“It wouldn’t be my first choice,” Gwyn admitted.
“What? Changing the Steward’s plans or doing it alone?”
“Doing it alone.” She smiled at him, sweet with sarcasm as she folded her own arms in a mocking imitation. “Need I remind you that most of the Royal Marshals only organize and direct the local efforts? It’s why we seldom need to travel in numbers. We’re not soldiers in the usual sense.”
“Aye.” Amusement twisted his gristly features. “You just keep old reprobates in their places by cleaving our blades in two, hmm?”
She pursed her lips to hide a grin.
“So — all right,” the sergeant relented. “Here I am. Your local garrison. Sorry we’re a bit thin in the ranks at the moment, but then you weren’t expecting much help anyway. Organize away.”
Gwyn scowled at him without humor.
“I’m serious, Marshal. I may not be much to look at, but I may be of help yet. I do know this city like the knots in my boot laces. And I can raise a fair number of loyal sword carriers before dawn, if needs be.”
An idea began to take shape for her. Gwyn glanced across at the gambling grooms. “Do you know where the Dracoon’s tack is usually kept?”
“I do.” He straightened from his lackadaisical pose. “Most of it probably went with her when she rode out, though.”
“There aren’t any ceremonial pieces or such?”
He shook his head. “She seldom used them. Most pro’ble they’re sitting in the tailor’s bower, waiting on some fancy new stitching.”
Damn! She tried again. “Then the Palace?”
“Do I know it well? I was Mha’del’s Captain for nearly ten seasons, Marshal. I know the private chambers of the old Dracoon himself! And I know the serving staff; I can get you in nearly anywhere for any time — and unseen.”
“Do you know Llinolae’s suite?”
“Aye.” He looked puzzled and a thumb jabbed above them. “Top of this very tower, no less. Haven’t been there in seasons. She’s pretty reclusive by nature, even with the Swords.”
Gwyn gazed upwards in confusion. A Blue Sight in such a narrow tower of stone? Uhh! She shuddered. Kimarie or Bryana would have fled; Selena had once asserted that being left in a stone room was the equivalent of being buried alive for a Blue Sight. But she needed to remember that Llinolae wasn’t like any other Blue Sight she’d known.
Her fingers curled, the skin on her palm reminding her of the lifestone’s heat in her sword’s hilt. No — she had quite tangible proof that Llinolae was not like other Blue Sights.
◊ ◊ ◊
Once above in Llinolae’s chamber, however, her qualms still didn’t slacken. And try as she might, Gwyn couldn’t quite shake her unease. She couldn’t tell if her anxiety was the lingering aftereffects of being followed all day or if it grew from some new threat’s approach?
Or maybe — she thought with a wry bit of humor — M’Sormee had instilled her with a rock phobia!
Llinolae’s room was round with thick, grey walls of stones. The bedroom roughly encompassed the whole of the tower’s top, save for the platform and the stairs used to gain entrance. Even the encircling row of arched windows were only framed in honeywood, their shutters were made of thin slats of stone.
“Is there just the one way up?” Gwyn asked in a whisper.
“Aye.” Rutkins hovered by the door, peering cautiously down into the dark stairwell.
The furniture and shelves seemed ancient and Gwyn approved; those well worn, but oiled woods always carried strong impressions of past owners and life energies. Gwyn knew those amarin would have been an immense comfort to any Blue Sight, even to one housed here.
She frowned faintly at the stiffness beneath her boots. With a toe she pushed the dilapidated edges of the overlapping carpets aside. Dear Goddess! — even the floor was stone. Llinolae was a different one.
“What’re you searching for?” Rutkins pressed.
Gwyn pulled herself back to their task. “Something that would carry her scent well.”
“You work with an eitteh or a sandwolf?”
“I do — a pair of sandwolves.” Amused, Gwyn smiled. A certain degree of awe had crept into that gruff, old voice. “They’ve been combing the woods around Khirla since my arrival.”
Rutkins responded with a disappointed sigh, regretting he wouldn’t be meeting her packmates. Gwyn sympathized, it would have been a rare chance for him. Since she came to Khirlan, she’d neither seen nor heard of pairing between humans, sandwolves — or eitteh!
