“I was missing Sim,” Rose said, adding bluebells to her bouquet.
Catling hardly knew what to say and knelt beside the girl. “She was special, wasn’t she? I imagine you miss her very much.”
“Sim wasn’t my mother, but she loved me like my mother,” Rose said.
“I remember her.” Catling smiled as Rose handed her the untamed bouquet. “She loved you just like a mother.” Rose scampered off to collect more blooms.
“My regrets,” Whitt whispered.
“No, Whitt, no regrets.” Catling smelled the flowers, inhaling her sadness with the faint scent of green. “I’m glad Sim loved her, that love surrounded her. It’s made Rose strong enough for all she’s endured. Love made her resilient.”
Whitt reached for her hand, a touch Catling craved, though it was the comfort of friendship he offered. The moments of untroubled elation peppering their lives sprang up like meadow flowers between the windblown stones, their season short-lived and soon coming to an end.
“Jagur received word back from Kadan,” she informed him, the reason she sought him in the sunshine. “He’ll travel to Ava-Grea. As doyen, he’ll call a conclave, secure new oaths, and mete out new instructions. Gannon will require the guild’s support in the tiers, and Kadan will ensure it.”
“What about their oath to the Cull Tarr?”
“They never swore one.” She shook her head. “Tull Airon made the same mistake as Lelaine. He demanded the guild’s oath to him, not to the Shiplord. Their vows ended with his death. In hindsight, the guild’s primary oath to Ellegeance made perfect sense.”
“Dangerously broad in scope.”
“I know; it’s an ancient argument.” She buried her nose in the flowers. “Guardian needs my shield there, Whitt, and I can’t fault the logic. The warriors can’t win Ava-Grea without the influencers on their side… or blocked.”
“Then, you’ll travel with me as your guard.”
A frown worried her forehead, and she faced him. “You can’t go. You have to keep Rose safe. I spoke with Jagur, and he said you still have your commission in the south. Take her there.”
His eyes narrowed, and he brandished his flayed arm. “I’m no longer a guardian. Jagur doesn’t decide where I go.”
She cupped his cheek in her palm. “I know, but Rose needs you and loves you. She gets to decide, doesn’t she? Guardian requires my shield, and I need to know you and Rose are safe. Give me something to live for.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Darkest Night.
Gannon debarked in Mur-Vallis after riding the South River north, and the Blackwater south. Someday Ellegeance needed to consider the merits of overland roads.
Six years had wheeled by since he’d last infiltrated the tier city, and it seemed a lifetime ago. He’d preached rebellion in the warrens, at the Ship’s Fate. On Algar’s orders, Kadan had hunted him down, but rather than arrest him or kill him, the influencer had ordered him to run. Not all of his crew had escaped misfortune. Dev and Kamas died that night.
This time he arrived with unconcealed power. This time he would stride up to the top tier to plan the realm’s future with Kadan, the high ward and his friend. How strangely the world had changed.
The city had transformed beyond his wildest imaginings, almost unrecognizable, the mid-Summertide market expanded with permanent booths in orderly rows. Small wooden dwellings and shops stretched like spokes on a wheel into what used to be pastureland. The green swards pushed into old forestland. Founder-made roofs topped the nearest buildings, a sight that perplexed him. How had Kadan managed whole roofs?
Ambling the market’s aisles, he nibbled on a steaming meat pie, browsed the goods, and marveled at the smiling faces that for years had borne the weight of despair. No one appeared troubled that the sky would be moonless. No one teetered on the tier’s lip, waiting to hang.
He stopped at an outdoor tavern for a mug of tipple. His teeth hit the rim when a giant hand whacked his back. Half of the brew sloshed to the dirt.
“Pecking nut-bashers,” Tiler bellowed. “The codwits must be sniffing sheep if you’re on the lam.”
His teeth still intact, Gannon wiped his mouth on a sleeve and offered an open seat. “Buy me a tipple.”
Tiler spun the chair around and straddled it. He sported less padding around the belly and his hair stuck up stiffer than a thistle. “Heard about the queen, Gan. Sad news that. I’m ready to give the assjackers a taste of the old plank.”
“I’m recruiting.” Gannon paid for the tipple and stared at his old friend. “You look like a man with a reason to live.”
