Fleeing Peace

by Sherwood Smith

  Rel lifted a hand in agreement, then finished straightening the plain black uniform. He laid aside his sword Daelender with a careful hand, remembering the day Yustnesveas had given it to him. He smiled inwardly at his own awkwardness; his mumbled thanks—said in Mearsiean—had been taken for a new name for the heirloom blade, and so ever after he wandered about with a weapon called “thanks.”

  What it might symbolize he didn’t trouble himself to parse. This is what he knew: that day, awkward as it was—he feeling stupid at the Sartoran love of ritual, and Yustnesveas in her rumpled, dusty gown, her voice quavering with nerves as she struggled to emulate some inner image of her famed Landis ancestors—was one of his most treasured memories.

  “Watch Daelender for me?” he asked Hinder.

  The boy’s pale skin flushed, but Rel pretended not to see.

  “I will,” Hinder promised, and Rel knew if fire and disaster suddenly visited the ancient tunnels, Hinder would stay with his charge.

  Rel hefted the plain-hafted Norsundrian blade also left over, like the uniform, from the freedom skirmish. Who’d secreted these things and why? Probably someone against just such an occasion, he decided as he buckled the sword belt on. Sartorans did seem to be packrats. At least Yustnesveas’s ancestors certainly were, for the palace was crammed with rooms of stuff dating back many centuries. He and Yustnesveas had investigated some of it, during his visit last spring.

  Last, he slipped a dagger into his boot, and into his pocket a lock-picking device that he’d mastered early in his travels.

  “Done.” He looked down at the little black cat sitting near the archway. He turned to Hinder, whose thin shoulders and tense fingers betrayed his anxiety. “Keeping me out of trouble is her job. Any sign, and I’ll retreat. I know how important it is to protect this tunnel from discovery.”

  Hinder’s chin lifted. “We’ll be waiting.”

  Yustnesveas stood at the tunnel entrance. As soon as Rel appeared, she held out her hand.

  In surprise he lifted his own hand, and she laid on his palm a plain ring set with a milky-white gem. He looked at it closely, detecting faint carving at the sides, where it was least worn. It was a lady’s ring, and quite old.

  “Another of the many ancient Landis heirlooms,” Yustnesveas said, striving for lightness. “I am so glad my family was never much for throwing anything away. It ought to work there, for it was made by dark magic.”

  He suspected an interesting story (Sartoran history was a long, tangled skein of interesting stories) but he could ask about that later.

  Instead he held up his hand and waggled his fingers. “Lady’s ring. I’m afraid it won’t fit.”

  “It will,” she said. “That’s one of its virtues. But the primary virtue is light. Strong light. Here are the commands you’ll need,” and she repeated them.

  He committed the magic words to memory, slid the ring onto his finger and watched it blur, making his flesh tingle, as it expanded to fit. He bent to pick up Rina, and was ready to go.

  He looked at Yustnesveas, who stood in the archway of this new tunnel, her arms crossed tightly. “Can I have that story when I get back?”

  She nodded, smiling a little, but her gaze was troubled.

  Rel followed two morvende men down the tunnel to the actual portal. The two carried small glowglobes that emitted just enough of the white light of sorcery to enable them to see their way along the tunnel.

  Unlike the old ones, it was rough, with a low ceiling, the flooring uneven. The shadows on rocky contours shifted at each step the guides made. Rel stepped with care, Rina tucked safely in the crook of his elbow. Before long he felt the fur lifting along her back, and the cold breezes drifting down through cleverly disguised vents smelled faintly stale—of dust and smoke and long dried vegetation.

  They had to be under the Base, or nearly; Rel was used to geliaths by now. He’d discovered since his first experience in Sartor that morvende had their own forms of communication. Sincethen, when he was near geliaths—and aiding those whose causes morvende favored—unexpected escape routes would be opened to him, accesses that he was careful to remember, and to guard against discovery.

  The two morvende were so quiet that Rel could hear the click of their talons on the stone, for they seemed to prefer going barefooted. Rel kept silence also, thinking of those vents and stray noises. Instead he mentally reviewed the few facts that Yustnesveas had had to offer him about his rescuee.

