“It’ll get you the freedom of the camp, right? You could fetch your own food—”
“Keep our own quarters clean, go more or less where we’d like so long as we don’t try to escape, but how does that help us?”
Ker looked from one to the other. “My movements will be closely watched, so it’s up to you to prepare what we’ll need.”
Wynn had leaned back far enough in her chair that she was balancing it on its back legs, eyes focused on the middle distance. “I’ve a feeling the room-cleaning, food-fetching approach is the way to go.” She let her chair down with a thump and put her elbows on the table as she leaned in. “Without our own brazier, we can’t cook, so someone will have to carry our food in from the kitchens, and the dirty dishes and night jars out. I can easily see the guards letting us do that work ourselves.”
“Especially as it’s likely to be happening while I’m with the Shekayrin, and his attention is elsewhere.” Ker also leaned forward, made sure both of them were looking at her, and lowered her voice still further. “With access to the kitchens, you’ll be able to steal food, and likely find weapons as well.”
“Weapons?” Jerek said. “Who keeps weapons in the kitchen?”
“You’d be surprised,” Wynn said. “The odds are good that kitchen knives and cleavers have killed as many people as swords and axes.” The younger woman stuffed another large piece of lamb turnover into her mouth, chewing and swallowing before turning to Ker. “This might work, but what about you? What will you be doing?”
“Other than staying alive, you mean?” Ker shook her head at Wynn’s apology. “I’ll Flash whenever I can, whenever it’s safe to. If these buildings have any secret passages, I’ll find out, and if there are any doors routinely left unlocked, where the patrols go . . .”
Wynn was nodding, her eyes narrowed. “Jerek’s obviously harmless. We can ask if he can go out for supplies or—”
“No.” Ker startled even herself with the force in her voice. “We don’t want him to come back to us changed. We can’t trust Svann.” Any more than he can trust us.
Wynn’s face crinkled in horror, but Jerek only frowned. They’d described to him what had happened to Tel, not to frighten the boy, but because the only explanation for Tel’s absence was the true one.
“Does it hurt?” he asked now.
“It looked like it did while it was happening,” Ker said. “Afterward, Tel seemed to be all right.”
“Except he doesn’t love you anymore,” the boy said.
Ker blinked. “Jerek, Tel didn’t love me—”
“Of course, he loved you.” Wynn shrugged one shoulder. “What? Not our fault you never saw it.” She turned to Jerek. “You’re young to pick up on something like that.”
Jerek shrugged in turn.
Ker put down the spoonful of onion she was holding and pushed herself back from the table. “Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.”
“Ker, I’m so sorry, it never occurred to me you wouldn’t know.” Wynn got up and started around the table, stopping only when Ker put up her hand, palm out.
“It’s a shock, that’s all.” I should have known and I’m not going to think about it, not now. Not ever. “Nothing to be done about it, in any case. What we should do—”
Sounds at the door stopped her. Bolts were shot, and the door opened. It was Tel. Kerida’s heart began to thump, loud and fast. How could she not have seen it? That’s what was missing in his face. When she contrasted the indifferent glance he gave her now to the way he used to look at her, how could she not have seen what he’d felt?
“The Shekayrin wants you,” was all he said.
“Now?” A cold hand squeezed her heart. When he’d said “later” she’d thought she had more time. Ker thought about asking to finish her meal, then got to her feet. There was no way of knowing at this stage exactly what Peklin Svann considered “cooperation.” Testing boundaries had to be done carefully. Jerek had risen to his feet, and she patted him on the shoulder.
“It’ll be all right,” she said. “See you when I get back.” She glanced at Wynn and was reassured by the girl’s nod.
Tel waved her to get in front of him, but before she could ask how she was supposed to know where they were going she saw the thickset guard with the thin upper lip in the hall, waiting to lead the way.
“Did you go back for the pony?” she asked.
At least she’d startled a smile out of him. “As it happens, I did.”
“Good. Jerek will be happy when I tell him. Thank you.”