“Got together with Caelly after our adventures in Tor.” Tiler emptied half his mug. “She’s making me respectable.
“None too soon.” Gannon remembered her, Dev’s woman. “This hardly looks like Mur-Vallis.”
“No hangings since Kadan-Mur is high ward.” Tiler pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Warrens is cleaned up, and folks are happy about that. Don’t have to tell you the underlords are ready to crap a horse.”
“My father?”
“Maddox is waiting on the Cull Tarr to straighten us out.” Tiler leaned forward. “Want me to start a rumor you’re here?”
“No.” Gannon waved that one away. “I don’t need to poke any bears. I’m here to see Kadan and then finish what we began in the warrens. If Caelly agrees, you’re welcome to come along.”
“Sodding dipwits, Gan. She’ll go too.”
“See who else is interested. We’ll gather tonight.” He finished his tipple. “I’m heading up to visit the high ward.”
The seventh tier, the tippity-top of Mur-Vallis, reminded him of how stumpy the city was in comparison to the lofty heights of Elan-Sia. The lack of a lift reminded him why he appreciated lifts.
Kadan met him in the potted garden with Baltan-Elan, the city guard’s captain, the man who had helped save Catling from Algar. Baltan bowed. “My respects, Gannon. I’m honored.”
“I, as well, Captain.” Gannon met the man’s eyes. “You were always a stickler for the law, a quality I admired even when my job was to break it.”
The captain chuckled, and Gannon left the banter there. Minessa joined them, a little boy clinging to her jacket, a second pregnancy rounding her belly. She kissed Gannon’s cheek and nudged the bashful child forward for a bow. “This is Brodie.” Gannon winked at the boy’s shy smile.
Formalities dispensed with, Kadan offered seats at a table decked with a tasteful repast and a carafe of lissom juice. “I’m prepared to depart on your word, Gannon. Baltan and Minessa will mind Mur-Vallis while I’m gone.”
“Then Mur-Vallis is in capable hands.” Gannon threaded his fingers together, the purpose of the conversation edging on inelegant. “Your responsibility is Ava-Grea and the Influencers’ Guild. Mine is raising the warrens in defense of Ellegeance. The support of the warrens comes at a cost, though. They’ve heard promises before.”
Kadan filled goblets. “I’m not at all surprised. Did you find Tiler?”
“He found me.” Gannon blew out a breath. “I have no delicate way to ask this, but I need to know if you’re prepared to let the people of Mur-Vallis elect their leaders. You’ve read the Protocols; you know I’m not speaking of gods and shiplords, the whimsy of the day, or disgruntled voters who wish to change decisions by the hour. You’ve been an exemplary leader, Kadan, and the most promising of our time, but that doesn't make you the people’s preference.”
Kadan shared a brief glance with Minessa and sighed. “We’ve done wonders here, Gannon, and change requires time. Prosperity spreads as slow as honey. The guilds are coming around as they realize addressing poverty isn’t only positive for the poor but beneficial to them. I’d hate to lose what we’ve gained to impatience or short-sighted vision.”
“It’s not about power,” Minessa said. “Kar-Aminia has always been dedicated to equality and opportunity, but even there, my father leads with a vigilant eye and cautious hand. Seemingly inconsequential choices can have
atrocious outcomes, as you know.”
“You’re preaching to the Founders,” Gannon said. “A handful of pebbles set off the current landslide. If I had my druthers, I’d leave you and Barrick-Kar where you are and sleep soundly knowing nearly a quarter of Ellegeance’s cities are in capable hands. But exceptions will undermine the integrity of the whole, just as your willingness and commitment will set the standard.”
Baltan looked between them. “Can we defeat the Cull Tarr without the warrens?”
“Doubtful,” Kadan replied. “And we can’t risk it. Guardian is ill-equipped to defend us from the sea. The logistics of location and transportation leave us vulnerable. The tier guards would encounter the same challenges. Gannon’s right.” Minessa reached for his hand, mirroring the regret in his eyes.
Gannon dragged a hand over his face. “I imagine this feels unmerited, Kadan, but I require your oath that you’re willing to have leaders elected right up to the top of the Mur-Vallis tiers. Because if you can’t swear it, I’m turning around and heading south.”
