she envisioned the garden on her back, the red bird in flight between her shoulders. Markim had always been kind to her. “Why would he choose to destroy his work, to end his life?”

  Vianne gazed down at her hands. “Because the Cull Tarr forced him to… forced him to needle a rose…”

  Catling’s lips parted as she recoiled. “No, oh no, Vianne.” The horror punched her in the chest. Her head tipped back, and she fought for breath as if the night had swallowed all the air. Trembling with fury and despair, she reached for the doyen’s hand.

  Vianne faced her, regal, ready for the deadly assault. Kadan struck Catling with a potent blast of love as Whitt leapt in front of her, locking her in an embrace. Her breath juddered as she stifled her influence, scarcely able to stand erect. The ferry’s captain frowned from the wheelhouse door.

  Catling pushed away from Whitt and spat her words at Vianne, “How could they? To a child!”

  “She didn’t feel it,” Vianne whispered. “She didn’t feel it, Catling. She slept.”

  “You taught us that influence negates the woad’s power,” Kadan said.

  “I didn’t influence her. Markim put her to sleep.”

  “You were there?” Catling cried. “You didn’t try to stop it?”

  “I hadn’t a choice, Catling. They would have found someone else.”

  Whitt sat again on the transom, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “I’ve heard enough of how no one has a choice.”

  ***

  From a distance, Catling thought Elan-Sia looked unchanged, but as the ferry neared, the extension of the city at water level proved that a lie. In a single season, new floating markets complete with wooden structures had reared up where the old planking used to stretch across the water. New piers extended farther into the flowing delta. More carvirs, the flat-bottomed boats of the canals, patrolled the waterways around the city. Sun-browned dockmasters directed the increased traffic.

  Cull Tarr vessels—skudders, dragnets, and a large galleass—crowded the river’s deeper waters. A huge three-masted ship with tall square-rigged sails and a wide belly idled at the end of the longest pier, a lengthy gangplank serving as a bridge. Catling slipped the leather patch over her eye and read the name emblazoned in gold across the stern, “The Sea God.”

  Whitt stared at the hulk. “Home of the Shiplord is my guess.”

  The scent of salt and seaweed wafted up Catling’s nose, and a briny breeze ruffled her hair, the warmth of the north peeling them of their sleeves and scarves. Whitt’s fearsome scars had softened to pink streaks, but once they’d debarked, she doubted anyone would look twice.

  The floating lower city, or whatever they called it, swarmed with people leaving their mark on Ellegeance: Cull Tarr preachers and merchants, builders and tradesmen, seafarers and scarlet-sashed slavers. They overpowered the Ellegeans who sidled warily among them, identifiable by their timidity. Between stalls of common fare, Cull Tarr vendors sold pure pickled fruits and bloodless meat, transparent underdresses, colorful corals, and scarlet kerchiefs.

  Kadan walked beside Linc. Catling and Vianne followed on their heels. The doyen’s cream jacket had floated to sea, replaced by caramel brown with flecks of scarlet in the underdress. Her unraveled hair fell down her back, kinked from the small curls and braids. Whitt strode in the rear, fully armed, and suited to his role as hired guard. “Find out where the slaves are stowed,” Catling whispered behind Linc’s shoulder. “And where Rose is held.”

  They climbed the ramps to the first tier and continued up to the second where the market offered goods of a higher quality and cost. The tier of the Hospitality Guild housed taverns and hostelries. The large Windhover Inn faced the market, a scarlet banner draped from the second-floor window over its door. A Cull Tarr preacher with long swirling hair and a billowing scarlet skirt shouted her praise for the Founders’ beneficence. The gold spangling her bare ankles and dangling from her belt jingled with every step. Other preachers collected coins from listeners, Cull Tarr and Ellegeans alike.

  “A fane,” Whitt said behind her, “for worship of the Founders. I saw one in Tor.”

  Linc steered them away from groups of mingling jacks and guards to the market’s plaza. Wooden cages and a raised platform backed up to the shadows of the above tier.

  Two cages held huddled men and women and a boy of no more than ten. All of them possessed the gaunt features and thin wrists of the poor, a cast of faces she’d seen many times as a child. She glanced back at Whitt. “They’re emptying the warrens.”

  Linc bowed to a portly man with a short whip. “Founders bless you, Slaver. Where do you house the unsold slaves?”

  The slaver pursed his thick lips and took stock of Linc’s stitches and attire. “Founders bless you as well. May I ask who you are and what’s your interest? I may have the perfect someone you require right here.”

  “Ambassador Falco Linc, Ava-Grea. I appreciate the offer but prefer to view the selection myself. This lot is too frail for my demands.”

