by Lian Tanner
Path of Beasts
Lian Tanner
City of Keepers - Book 3
Contents
Cover
Title
Contents
Cast of Characters
Prologue
The captive city
A parcel of rubbish
Princess Frisa
Mortal enemies
A fine warrior
Reunion and parting
A fine contraption
First strike
The promise
First and only line of defense
Second strike
The fortune
A few carefully placed rumors
Third strike
The Fugleman makes an offer
Ominous days
Bloodred sails
Old Lady Skint
Betrayal
The trap
Double
Great Wooden save us!
Plague ship
Bold Auntie Praise
Bombardment
Native and stranger
A timeless place . . .
The Beast Road
Salvation
The final battle
Salvation is a double-edged sword
Discover how it all began
Acknowledgements
About the author
Cast of Characters
(some quite charming and some quite chilling)
These are the words of an old Furuuna song:
“Who can walk the Beast Road?”
“There must be three. Two mortal enemies with one between them who is both friend and enemy, native and stranger.”
“Where does the Beast Road go?”
“To a timeless place from which no one has ever returned.”
“What does the Beast Road hold?”
“Terror for those who hurry. Death for those who linger. But for Furuuna it holds salvation.”
Before Goldie Roth, the last person to walk the Beast Road was Herro Dan’s father, accompanied by two of his brothers. The three men were not mortal enemies—far from it—but their country was being overrun by the invaders from Merne and they were desperate.
Dan, who was six years old at the time, was to remember their departure for the rest of his life.
None of them ever returned.
—from The Museum of Dunt: A Hidden History
The captive city
It was nighttime when the three children entered the city of Jewel. Ragged and filthy, they clung to the shadows, their feet making no sound on the cobbled paths.
They had been gone for weeks, torn away from home without the chance to say goodbye, and they were bursting with impatience to see their parents. But they carried secrets with them—secrets that would get them killed if they were caught by the wrong people. And so they stopped and listened at every corner.
They saw no one, but the hair on the backs of their necks 1
prickled and their faces were pale with tension. This was not the city they had left behind. Fear hung over the streets, as thick as fog. The light of the watergas lamps seemed to tremble as it spilled across the deserted footpaths. The houses, with their locked doors and tightly drawn curtains, held their breath.
The children crept deeper and deeper into the city, until at last they came to the Bridge of Beasts, where it crossed the Grand Canal. They paused there, watching for any sign of movement. Then they slipped across the bridge one by one.
They were close to their homes now, and eager to press on. But the last few weeks had taught them the value of caution, and they paused again.
It was just as well they did. Somewhere nearby a boot struck the cobblestones. Immediately, Goldie gave a hand signal and all three children pressed into the shadows at the end of the bridge. Toadspit wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword that he carried at his side. His younger sister, Bonnie, gripped her longbow. But Goldie shook her head fiercely at them, and they did not move again.
The five men who came swaggering up the middle of the boulevard were clearly soldiers, although their uniforms and haversacks seemed to be made up of bits and pieces from a dozen different armies. They carried rifles slung across their chests, and their eyes and teeth gleamed in the gaslight. They looked as if they owned the city and everything in it.
Goldie had been expecting something like this, but still it was a shock to see such men on the streets of Jewel. She found her hand straying toward the sword on Toadspit’s hip. Her breath quickened. . . .
No! She jerked her hand back. The wolf-sark, the battle madness that she carried so unwillingly inside her, lay just below the surface. If she drew that sword she would be lost. She had almost killed someone last time the wolf-sark took hold of her. She would not risk it happening again.
She swallowed her anger and prayed that the soldiers would pass quickly.
But the soldiers seemed to have no intention of passing. One of them, a tall man with red side-whiskers that curled almost to his chin, leaned his rifle against the canal fence and took biscuits and a water canteen from his haversack. His companions copied him.
Toadspit touched Goldie’s hand, tapping out a question in the quick, subtle movements of fingertalk. Go or stay?
Goldie chewed her lip. She and Toadspit could easily slip away without being seen. If they really wanted to, they could probably steal the biscuits out of the soldiers’ hands and leave them wondering where their supper had gone. But Bonnie had not had the same training and might well be spotted.
Stay, Goldie signed.
The men lounged against the fence, throwing biscuits at each other and guffawing at the tops of their voices, as if they wanted everyone in the surrounding houses to hear them and tremble. They reminded Goldie of the soldiers she and Toadspit had encountered deep inside the Museum of Dunt, behind the Dirty Gate. Those soldiers were the remnants of an ancient war that only survived within the museum. They carried pikes and swords and old-fashioned muskets, and spoke in the accents of Old Merne.
But these men were modern, and their scrappy uniforms suggested that they were mercenaries, whose loyalty could be bought and sold. Goldie wondered what they had done with the city’s militia. And where was the Grand Protector? The Protector would never have allowed mercenaries on the streets of Jewel—
Goldie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a street-rig clattering over cobblestones. The mercenaries hastily shoveled food and drinks back into their haversacks and grabbed their rifles.