“My oath?” Kadan sat back stiffly in his chair, a quirky twist to his lips. “You realize I’m a full-fledged member of the Oathbreakers’ Guild.” Minessa pressed her lips together, an unsuccessful attempt to censure, and Gannon lacked a coherent response. Kadan chuckled, and his shoulders relaxed. “I give you my oath, Gannon. Now, let’s win this war.”
***
The trip north provided Kadan greater insight into the people who would define his future. They had abhorred his uncle Algar and recognized him as Algar’s influencer who stood on the tier’s lip as the poor dropped to their deaths. During their days on the turbulent Blackwater, he’d healed some old wounds and built a measure of trust.
“You know what I think?” Gannon asked as they idled at the bow. The ferry broke from the rugged rapids of the Blackwater into the tamer waters of the massive Slipsilver. The transition permitted a taste of hot greenleaf without jostling cups and scalded hands.
“I expect you’ll tell me.” Kadan eyed him and sipped his tea.
“Based on what I observed here and in in the Mur-Vallis market, the warrens will support you. You have more than promises to offer, Kadan; you have results.” Gannon lowered his voice, “And remember, the people of the warrens almost outnumber those in the tiers. The ordinary men and women will decide the vote.”
Kadan mulled over the curious fact, and by the time the ferry reached the swamp’s placid mirror, he knew what he intended to do.
He parted ways with Gannon and his cohorts on the circular docks of Ava-Grea, his destination. With no intention of lingering in the Cull Tarr city, they hopped aboard different vessels when the sun sank into the swamp. Gannon and Tiler left for the West Canal toward Bes-Strea. Caelly and two strapping ex-enforcers with some meat between their ears would ride the East Canal to Lim-Mistral.
So soon after Darkest Night, only blue Misanda had recovered her full beauty. A waxing pink crescent, Sogul hooked the tallest of the caliph trees, and stars speckled an indigo sky. The swamp glowed, and the Summertide heat wafted into his nose with the rank, rich odor of decay.
Influence oozed from his pores. Catling’s demonstration on The Sea God had confirmed that not all Cull Tarr could lay claim to purity. It was an oversight Tilkon no doubt corrected among those in her inner circle, but Ava-Grea bristled with jacks and common Cull Tarr.
He saw no harm in swaying the tier guards either, and if a few influencers fell under the spell of his enhanced authority, it wouldn’t hurt. His role as oathbreaker no longer troubled him. This was war.
He beckoned to the porters bearing his trunk and a pair of satchels. On the lower levels, maneuvering past the guarded barriers proved uncomplicated. He exited the lift onto the twelfth tier and waited under guard while a man jogged off to rouse Neven-Kar.
His wait lasted moments. Neven strode toward him from the doyen’s meeting hall with Brenna on his heels. “Kadan-Mur, our respects. We are indeed delighted that you’ve returned.” Relief beamed from both their faces.
Kadan dipped his chin. “I’ve come to fulfill my commitment as doyen. If I may, I would prefer Dalcoran’s quarters to Vianne’s.”
“It’s the only one available,” Brenna-Dar whispered. “The Cull Tarr tier master occupies Vianne’s chambers. Apparently, the Founders concluded that three doyen are sufficient.”
Neven glanced over his shoulder. “If you aren’t too fatigued from your travels, please join us for a modest supper.”
“It would be most appreciated.” Kadan led his porters to Dalcoran’s vacated rooms. He’d forgotten that the Cull Tarr tier master would be a constant presence in his daily life. He’d met the woman on his last, brief visit to Ava-Grea. Dalon Naut was tall, reed thin and narrow-faced with long straight hair. She fit the description of an egret minus the grace.
Unlike Vianne’s preference for Ellegean art and aesthetic beauty, Dalcoran’s home contained simple furnishings, comfortable but unadorned. A half-completed puzzle filled a table in the salon as if the man had intended to piece it together upon his return. Kadan stared at it without seeing it, the complexity of his relationship with the doyen a puzzle of its own. Dalcoran had filled the role of mentor and protector. As well as torturer, the man who used him to spy on Catling, the man Kadan had felt compelled to defy. In the end, Dalcoran had made a choice and paid for it with his life.
Kadan left his belongings behind, ordered new linens at the servants’ quarters, and joined the other doyen.