Rutkins suddenly flattened himself against the wall. Gwyn dropped to a crouch beside a chest.
The faint ‘crack’ in the stairwell below faded back to silence. They looked to one another, then the sergeant pulled a long knife from his belt. Its black glass gleamed wickedly even in this dim light; the blade must have been two handspans in length.
“I’ll see to it.”
She nodded, and he went to investigate.
Gwyn forced her attention back to the room. Clothing would be the best, she knew, but the linens and leathers hanging in the wardrobe were clean — too clean. Apparently, the Palace laundry took its duty very seriously. She pushed aside a ceremonial cape, but it caught something on the cabinet’s floor. Gwyn noticed the shoe rack and bent. With a triumphant pounce, she snatched up a pair of indoor slippers that had been dropped to the side. Soft and pliant, thickly padded and worn to restitching in places; these favored pieces were used so often that stacking them neatly in the rack was a waste of time.
They were perfect!
A whisper of sound drew her around sharply. Then blackness and silence welled up from the depths of the open doorway. Her packmates’ rule to mistrust all urged caution. Abruptly she darted across the room into the shadowy lines beside the entrance. Again, a hint of noise — a brush of cloth against cloth perhaps? Or a soft soled boot gently placed upon a stone step?
With the slippers tucked into her jerkin and with her sword drawn in measured quiet, Gwyn slipped out into the blackness. Of one thing she was certain, it was not Rutkins. The sergeant was clever enough not to risk her attack twice in one evening. But that knowledge only chilled her, because whoever hunted her now must have already dealt with him.
She descended slowly, eyes straining for shadows against shadows — ears clinging to wisps of nothing-sounds. Her breath grew shallow. Her step became so deliberate that the hard leather soles of her boots made no noise at all.
A movement without form surprised her — she swung. Metal clashed against metal. Her opponent faltered. Gwyn paused at a rattle, fearing something had been tossed on the stairs to threaten her footing. Again the strange sound came.
Then suddenly the air exploded in red fury. Her sword came up broadside, instinctively protecting her eyes as the fireball struck. Her blade resounded with the ear-deafening crack of a thunderbolt! But the lifestone in the hilt held the steel intact — the force reflected back to its source!
A scream pierced the bright smoke. Gwyn jumped forward, sword slashing through the fiery cloud as the man dropped his burning weapon. His gurgled half-cry went silent. Gwyn stumbled back to the far wall, her stomach churning at the bloodied, charred mess before her.
Not now! — she warned herself desperately. But her eyes stared, held by the disfigured, nearly inhuman remains. This was no time to be sick!
Mae n’Pour! She suddenly recognized that heap of molten steel which still sputtered and crackled with flame. It was another fire weapon! What was a Steward’s Sword doing with a Clan’s fire weapon in the Palace itself?
A groan from below pulled her up abruptly.
Rutkins! Blessings and small favors, was he still alive? She dashed down into the darkness to find out.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter Thirteen
“Brit!” The desperate whisper woke Sparrow instantly. She was armed with knives and pitching herself through the bench panel before her beloved was barely conscious.
She crawled
from beneath the driver’s seat over the foot boards and quickly rolled across the rough ground into the cloaking darkness of the neighboring wagon. She heard Brit’s faint mumble of “coming,” but the sleepy tone didn’t deceive her. Sparrow knew her shadowmate was playing for time and when Brit did open the door, it would be with the flint-tipped whip near at hand.
She peered at the huddled shapes of their waiting visitors. There were two of them, both tall. One was nearly carrying the other and that other was seriously in need of a healer’s attentions, if the slumped silhouette was anything to go by. A sliver of moons’ light crept free from the overcast, and the breath caught in her throat as she glimpsed the white stone ring on the hand supporting the wounded one.
“Niachero!” Sparrow hissed, rushing forward and sheathing her knives as she went. Gwyn started at her sudden appearance, before offering a weary smile of reassurance. Sparrow pushed close to take some of the man’s weight, and then Brit’s hands came to guide them into the sanctuary of the wagon.
“Sae!” Gwyn bid them quiet even inside, sending an anxious glance to Sparrow.