Ker expected to return to the room she’d already seen, but Tel and the thickset man led her up a flight of stairs and along the gallery toward the rear of the building. The fountain in the interior courtyard had been stopped for the winter, and dried leaves had accumulated in the basin. The thickset man stopped in front of the third door on the right, just before the gallery turned the corner, and knocked before opening it.
Ker hesitated on the threshold. After leaving space enough for the door to swing open, someone had layered carpets and rugs over the rest of the floor, several deep. Peklin Svann was just closing the shutters, and judging from the amount of glass in the windows, this must have been the magistrate’s own private quarters—unless those had been given to Dern Firoxi. Not one, but two braziers were glowing.
Svann turned from the window. He’d pulled his mail hood up over his head, and was wearing his black cloak. Along with his blue tunic, he wore loose trousers tucked into short boots, and cut in a riding style. What looked at first glance like spurs were in fact some kind of leather ornamentation, as if he didn’t ride anymore, but wanted people to think he did. Likewise the gloves he was pulling off were the right size and shape for riding gloves, but not made from heavy enough leather.
He’s cold. So Halia must be warmer than the Peninsula in winter. That wasn’t so strange; even within the Polity itself there were warmer places. But this particular region was considered temperate, not cold, even at this time of year. Not like the province of Bascat, on the other side of the Serpents Teeth, where grapes wouldn’t grow. Even Questin was farther north than Gaena.
But Svann hadn’t been at Questin Hall.
A fist between the shoulder blades shoved Ker into the room, where she almost tripped on the edge of the piled carpets.
“That will do. Thank you.” Svann stirred one of the braziers. From behind her came the sounds of the door closing and the rustle of cloth. Svann finally replaced the brazier’s slotted cover and turned toward her. Ker braced herself, but his eyes shifted immediately beyond her. He frowned.
“When I say ‘that will do,’” he said, “it means ‘you may go.’”
“Sir? Yes, sir.” Tel’s voice, but in no tone she’d ever heard before, not even when he was talking to the Faro. She wondered what she’d Flash from him now. Though she had some idea. She remembered the shifted personality she’d Flashed from the helm and ax of the man she’d killed. Or the body at the camp. It would be Tel, but a Tel whose aura was laid over by a network of red lines. Her teeth closed on her lower lip. Not the Tel she’d known.
Ker turned in time to catch the look of worry on the face of the other guard as he closed the door. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she spun around to face the Shekayrin. That couldn’t be why she was here—but this was a bedroom, not the office they’d been questioned in. As her fists clenched and her jaw tightened, she made herself look away from the bed.
Ker tried to take a slow breath. This was the time to plan, not panic. Whatever happened, whatever the Shekayrin did to her, her job was to live through it. To escape. Come back and kill him later if need be. But first keep her eye on the goal. How many times had she been given that advice during her military training? And at Questin, for that matter, though the goals had been so very different.
Something of what she felt must have shown on her
face. Svann stood looking at her with his head tilted to one side, his eyebrows drawn together. Then the puzzlement cleared from his expression, and he laughed.
“No, no,” he said, waving his hands in the air. “Nothing like that. Though, now that I think on it, it makes an excellent cover story should I need one.” He gestured at the round table between the two braziers. “I chose this room for its warmth, not because it has a bed in it. Still, very few know you for a witch, and if the rank and file think I am bedding you, I shall let them go on thinking so.” He looked at her more closely, and frowned. “I am serious, I have no interest in you sexually. Now if it was your little friend—Wynn, was that her name?” He got a faraway look in his eye.
“You want my cooperation,” Ker reminded him.
“I do. And even though I only promised to keep them alive, I will honor the spirit of the agreement, and not just the letter. I shall keep them safe and alive. So.” He pointed again to the chair. “Sit down.” He turned away, searching the top of the clothes press.
Ker forced her knees to unlock and made her way stiffly across the carpets to the table. The two chairs were identical, wooden, with carved arms and thick, embroidered seats. She sat squarely, placed both feet flat on the floor, and let her hands rest on her thighs.