  He’d noticed Rina listening as well, her great cat eyes flicking between each speaker. He hoped Linet was correct about how much of human converse the cat followed. If anything at all went amiss, this mission called not for action but for a rapid retreat.

  Rel never thought in terms of reputation, or bravery, or any of the stuff of legends. In his own mind he was just Raneseh’s ward, son of someone who had for some reason had fostered him out, and his adventures were just that: adventures. When he won, it was fun, and when he lost he did his best to retreat, and to learn how to do better.

  He was considering contingency plans when the morvende stopped, and made signs for a steep climb and a sharp turn at the top. Then they extinguished their glowglobes, becoming pale wraiths in the nearly total dark.

  Rel set Rina down, and felt his way upward.

  The opening was narrow, cleverly concealed in the deep crevasse between great slabs of stone. Rel squeezed out, careful not to rip the Norsundrian uniform, then looked cautiously about. In the starlit night landscape the entire immediate area seemed to be made up of broken rock. He’d never make it back on his own. He looked down at the cat, who was no more than a shadow.

  She flicked her tail up and trotted confidently toward a black shape forming a martial silhouette against the horizon: the fortress. Faint points of baleful orange glowed, like inimical eyes, along the top of the fortress: some stationary, some moving, probably borne by sentries. Above Rel the faint starlight cast just enough glow for him to make out the shapes and shadows of the rock around him, but he had to place his feet carefully, for the ground was uneven in the inky shadows.

  Rina hopped from rock to rock, pausing sometimes to sniff the air, then she continued on at a quick pace. Rel had to scramble to follow. He was glad of the black clothing. He couldn’t see any outer perimeter sentries, but he assumed there were some. At least they were unlikely to see him, and he was careful to make sure he wasn’t heard.

  They were close to the fortress when the cat stopped and put her paws against Rel’s shin.

  All right, that was clear: he was to wait. Linet had said that the cat would probably scout ahead on her own.

  And who’d notice a black cat at night?

  Rel sat down in the lee of a sheared stone, and composed himself to wait.

  Impossible to guess how long he waited, but eventually a silent shadow emerged from the darkness and hopped across his leg, tail brushing his chin.

  It was time to move.

  He rose, following, glad that the boots the Loi had given him were a lot more pliable than they looked. For this kind of work he preferred mocs, but Norsundrians didn’t wear mocs—or at least not in their stronghold, apparently.

  The rough ground abruptly gave way, and Rel took care to keep his tread soundless as they approached a narrow archway.

  Rel stepped in. The cold, lightless air smelled of stone and old smoke. He put out his hands and felt passages heading off in either direction. The cat waited patiently until Rel found her by feeling about. He stayed crouched over, his fingertips touching her tail, while she paced in a third direction, one he hadn’t detected.

  She flicked his fingers once, and he took it as a sign to hurry.

  Straightening up eased his back. He put his hands out and strode forward, heart drumming.

  Five, six breaths later he saw a red flicker on the edge of his vision, after which came the tromp of boots: a patrol.

  Rina and Rel rounded a corner, and froze against the rough, dry stone wall as torchlight beat ruddily, high
lighting the roughness of the stone.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp.

  The footsteps did not falter, but passed by down the adjacent corridor and faded into the distance, along with the light, leaving Rel and Rina again in darkness.

  Rina pressed against Rel’s ankle. Once again he bent into a back-aching crouch as he followed the little cat.

  It seemed a year later when they halted before a door with a reddish line glowing beneath. Rel opened the door onto a torch-lit stone hallway, shutting the door quietly against the rhythmic tramp of an approaching patrol. After that was another long walk, with three stops to hide up corridors until patrols had passed.

  They reached the prison wing. A single guard paced before an iron door. Rel had to time his entrance.

  Three—four—trips back and forth, and Rel had the man’s routine counted out. As soon as the guard passed the fifth time he crossed the hall in quick strides, eased open the door—which did not squeak—and stepped in. He shut the door two steps before the guard turned to march back.