She nodded and slipped back out to check for followers. When Sparrow returned in a few moments, she found Brit tending a nasty knife wound in the man’s side. Pictures of past wounds crowded into her mind’s eye with all the disturbing details her visual memory never failed to provide. She snatched a quick breath and thanked the Goddess that at least it wasn’t Brit who was injured this time. She felt herself grow grim with calm resignation as she recognized the fellow’s scarred face — this was the City Guard’s sergeant. She noted the bruise on his forehead. It hosted an equally wicked looking cut, and she didn’t wonder that he had needed help to reach them.
“Nehna?” Gwyn asked quietly, coming to stand at Sparrow’s elbow.
“No one,” Sparrow murmured. The man made a strangled noise of pain, and Sparrow felt her stomach clench a little. She shook the tension from her body with a quick, purposeful shudder and turned to the Niachero. “You trust him?”
Gwyn nodded, a stern set to her darkly browned features. Then abruptly she announced, “I need to leave Khirla — tonight. I ‘saw’ Llinolae again. The Clan’s got her. Her patrol was betrayed by a Steward’s Sword while one of them back here tried to assassinate me.”
“I’m liking these blue cloaks less and less,” Brit grunted, her hands still busy with the antiseptic and bandages.
“Another did this to him and made a second attempt for me.”
Sparrow drew back half a step, startled by the silent snarl that suddenly curled across the Niachero’s lips.
“He was carrying a fire weapon.”
Brit only grunted again. Sparrow blinked, shaken.
“My wager is that the armory in the stable halls — the one so inaccessible to the regular guard? — is a stockpile of more.”
This time, Brit didn’t even bother to grunt. Nothing about this venture was going to surprise her shadowmate anymore, Sparrow realized. Somehow that made her own fears easier to deal with. She concentrated, then looked to Gwyn. “The single moon comes in five days. If I can get into the armory and if I do find there are more of the fire weapons, should I do something about it?”
“What if these folk are using those weapons against the Clan itself?” Brit prompted. “Ever think of that?”
“We haven’t yet,” Rutkins suddenly inserted. He swallowed a gasp as Brit turned her attentions to his head wound.
“Possession and use are forbidden by both Ramains’ Law and Council Request,” Gwyn rejoined flatly. “Even our Ring of dey Sorormin prohibits the use of such machines. There is no excuse for the Steward to differ. This district still answers to King and Crowned!”
Sparrow agreed with that completely. “So I’ll see if I can’t take something in to do a little damage.”
“I’ve got a dry acid compound,” Brit mused, almost in an absent-minded fashion as she clipped thread from the last stitch in Rutkins’ head. “Could create a few fireworks with those maybe?”
“Do it.” Gwyn turned and studied the sergeant for a very long moment as Sparrow watched in puzzlement. There was caution and indecision in that scrutiny, and then she understood as Gwyn asked gently, “Rutkins, can you keep your thinking clear for a bit yet?”
“Aye,” he swallowed thickly, sitting up a little straighter with help from Brit.
Sparrow spun, drawing a mug of water from the pitcher for him. Brit sent her a brief smile of gratitude and drew a blanket around the sergeant’s clammy shoulders. His hands shook as he tried a sip.
“Make it quick, Gwyn’l. He’s close to shock. I don’t know how long he’ll stay coherent.”
He probably wasn’t now, Sparrow fretted. Despite Brit’s ministrations, his skin was as black as stained mahogany and the bruises of exhaustion beneath his eyes were as purple as the bump around his stitches.
Gwyn apparently saw the same. She squatted down on the floor in front of him. “Can you tell me, has anyone taken notice of these two? Are they going to be endangered if I leave them in Khirla?”
“No.” He swayed as his words slurred, but he managed to refocus his gaze on her. “The blue coats haven’t shown any interest in any tinker-trades, an’ I’ll keep ’em safe. My youngsters’ll watch out for ’em… personal favor to me.”
If you stay around long enough to tell them, Sparrow thought anxiously.
“He’ll be all right,” Brit returned softly as Gwyn glanced at her with that same tacit question.
“Been worse,” Rutkins found a twisted, half-grin to reassure them all. “Can prob’ly put it down to festival brawling. No one’ll even notice.”