Svann left the clothes press and approached her, carrying a small glass bottle in his hand. It was no more than the length of Ker’s index finger, delicately faceted like the jewel, and the same red color. Svann tipped the tapered mouth of the bottle to the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, tipping out a minute dab of red dust. It was the dust that gave the glass its color.
Svann sniffed the dust up off the back of his hand, and stood still, head tilted back and eyes closed. “I would prefer not to tie you to the chair,” he said, without opening his eyes, “but I will if I must.” He set the bottle down on his side of the table. He looked taller, now that she was sitting down, though nowhere near as tall as Tel.
“You won’t have to,” she said, and cleared her throat.
“Good.” He blinked, and picked up the remaining chair, moving it closer to her before he sat down. He was close enough to touch her, and Ker tensed again. He took no notice, but pulled the jewel out of a fold in his sash and set it on the table between them.
“First, tell me what it is you have concealed in the bosom of your tunic.”
Ker shot another look at the jewel, and Svann laughed, bringing his hands down lightly on his knees. “No, no. It’s not magic, I assure you. It’s only that I’ve seen you touch the place several times, even when your hands were bound.”
A buzzing had started in her ears. Ker swallowed, but the buzzing didn’t stop. She reached into the front of her shirt, drew out the griffin’s claw, and set it in Svann’s outstretched hand. It was like giving away a piece of herself.
“What is it?”
Ker opened her mouth to lie, but remembered in time that Tel knew what the claw was. She had to assume he would betray her.
“It’s a griffin’s claw,” she said. “I found it in the mines.” Not quite a lie.
“A griffin’s claw? In the mines?” He turned it over in his hands, watching how the light reflected from the claw’s surface. Finally, he set it down on the table, close to the jewel.
Ker tensed, waiting for the next question.
“Tell me about your training,” was what he said.
She let her breath out slowly. “I never completed it.”
He turned his left palm up, a small smile curving his lips. “Tell me what you can.”
Ker swallowed. It doesn’t matter what I tell him, she reasoned. Without the Talent itself, all the training and instruction in the world wouldn’t be useful.
“If I could know how much you know already,” she started again.
“Nothing. I know exactly nothing. The magic of the body is not a permitted study—though that may very well be because we have no one in whom to study it. You represent a unique opportunity, my dear Kerida. An unsealed witch! I expect to learn a great deal from you.”
Not a permitted study. Ker fastened on those words. He’d said that if the guards believed he was bedding her, it would make a good cover story. And he’d told Tel and Jak not to speak of her. Now that all made sense.
He’d only need a cover story if he was hiding something. Something that could get him into trouble if other Halians learned of it. Too bad she couldn’t see any way this knowledge could help her. He obviously didn’t expect her to be able to tell anyone. She took a deep breath. Staying alive long enough to escape depended on her keeping him interested.
“I’ll have to start at the beginning, then,” she said. “We call it the Talent. Inquisitors—very powerful Talents who have finished their training and have experience in this—start testing children at the age of ten, and go on testing them until they’re fifteen. After that, the Talent doesn’t develop.”
“The Inquisitor’s on his way.” Surm Barlot laid the stores list on the table in front of Juria Sweetwater and sat down.
Juria stared for a moment at the single sheet, and massaged her eyebrows with the tips of her scarred fingers. “Wonderful.”
“I thought you liked Luca Pa’narion?”
“I do like him—did I ever tell you he taught me to throw knives? I was six. My brother was mad with jealousy.”
“What is it, then?”
Juria leaned back in her chair. “I don’t like what he reminds me of. When my father asked me to keep this precious family secret, I was”—she shrugged—“sixteen? He thought I’d take over the farm.”
“But you chose a soldier’s life and left the cows and the cheese making to your brother.” Surm laid his hand on his heart, grinning. “For which I and thousands of others thank you.”