  Now the iron doors had grills in them. The prison wing was enormous. As Rina ran from door to door, sniffing at each, Rel wondered who had done the labor to build this enormous prison. Norsunder probably had forced prisoners to construct their own cells.

  Rina stopped at last. She looked up expectantly.

  Rel unpocketed the lock-picking tool, inserted it, and the door swung wide. The torchlight in the hall sent in a thin slice of firelight. All he made out was a kid-sized form sitting on the bare stone floor.

  “Cassandra Muria?” he murmured.

  “You’re off one,” a kid said, and laughed.

  The attempt at a laugh was empty bravado, and so young-sounding that Rel found it pathetic.

  “Want to get out?” he asked—knowing that Rina had not made a mistake.

  Rel heard a shaky breath, then, “Be happy to.” As if he’d expected Rel to shut the door again and go on. “But they’ve got me in a bind,” the kid added, his voice husky with the effort it took to flatten emotion.

  Rel ignored the pun and cursed under his breath at this obvious example of pointless cruelty. Did they really think a half-sized kid could break free of this place? But he did not waste time on questions. Instead, he drew his knife, cut the ropes, then hauled the kid to his feet.

  Rina promptly trotted out of the cell, tail high, and paused at the next cell.

  Rel unlocked it. “Cassandra?”

  “Who else could it be?” came a sullen whine.

  “Another unhappy kid,” Rel said.

  “What is it this time?” The whine had gone fearful.

  “Someone else try to break you out of here?”

  Cassandra gasped.

  “Come on,” he said, gripping her skinny arm. She let him take her weight. Thus burdened, he followed Rina back up the hallway to the iron door.

  This time he paused just long enough for the guard to step past, then he slipped out and clubbed the man behind the ear with the hilt of his dagger. He caught the guard under the armpits, dragged him back inside, and dropped him in a passage.

  He straightened up, wishing he hadn’t been so quick to cut apart the boy’s ropes. Well, no help for it. He couldn’t bring himself to kill an unconscious man; he, the cat, and the kids would have to clear out before the guard woke up.

  His two charges waited where he’d left them, the girl hunched down in a small ball, her eyes listlessly watching the torch. The other, a round-faced boy with filthy blond hair hanging in his eyes, watched Rel deal with the guard, his expression (as much as one could read past the distortion of torchlight, dirt, and bruises) wary.

  “Let’s go,” Rel said, once again gripping their arms.

  “Ow,” the girl whined fretfully. “That hurts.”

  “I can walk,” the boy muttered.

  “Shut up, both of you.”

  They did.

  The trio made it all the way to the outer door before the alarm rose. They’d just started away from the fortress into the rocky field when a sentry shouted on the wall.

  Rel didn’t understand the words, nor did he care. He dropped the kids’ arms, said Yustnesveas’s magic words and aimed the ring toward the sentries on the tower, and closed his eyes.

  A blinding white light, more glaring even than lightning, flared so brightly he could see the tiny veins in his eyelids. From the wall came shouts, curses, and commands.

  He said the word to end the light. “Come on,” he whispered. “We’ve got to get away from this position before they get their sight back.”

  He took their arms and started out as fast as they could move. He hoped that the broken stone made organized mount-and-search drills a low priority. That did not mean the Norsundrians wouldn’t field sizable foot teams fairly quickly.

  Still, Rina made a more roundabout journey back, keeping them under cover of great stone shards. The weaker but steady glare of magic searchlights moved in slow, inexorable sweeps over the area. Each time Rel and the kids ducked behind stones and froze, waiting until the lights passed on. It was important that they not be seen again, so that Yustnesveas’ light would be associated with magic transfer if they managed to reach the tunnel.

  Cassandra whimpered softly, her body a dead weight. The boy’s breathing was harsh with pain, but he stubbornly tried to bear his own weight, so finally Rel dropped his arm and picked up Cassandra.

  Shortly thereafter, Rel felt five fingers gripping his arm for support, and he said nothing, just altered his grip on Cassandra so the kid could hang on. Whoever he was, he had mettle.