  The slaver bowed and paused to peruse the ambassador’s unusual company. “You appear to have been seriously injured and hastily stitched, Ambassador.”

  “We met with thieve
s on our journey,” he replied. “I shall assume you ask out of genuine concern and would rather sell slaves than pry into my business.”

  The man chuckled. “You’d be right in your assumption. Second tier, inner city.”

  As they walked away, Catling touched the back of Linc’s jacket, a reminder of her presence. “Next time, ask about Rose.”

  “He was suspicious.” Linc spoke over his shoulder, “And he wouldn’t know.”

  “The man lied,” Vianne whispered. “They’re on the third tier.”

  The ambassador sighed, and Catling wondered at its meaning. Was he disappointed by the slaver’s lie or disappointed that the lie was revealed? “Who, Ambassador, would know about Rose?”

  “The preachers may.” He gestured to a man collecting coins outside the fane.

  “Inside,” Catling instructed.

  Linc hesitated as if he would argue and then veered toward the Windhover’s door. No sooner had they stepped into the wide front room than three scarlet-clad preachers blocked their way. The man in the middle, his hair gathered into a scrimshawed clip, dipped his square chin and stared at Linc’s wound. “Founders bless you, Ambassador. May we be of service?”

  “And Founders bless you,” Linc replied. He pivoted to present Vianne. “Influencers come to pay homage to the true gods.”

  Vianne bowed. “Our respects.”

  “Ah.” The preacher’s appraisal wormed between them, settling on Catling’s face and the patch hiding her eye. Every nerve in her skin fired a warning. His eyes slid to Whitt. “Your party seems to have suffered grave wounds.”

  “Too many to mention,” Whitt replied.

  Catling’s gaze wandered the room. The Windhover’s tables and chairs had vanished, replaced by polished altars and benches carved of burled blackwood. Glass bowls of seawater held strange creatures with suckers and tentacles, spiny fins and bulbous eyes.

  In the room’s center, a statue of the Coupling Gods reached almost to the ceiling, arms and legs tangled in a sensual and improbable embrace. Each extended a hand toward the door. An iron-banded sea chest balanced between them. The lid gaped, its interior half filled with copper and silver coins, jewelry, and the rare glimmer of gold. Preachers counted offerings and added them to the treasure or knelt at the altars, murmuring prayers. “I’m surprised the Shiplord doesn’t keep his wealth close,” she said. “Isn’t he fearful of theft?”

  “No one steals from the Shiplord.” The preacher shifted his assessment to the chest.

  “You are very trusting of Ellegeans.” Catling shared a smile with Vianne. “I suppose you deliver the offerings of the blessed to The Sea God at the end of each day.”

  “Indeed,” the preacher inspected the patch over her eye.

  “We seek the location of a young influencer,” Vianne said. “To offer advice and training.”

  “Is that so?” It was the preacher’s turn to smile. “Half of you come dressed in riverfolk rags, hardly prepared for an audience, and I question if there isn’t something you are trying to hide.”

  “I speak for the sincerity of our effort,” Linc said and gestured to his jaw. Our difficulties on the river are not your concern.”

  “Then I offer my apologies.” The preacher bowed. “The girl you seek is on the twentieth tier in the Shiplord’s royal quarters. I am certain our king will be impressed with your offer.”

  Linc bowed. “May the Founders bless you.” He exited into the sunlight, followed by Vianne and Kadan.

  Catling caught Whitt’s sleeve at the door. “Keep everyone out.”

  “Why?” Whitt frowned at her.

  “Because he lied to us.”

  Tull Airon would never live confined to a tier. He resided on The Sea God with his gold. Perhaps he kept Rose secured on the top tier, but Catling suspected he’d keep her close, in control of the bait. He’d want to witness the trap snapping closed.

  Whitt nodded and ducked out. Catling faced the preacher. “She’s on the ship, isn’t she?”

  “Beyond your reach.” His smile scarcely hid his gloat. He thought she couldn’t touch him, couldn’t kill him, couldn’t punish them all. She peeled off the patch and covered her unmarked eye. A whole spectrum of emotion splashed into the air, and she didn’t look long for fear she’d soften to the genuine love and devotion that glowed in the corners of the room. She shielded herself and wiped it all away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Kadan.”

  Kadan hadn’t noticed Catling’s absence until he heard her voice. She beckoned from the fane’s door. “Bring Vianne.” The patch for her eye dangled from her fingers, the exquisite rose unveiled for all to see.

  “Your eye,” he whispered as Vianne joined him.

  “I need your mercy skills.” Catling slipped the patch over her eye and called past him to Whitt. “Watch the door a few more moments. Let no one in.”