“What sort of idiot drives around after curfew?” growled the red-haired man. “Anyone’d think they want to be stuck in the House of Repentance!”
“They’re coming this way,” said one of his companions, and he strutted out into the middle of the road.
Spoked wheels rattled toward him. An engine roared, and headlights pierced the shadows that surrounded the children. Goldie dared not look at her friends, but she could feel Bonnie as tense as a wire beside her, and Toadspit, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to run. If the mercenaries turned around now . . .
But the men were strung across the boulevard, blocking the path of the approaching street-rig. For a moment, Goldie thought it wasn’t going to stop. It rumbled toward the soldiers at a steady pace, bathing them in light. Its horn blared twice. An angry voice shouted something incoherent. The mercenaries raised their rifles and took careful aim at the cabin behind the lights.
With a squeal of brakes, the street-rig skidded to a halt. The engine died. The shout came again, but this time Goldie heard it clearly.
“How dare you? How dare you? Remove yourselves from our path immediately!”
The mercenaries didn’t budge. “Out of the rig,” said the red-haired man in a bored tone. “Come on, mak
e it quick.”
There was a mutter of voices and, to Goldie’s relief, the headlights snapped off. By the time her eyes had adjusted, two people were stepping down from the street-rig—two people wearing the heavy black robes and black boxy hats of the Blessed Guardians.
A shiver of loathing ran through Goldie. It was more than six months since the Blessed Guardians had been banished from the city. The Grand Protector had put them on trial first, for treason and cruelty. Then she had thrown every single one of them out of Jewel, with a warning never to return.
But here they were, back again.
Goldie touched Toadspit’s hand. Leave now, while they’re busy, she signed.
Toadspit nodded, and murmured in his sister’s ear. But before they could move, the two Guardians swept past the mercenaries and marched straight toward the end of the bridge.
“Hey!” shouted the red-haired man, striding after them with his side-whiskers bristling. “Where do you think you’re going? There’s supposed to be no one on the streets at night. That’s our orders.”
The Blessed Guardians stopped, not five paces from where the children crouched. One of them, a man with pale skin and protruding eyes, raised his eyebrows. “The curfew doesn’t apply to us, you fool!” he said, in a high, grating voice. “Go and carry out your orders somewhere else.”
He turned to his companion, as if the mercenaries had already gone, and waved his hand at the canal. “This place will do as well as anywhere. It is tidal here, and the levees are open. The—ah—rubbish will be swept out to sea before morning.”
“But what if it is not?” said the second Guardian, a woman, in worried tones. “If someone sees it, it could cause trouble.”
Goldie’s heart pounded against her ribs, and her fingers crept to the bluebird brooch that was pinned inside her collar. The Guardians had only to turn their heads, and she and her friends would be discovered.
“If someone sees it,” said the pale man, “we will simply convince them that they did not see it.” He laughed. “And if they persist in their error, well then, I believe there are still plenty of empty cells in the House of Repentance.”
Behind him, the mercenaries muttered to each other. The red-haired man clearly resented being called a fool and, when the Guardians turned to walk back to their street-rig, he blocked their path.
“The way I understand it,” he said, “no one on the streets means no one on the streets. Nothing in our orders about making an exception for people in funny hats.”
His friends sniggered. The pale man sighed, and spoke slowly, as if he were dealing with very small children. “Listen carefully. I am Guardian Kindness, and this”—he nodded to the woman at his side—“is Guardian Meek. We are here on the Fugleman’s business. Remember the Fugleman?” His voice was sarcastic. “He is our leader. He is also the Lord High Protector of this city. Which means that, while you are in his employ, he is your leader as well.”
Goldie felt Bonnie’s cold hand slip into hers and knew that they were all wondering the same thing: if the Fugleman, the worst traitor in the history of Jewel, was truly in charge, and calling himself Protector, what had happened to the real Protector?
“It would not be wise,” continued Guardian Kindness, “to hinder us. In fact, you would do better to help. We have a certain parcel that we need to dispose of. Please get it out of the rig and bring it here.”
The red-haired man snorted. “You want us to do your work for you? I don’t think so!” He began to walk away. The other mercenaries followed.
“You will bring it here, if you know what’s good for you. We are the servants of the Seven Gods, and they will not be kind to those who oppose us.”
Something in Guardian Kindness’s high voice made Goldie’s skin crawl. She flicked her fingers to ward off the attentions of the Seven Gods. So did the red-haired man. But he kept walking.
The youngest of the mercenaries, however, hesitated. “What sort of parcel?”
“It is just some rubbish that we wish to dispose of,” said Guardian Meek quickly. “It won’t take a minute to throw it in the canal. A strong fellow like you—”
“Leave it!” snapped the red-haired man, over his shoulder. “It’s their business, not ours. We’re not taking orders from them!”