“And I wish I could have left the secret of my aunt among the Feelers to him as well. Who knew that oath would be such a burden—the Mother knows I never thought I’d become Faro of Bears. I look back now and wonder why I agreed.”
Surm rolled his eyes upward. “Are you serious? A dangerous secret? What young person would have said no to the chance of being part of such a weighty conspiracy?”
Juria looked at him sideways. “Does it give you a headache?”
“What?”
“Having all the answers.”
Surm laughed and rose to his feet, coming to stand behind her, and dug his thumbs into the muscle at the top of her shoulders.
Sighing, Juria let her head hang down. “Are there any new rumors?”
“Let’s see. The Luqs is still alive and has fled to Juristand, where she’s either gathering forces to come rescue us, or she’s drunk. The Faro of Lions is coming over from Ma’lakai to rescue us, or he’s behind all this because he wants to be Luqs himself, or—”
“Or he’s drunk. Nothing about the prince?”
“Not from the ranks. Not that I’ve heard.”
And he would have heard. That was what a good Laxtor did, and Surm was the best.
They both looked up at the murmur of voices in the anteroom, and Surm was seated with his list in front of him by the time the door swung open and Luca Pa’narion came in, closely followed by Cuarel the Feeler. The woman was never far from him, and Juria couldn’t blame her.
The Inquisitor sat down at the far end of the table, in the customary seat for Talents. Was he Flashing, Juria wondered, and decided she was too tired to be bothered if he was. She scrubbed her face with her hands and sat up straight.
“Any further news?” she asked.
Luca shook his head. “Nor are we likely to get any, at this point.”
Surm tilted his head to one side. “The odds aren’t good. They may not know what they have, but the boy’s a prisoner. Given the opportunity, free children grow older. Prisoners so often don’t.” His voice died away.
Y
ears of close association made it easy for Juria to know what Surm was thinking. They were as good as prisoners themselves, trapped in Oste Camp. It might be her Bears who grew no older. She realized she was rubbing at her left wrist and drew her hand away, picking up the cup of kaff long gone cold in front of her. The old injury only bothered her if snow was coming, and the thought of more snow was bringing on the mother of all headaches.
“In the meantime, our stores are running low,” Surm announced. “Everything,” he added before he could be asked. “Food, weapons—we’ve even had to put a stop to the signal fire, to conserve the fuel for cooking and warmth. We’re already on half rations of water, and we’ll have to cut that, unless it snows again. This fort was never intended to withstand a siege.”
At least there hadn’t been any night raids since Luca Pa’narion came. He could Flash where enemy soldiers were, targeting them for Juria’s archers. He hadn’t come soon enough to save the arm of Mekner Rost, the Camp Commander, lost in the final raid before the Talent’s arrival.
Juria raised her eyebrows at Luca when the duty officer tapped at the door. He was closest, and there were no aides or lower ranks in the room. “If you would?”
Before he could move, the woman Cuarel rose to her feet and opened the door, stepping aside to allow the officer entry. He had another soldier with him.
The Duty Officer correctly ignored everyone else in the room and addressed himself to the Faro. “I’ve got Nate Primo here, my Faro. Second Officer, Pearl Cohort of Eagles. You’ll recall—”
“He’s the one who came with the news of the open pass,” Juria said, nodding. “Of course. You have some other news for us now, Pearl Second?”
“I hope so, Faro.” Nate touched the crest on his left shoulder, and stood at attention on the right-hand side of the table, where empty chairs allowed him to both see and be seen. At a signal from Surm, he stood at parade rest, his thumbs hooked in the belt of his tunic.
“Speak, Pearl Second.”
“Thank you, Faro.” The man shot a glance at Luca. “I’ve only just learned that one of the Talents is of Inquisitor rank, Faro, and it occurred to me—that is . . .” The man hesitated, and a little color crept to his cheeks above his beard. “Faro, I gave my plaque to Kerida—the young Talent, I mean—so in case anything happened to me, she would know. Or she’d know that I made it here, if you follow me. Faro,” he added.
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