  Somewhere in the middle distance, the shouts and clatter of search parties indicated a major effort was being expended—and they were rapidly covering the area in widening circles.

  Tension tightened Rel’s neck. They pursuit was nearing fast.

  Then Rina stopped. The tunnel opened. A quick, hard last struggle, and they were in, a sheared stone set directly behind them, almost on their heels. Glowglobes lit, revealing the tense faces of the waiting morvende.

  “You’re safe,” Rel said to the boy, who sank down like a folded chair, his head on his arms, hiding his face.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rel set Cassandra down and helped the morvende thoroughly block the entrance from outside access. When the last big stone was in place, Rel picked Cassandra up again, and made the long journey back down the tunnel to where Yustnesveas and her company waited.

  “Cassandra!” Jenel cried.

  Cassandra gave a long sigh as Rel put her on her feet.

  Jenel held out a shiny silver pin, as the others looked on.

  “Here’s your magic pin back. Now you can use it against Detlev,” Jenel said.

  Cassandra took it weakly, felt for a sash to put it in, realized her grubby dress had no sash, then handed it back. “You keep it for now,” she whispered.

  Jenel’s eyes gleamed with tears. “You have to rest.”

  “I need to see the sun again.” Cassandra’s voice was no longer a whine, just weary. “Then I can rest.”

  “The sun will be rising very soon. Let’s go to where you can see it,” Linet said with brisk cheer.

  She did the transfer magic.

  As soon as they appeared in Yustnesveas’s pretty little parlor, Rina trotted through the door and vanished.

  When the transfer vertigo was gone, Yustnesveas spoke. “Jenel, why don’t you take Cassandra to the room next to yours? It faces east. She can watch the dawn from the comfort of a nice bed.”

  Yustnesveas’ kind voice roused Jenel from her fog of worry and relief. She clutched Cassandra’s thin hand and led her out the door, her brimming eyes expressive with gratitude.

  As soon as the two girls were gone, Yustnesveas turned to Senrid. “We have plenty of space. Would you like to rest?”

  Senrid shrugged. It took all his strength and concentration to stay on his feet, so he didn’t notice Linet watching him carefully. “There a room near them?” he asked, a thumb indicating the depa
rted girls.

  “There is indeed,” Yustnesveas said.

  Senrid made it out the door in time to see Jenel and Cassandra pass into a room far down the hall. He followed, choosing a room directly across from theirs.

  The room was clean and pleasantly decorated, but he scarcely gave it a glance. Instead, he leaned tiredly against the wall directly next to the open door, listening to the murmur of the girls’ voices beyond.

  “I thank you, Jenel,” Cassandra said. “For returning the hatpin, though it’s no joy for me to see it again. It is a weapon, and it warns of dangers that I’d rather avoid. I had time to think, in that horrible place. I don’t want adventure. I haven’t the ability to do anything but sing and dance. I have to find a way to give back the hatpin . . . Oh, I am so tired! Tell me what happened to you?”

  Jenel’s voice was a low mutter. Senrid’s mind hazed into a kind of slumber, until his knees buckled. He swayed, then jerked upright, shock jolting him awake.

  The room was full of light. When had that happened?

  He cast a longing glance at the bed. No. If this Yustnesveas Landis of Sartor discovered she was harboring an evil Marloven, she’d probably have her tame morvende hustle him right back down the tunnel and push him outside again for his “allies” to find.

  Norsundrians weren’t his allies. They were his uncle’s allies. But he wouldn’t beg or plead, trying to convince any self-righteous lighters of that.

  Senrid pushed away from the wall, and slipped out.

  Cassandra’s door was not locked. He slipped in. A brief glance at the quilt-mound in the bed: Cassandra was already deeply asleep, and the other girl was gone.

  On the nightstand lay a long silver pin. He remembered that pin; he’d seen it once before. While he was a prisoner he’d heard the Norsundrians complaining about the hatpin that turned into a sword, one that burned like deep-winter ice when it cut anyone under Norsunder’s magic.