“It is apparent,” said Guardian Kindness, “that you do not understand your proper place—”
He was interrupted by the very ordinary sound of a man clearing his throat. It had an immediate effect. The Blessed Guardians snapped to attention. A chill ran up Goldie’s spine. She heard the hiss of Toadspit’s indrawn breath and felt Bonnie’s nails dig into her hand.
The door of the street-rig swung open. An elegant boot appeared, followed by an immaculate trouser leg. A cloak, blacker than the blackest of nights, fell around that leg in perfect folds. A sword glittered in the lamplight.
It was the Fugleman.
A parcel of rubbish
The Fugleman, leader of the Blessed Guardians and spokesman for the Seven Gods, was as handsome as an eagle and as clever as a fox. He had a voice that could persuade all but the most honorable of men to follow him. He had a smile that could charm the moon out of the sky.
But beneath the charm, his heart was as black as his cloak. At the sight of her old enemy, anger rose up inside Goldie like a blast furnace. A bitter taste filled her mouth, and deep in the cellars of her mind, the voice of a long-dead warrior princess whispered, Kill him now, where he stands.
Once again, Goldie’s hand strayed toward the sword.
No! She shuddered and pulled it back. There would be no killing, not if she could help it.
The Fugleman gestured toward the street-rig. “The parcel of rubbish,” he murmured. “Into the canal, please, gentlemen.”
This time the red-haired man did as he was told. Goldie saw him pause briefly at the open door of the rig, as if he was surprised at what he saw there. Then he beckoned to the youngest of his companions. “Grab the other end.”
The younger man showed even more surprise, but he covered it up quickly, and scrambled into the rig to grab hold of a long, heavy parcel that was wrapped in burlap. Between them, the two men dragged it out the door and carried it to the gate in the canal fence.
The Guardians watched in silence. The Fugleman took a silver toothpick from his breast pocket and began to clean his teeth. Bonnie’s nails bit so hard into Goldie’s hand that Goldie thought they would draw blood.
The younger mercenary opened the canal gate, then stopped. Goldie thought she heard a sound come from the parcel. A groan? A half-strangled breath?
The mercenary looked as if he was going to say something, but the redhead scowled at him and muttered, “Heave ho.”
With a mighty swing, the two men threw the parcel into the canal. There was a splash and a gurgle. The taste in Goldie’s mouth was so sour that she could hardly swallow.
The mercenaries wiped their hands on their trouser legs, their faces expressionless. The two Blessed Guardians hung back politely while the Fugleman climbed into the street-rig; then they followed him, slamming the doors behind them. The engine hiccupped. The spoked wheels turned. The rig rumbled back the way it had come.
The youngest mercenary cleared his throat. “That parcel,” he began. “I think—”
“No, you don’t,” growled the redhead. “You don’t think anything at all. You just follow orders like the rest of us. Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
And the five of them marched away without a backward glance.
As soon as they had gone, the children slipped out of the shadows. “Did you see?” whispered Bonnie. “It was—”
She put her hand over her mouth, her eyes huge. Toadspit nodded grimly. Goldie unlatched the canal gate and they ran down the stone steps.
The lamplight barely carried this far. Goldie scanned the surface of the water, but all she could make out was a ripple of movement, as if the tide was just past the turn. The stones around her stank of salt and slime and gutted fi
sh.
“There!” said Toadspit. “Under the bridge!”
A narrow towpath ran along the canal just above the hightide mark. The children edged down it—and there was the parcel with one end sticking up out of the water, snagged on a projecting iron bolt. The current lapped against it, trying to drag it past the bridge and the open levees, out into the bay. “We’ll have to float it back to the steps,” whispered Bonnie. “No,” said Goldie. “It’s safer here. If the mercenaries come back, or the Guardians, the bridge will hide us.”
As she spoke, she unhooked the burlap from the iron bolt. “Grab hold,” she whispered. “It’s heavy.”
It took them several tries to haul the parcel out of the canal onto the wet stone. It flopped awkwardly, and their hands were clumsy with the cold. Goldie could hear Bonnie’s teeth chattering.
At last the parcel lay at their feet. The burlap was bound with rope, and the knots were tight. As Toadspit unfolded his knife and began to slice through them, Goldie wished that she could walk away, just go home to Ma and Pa and not have to see what the Fugleman had been so keen to get rid of in the middle of the night.
But the voice in the back of her mind whispered, A warrior does not walk away.
With the rope gone, Toadspit slit the burlap at one end and pulled it back. Goldie heard the sharp hiss of her own breath—
—a whimper from Bonnie—
—Toadspit’s groan.
The body that lay on the narrow path, bloodstained and limp, was that of the Grand Protector.
Princess Frisia
For a moment all three children were so shocked they could not move. Goldie had to make herself breathe. She remembered the sound that she had heard—that she had thought she heard. She put her hand on the Protector’s throat and felt a feeble pulse.
“She’s alive,” she whispered. “Just.”
Toadspit leaped to his feet, his face as pale as candle wax in the darkness. “I’ll go and get Sinew.” He dropped his sword belt to the ground and was gone almost before he finished speaking.