  The ambassador cocked his head and headed toward them until Whitt blocked his path.

  Catling retreated into the fane, and Vianne entered. She froze in the doorway, forcing Kadan to push her forward. He blew out a slow breath. The twelve Cull Tarr preachers who’d knelt in prayer, counted coins, engaged in conversation, or crossed the broad room with somewhere to go had ceased all activity. Some wandered, directionless, lost in an impenetrable fog. A few stood like wooden men, but most sat or knelt on the floor, mouths gaping, eyes staring into an invisible half-space.

  A woman in preacher’s scarlet wandered by, and Catling caught her wrist. “Help me heal her. All three of us together.” Kadan’s mouth worked on a question, and Catling shook her head. “No questions. We don’t have time.”

  With a shudder, Vianne reached for the woman’s face and cupped her cheek below a vacant eye. Kadan grasped a limp hand, probed the preacher’s veins, and found nothing amiss. He redirected his influence straight up her spine to her brain.

  The average influencer’s mercy skills were remarkable at healing most injuries and ailments. Specialists dealt with serious trauma and disease, surgeries and poisons, and despite their talents, they too, frequently faced failure. Even miracles like Nessa admitted limits, unable to completely cure Dalcoran’s degenerative condition, heal entrenched illnesses, or replace lost blood.

  The brain’s complexity surpassed all other biological systems and entailed a lifetime’s study. Even then, the most adept mercys only understood a portion of its functions. Part of the challenge arose from the intense interconnectedness of its structures, none of them solely responsible for any specific emotional state. He closed his eyes, explored the deep core of the woman’ brain, the primitive interior where emotions brewed and communicated, accessed memory, and initiated action.

  Whatever Catling had done, she’d severed all ability for self-preservation. Feelings of fear, anxiety, and alertness for danger were gone, replaced by tame indifference. He rummaged through the memory center and found nothing amiss except the woman’s memories had lost their emotional links. Evocative sensory inputs of sight and sound and smell would elicit no feeling response at all.

  He sensed Vianne probing the essential areas that regulated emotional reactivity, controlling desire, pleasure, aggression, and anger, the motivations that drove life, that compelled a person to rise at dawn, to work and play and pursue dreams. He glanced at her, and she shook her head.

  The pathways moderating mood, those that flooded the body with sensations of love and the perception of sensuality lay dead. Catling had sliced through everything that made the woman human, and the threads were lost to him. He sensed how the brain’s mosaic was supposed to puzzle together but couldn’t fathom the repairs.

  The woman’s wrist swung from his hand. Vianne stepped back. Catling stared at them, disappointment welling in her eyes, her lip trembling. “I needed to know.”

  Whitt cracked the door and frowned at the strange spectacle. “Time to go.” Catling and Vianne exited onto a tier teeming with emotion, the definition of life. Kadan took one last glance at the livi
ng dead and shut the door.

  ***

  Vianne stood in an alley across from the old barracks. Overhead luminescence failed to assuage the gloom at the tier’s core. Accustomed to dumping their waste in the sea, the Cull Tarr were unfamiliar with the workings of a tier city. Litter collected in corners, and the neglected maintenance of luminescent lanterns left sections of the city in a permanent twilight.

  “Linc and I will go in.” Kadan tugged on the sleeves of his jacket in an attempt to look less rumpled. “If he’s there, I suspect we’ll have to buy him.”

  “I’m going with you,” Vianne said. “I’m an influencer. The slavers know me.”

  “And the Shiplord sent someone to kill you,” Whitt pointed out.

  Linc stiffened, his nostrils flaring. “I would have known of such an order and wouldn’t have interfered. Your assailant acted alone.”

  The confession that the ambassador would have let her die bristled the hair on the back of her neck, but it served her immediate desire. They would have to truss her up and sit on her to prevent her from partaking in Jagur’s rescue. “As I said, I’m going with you.”

  “Take these.” Catling dug in her pockets and emptied two fistfuls of gold coins into Kadan’s cupped hands.

  The ambassador balked. “You stole from the fane?”

  “Don’t lecture me about theft,” Catling replied.

  Vianne crossed to the barracks with Kadan and Linc, leaving the others in the alley’s shadows. The door opened to a common room that resembled a tavern with its hodgepodge of chairs and tables, likely confiscated from what was now the fane. Vianne wrinkled her nose at the underlying stink of spilled tipple, sweat, and urine. Cull Tarr seafarers-turned-jailors gambled for clipped coppers in a game with stone markers.

  “I’m here to make a purchase,” Kadan said.

  “Auctions are in the market,” a jack replied without a glance up.

  “I didn’t like what I saw there. My ferry leaves for the north before the next bell. The slaver told me to come here.”