Gwyn nodded slowly, then pressed, “Do you know anything more than I do, about why they were after me?”
“No… sorry.”
“And Llinolae…?” Gwyn hesitated, clearly torn between revealing too much with her questioning and yet needing to ask. “Rutkins, can you tell me what she looks like? Is there anything — odd or striking about her?”
“Damn pretty for a mixed-blood.” He winced at his attempt at humor. “Sorry, didn’t mean that the way it sounded. She’s a good sort, from what I know. Only thing really stands out ’bout her is those blue eyes from her mother. Rest is mostly what’s usual in the half’n’halfs of hereabouts.”
“She’s got blue eyes?” Gwyn pressed urgently.
“Black hair’n’blue eyes. Pretty combination too. They tell me, it’s not uncommon in the Clan folk — blue eyes I mean. An’ her mother had ’em. Leastwise I never heard of Aggar-sort having eyes like that without the Sight. But she does.”
Sparrow met Brit’s solemn gaze over the top of Gwyn’s head. Then the Niachero rose, and the three of them mutely agreed to hold the secret. Llinolae had reasons in hiding her talents for all these tenmoons, and it was certainly not their place to challenge that now. Given the intrigues of this night, it was probably one of the few advantages the Dracoon possessed in this struggle of Khirlan.
Gwyn reached a hand to the sergeant, squeezing his good shoulder in thanks. “Let them take care of you, all right?”
“’Til they kick me out,” Rutkins agreed. He grimaced again and quickly aborted the nod as the pain in his head protested.
“Brit?” Gwyn glanced at her friend, remembering this man’s injuries might not have been so bad if he’d been carrying his own sword. “Do you still carry those Black Falls blades below the floorboards?”
“Aye,” the Amazon nodded warily. The pieces in question were reserves she always carried for Amazon Marshals in need. They were priceless because they were forged by the best smith house in the Ramains and because they were made from the ancient alloys of dey Sorormin’s home world as well as from Aggar’s own metals. They were lighter, stronger and finer swords than any others crafted outside of Valley Bay.
“The sergeant has need of a new blade.”
Brit weighed that for a moment, then she nodded. “He can have his choice. There’s one in particular that should
fit his reach well.”
“Thank you, Soroe.”
“Marshal—” Rutkins tried to protest through the hoarseness of his throat. But Gwyn silenced him with a gentle shake of her head. Their gaze met and held, then finally that scarred face winced in its half smile. Gwyn grinned right back at him.
“And where do you go now?” Brit reclaimed Gwyn’s attention softly. “To Churv? Or to find this Llinolae?”
“They’ll expect me to ride west for the capital, so I would prefer not to. And they can’t know that I’ve realized she’s not in Khirla or that she’s been caught.”
“You’ll go east then, after her?” Sparrow guessed, knowing the answer before Gwyn spoke.
“I must. From what Rutkins tells me, this Steward will be ambivalent in paying any ransom. Llinolae won’t last long in their hands, once they know there’ll be no profit from it.”
“East then,” Brit agreed. Her grey eyes squinted as she considered the possibilities. “All right, we’ll deal with the armory. Then as soon as it’s safe, we’ll follow you. There’s a half-burned village sou’east of here — Diblum. It’d be a good venture for traders, and it lies on the route we’d take for the southern continent. We can disappear from there more easily than here.”
“After that, how do we find you?” Sparrow pressed with sudden concern. “Gwyn, there’s a lot of forest to get lost in, once we’re off the road. And the Clan will be all over the place.”
“She’s right,” Rutkins interrupted. “They control most of the Great Forests to the north and east now. They might risk one wagon of tinker-trades passing, especially if you’ll do some fair tradin’ with their scouts and seem to be open enough about everything. But the North Road up to the Suiri is a long, well-watched route. Sure as the Fates’ Jest, they aren’t goin’ let a Marshal through there — or anybody with a Marshal.”
Gwyn smiled very faintly as she tipped her head and looked to Brit. “Shall n’Shea again hide us from the hunters, Soroe ?”
“The Shea Holes, you mean?”
Fires of Aggar Page 20