Herbed bread, flakes of smoked eel, and soft cheese filled a platter. He poured himself a cup of greenleaf and released the tension breathing down his neck. “May I ask how the guild is adjusting to the deaths of the doyen and the Shiplord? Vianne and Dalcoran were potent forces in our guild and to lose both at once must raise concerns.”
“Questions abound,” Neven replied, his voice a whisper. “There’s speculation that the Cull Tarr killed both of them but not before they killed the Shiplord.”
Brenna reached for the bread. “We heard he wasn’t immune to influence, but that seems unlikely, doesn’t it? Most of our initiates are in a panic. Their oaths to Tull Airon are no longer valid, and all other oaths were rescinded.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Neven pressed on his temple. “Influencers exercise such great potential for control, and yet, struggle without oaths and masters.”
Kadan pondered their words and forced himself to nibble, fatigue weighing heavier on him than hunger. Rumor and speculation muddled the truth about how all those deaths had occurred. It was possible the Cull Tarr wished to conceal the fact that one Ellegean woman possessed the power to obliterate them straight up through their highest ranks. The doyen also hadn’t mentioned his involvement. Was that because the Cull Tarr didn’t suspect him? Or perhaps the information hadn’t traveled as far as Ava-Grea.
“The Cull Tarr desire their own influencers,” Brenna informed him, her anxiety bubbling over. She’d been a rigid woman during his years as an aspirant, sturdy, exacting, and in some respects devoid of sentiment. To see her fidgeting on the verge of panic troubled him. She rubbed her face, dragging down her cheeks. “I don’t mean that they want Ellegean influencers. They expect us to train their people.”
Kadan blinked at her. “But that’s impossible.”
“We haven’t revealed the complication,” Neven lowered his voice further. “They don't know that the poisons and poisoners are gone. The Cull Tarr would kill every remaining influencer and their children and have nothing to fear.”
“They could do that now,” Kadan said, the realization squirming through his gut.
“But they don’t know we can’t make more,” Neven assured him. “No one knows but the three of us.”
“And Catling.” Kadan glanced up from the eel on his plate, his appetite altogether lost. “We give the Cull Tarr what they desire with the caveat that influence reacts uniquely within each individual and some may not acquire sufficient skills beyond the subtlest sway—if
at all. We begin training them in the principles of emotional control, and when it’s time, we needle them.”
“But…” Brenna shook her head.
“We use discreet Artisan Guild needlers,” Kadan said. “The same ones who ink gold coins on bankers, crosses on merchants, and daggers on guardians. Our enthusiasm may placate our tier master for a short time. We also call a conclave to swear new oaths.”
“Dalon Naut will require oaths to the new Shiplord.” Brenna looked sick.
“And she’ll get them,” Kadan said, “but Emer Tilkon will be third on the list.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sleek carvirs, flat-bottomed ferries, and a fleet of slighter dories crowded the West Canal, all heading east away from Bes-Strea, loaded with fleeing guild families. Those living in the warrens lacked any choice but to endure the mayhem and brutality closing around them. The Ellegean hierarchy offered scraps in the way of justice, and if Gannon could help it, that inequity would end.
The last time he’d wandered through Bes-Strea, he’d been an idealistic warrens rat with a thorn in his scales. Those were the days before Lelaine, before the Tiers Rebellion, when he haunted taverns, baited tier guards, and preached to dreamers. During the uprising, he and Tiler had coerced the high wards in Lim-Mistral and Rho-Dania and missed all the wretchedness in the west. He doubted it was worse than the havoc he witnessed now.
White smog and the sticky scent of smoke filled his nostrils before the city materialized from behind the forests fringing the canal. Tiler scratched his nose and woke from a head-bobbing nap. “Holy sodding shitlard, Gan.” He joined Gannon at the carvir’s rail.
Blackened wastelands puffed like underground chimneys where fertile flats had flourished and pastures once rolled into verdant grasslands. Bes-Strea rose twelve tiers high, a twin of Ava-Grea except for the bodies suspended from the tiers like laundry hung to dry.
The rambling warrens market bordering the Fargrove lay abandoned: tables and booths overturned, litter and spoiled food left to rot, shards of glass glittering like ice in the shimmer of a white sun. A disorienting sight at mid-Summertide.
Kari's Reckoning (The Rose Shield Book 4) Page 17