"Your disapproval is not the same as ignorance. You admit they could be responsible?"
"No! I reject the entire premise." Kug shook his head and sighed. "I will tell you what I might imagine, were I to put myself behind Lama's eyes."
"Yes?"
"She hates her life," Kug confided. "And there is no love remaining between her and Sot." He let his head dip. "It saddens me, because if this is indeed what she did…"
"What?"
"I could imagine Lama using the chaos of the fire…" He held up a hand. "I am not saying she set them! I can't imagine her doing that, or how she would, for that matter… she's a yard servant with no access to the tower, as you know."
Dunak waved a hand. "And so..?"
"I could imagine her, in the chaos, abandoning her life. Disappearing."
How he wished that had been the actual course of events.
Dunak's tone was awash with contempt.
"On the very night the heir of Aenik is kidnapped."
Kug sighed again. "Were I standing on your path, I would match your steps. I confess this. But to me—who knows Lama as a daughter—I'd look to a larger stage to accommodate this drama."
The guards came into the common room. Some went upstairs. Some went to the kitchen, and probably the yard beyond.
"Someone stole the heir," Dunak said. "Your Lama and Sot are gone. Their friend is probably dead. You, Kug, as you say, have dedicated your life to her well-being." He smiled slowly. "As you yet live… I do not believe you have stopped."
"Dunak," Kug said, "if you find Lama in my house, with or without the Alwardendyn's child, no one will be more surprised—or disappointed in her—than I."
"Your disappointment, Kug, will be displayed for all to see when your head hangs from the city gates," Dunak said, "along with her's." He put a hand on the pommel of the talonbone sword hanging from his waist. His hide armor creaked as he leaned forward.
"Let's wait and see if I get to take your head myself."
"Let's," Kug said. He took a seat.
Dust rained from the ceiling as the guards tromped above from room to room.
He practiced martial breathing.
Eventually, the guards came downstairs. They were unaccompanied.
"Dunak." Kug stood up. "I appreciate the gravity of the day's events, and your mission. If… if you learn either of the dead are… are my Lama… will you inform me?"
Dunak stared at Kug for the space of several breaths before he spoke.
"We will find them," he said. "Shaper witness. They… and their masters… will be found."
He waved to his guards. They all filed out.
Prak and Ressa came in. Both looked cowed. Prak spoke tentatively.
"So… are we still serving, or…"
Kug fought the urge to steady himself against the great table. "Let them back in. Fresh food and drink for all, and tell them to keep their tokens."
Prak went back outside.
Ressa approached Kug, concern and inquiry on her face.
Kug held up his hand.
"Let's just get through this day," he said.
Chapter Eight
Dennick
Dennick waited alone in the receiving room of Vuldt, Mouth of the Plainslord of the Alliance of Clans. For some time, he resisted the impression of eyes boring into the back of his neck.
Enough.
He exhaled sharply, turned around, and looked up.
The tapestry next to the door dominated the wall, ceiling to floor. From Dennick's position across the room, with pale and dusty morning light filtering down from the open shutters high above, it was an effective and imposing likeness of the Plainslord.
Whether it was an accurate representation, Dennick could not say. This was not his Plainslord. This was not the magn who had taken him in as an orphaned child, who had raised him as one of his sons.
This was not the magn who, unbeknownst to Dennick at the time, had ordered the raid on his parents’ garrison.
Dennick's Plainslord was more than a year dead.
Though he'd never met Gragag's successor, Dennick served him as surely as he had the last.
The soft brush of a door opening against carpet broke his reverie. Dennick turned around.
Vuldt entered, black eyes gleaming and a wry grin on his lips. "He doesn't have my cousin's shoulders. Or his range with a bow. But of course the latter is determined by the former."
"What about his wisdom?"
Vuldt stopped, squinting, apparently giving Dennick's somewhat impetuous question a disproportionate measure of consideration.
"That remains to be seen," he allowed. "Although… he may match Gragag in foresight."
Vuldt gestured for Dennick to sit on one of the big, plush floor cushions. Dennick lowered himself down.
Vuldt settled onto one of his own. He took his time arranging his green diplomat's robe; a political gesture that ritualistically declared that this meeting was Vuldt's to spend as he saw fit.
Dennick, who had spent many marks patiently idle before many politicians, including and not least the Mouth of the Plainslord, held a pleasant expression on his face, counted the hairs of his foster cousin's drooping mustache, and waited.
Finally, Vuldt said, "How is Agane?"
Dennick knew the question was no more than a courtesy, and he knew Vuldt knew, too. Vuldt's practiced adoption of Palace District niceties was even more impressive than his own, but then, the Mouth of the Plainslord had a talent for putting on his neighbor's clothes and eating from their pantry.
Dennick invested an equal measure of civility in his response.
"Her day seems better than some. At least that was her condition when I left to answer your summons."
Vuldt nodded minimally—as much as Dennick expected—and got to it.
"You heard about the fire."
"I saw the smoke. Heard the bells."
"The city will know this before tahigh: the fire was a distraction."
Dennick knew he couldn't rush Vuldt, and any hint he hoped to would have the adverse effect. "I would say it's distracted everyone in Aenikantag."
Vuldt's lip twitched before stretching to a full grin.
"The infant Ranith was taken."
Despite his general distaste at being Vuldt's tool, Dennick was intrigued.
"The Alliance..?"
Vuldt shrugged. "If… we… are responsible, I was given no warning."
Despite his dichotomous role, Dennick inwardly bristled at being included.
"A ransom?"
Vuldt shook his head, dismissive. "No. No person, no state, no organization, has declared any involvement. The kit is gone and people are dead; that's all the Palace has revealed. I don't have any reason to think there's more to it than that, for now."
"And so?"
"It doesn't matter why Ranith has been kidnapped. The Palace is in chaos. The Alwardenal tower is gutted. Rumor has it that one of them was injured." Vuldt's eyes widened in delight. "Or both!"
Dennick would not have been surprised if Vuldt rubbed his palms together like a child at dessert.
The Mouth restrained himself as he continued. "The only heir of Aenik has been taken from his nursery, and the soldiers protecting the most powerful nation in Kaebrith didn't even know he was gone until the place burned around them."
Vuldt leaned forward. "We knew Aenik had grown soft. Now? It's crippled."
Dennick shifted on his cushion. Despite a lifetime of practice, he could not manage to feel balanced seated on the thing. "Vuldt… if the Plainslord is thinking of war…"
"I don't know what he's thinking," Vuldt said. "Yet. As his Mouth… and his ears… it's my responsibility to advise, and to act in the interest of the Alliance of Clans." He jabbed an index finger in the air. "Our enemy is weak, frantic, and unsettled. Such an opportunity, Dennick, must not be squandered, or be allowed to pass… too quickly."
Dennick waited.
"By tahigh," Vuldt said, "word will go out across the
city and throughout Aenik… even, I am led to understand, to the Faien and Gundynal outposts… that anyone bringing Ranith home safe and whole will be rewarded with the unfettered gratitude of the Alwardendyn."
Dennick nodded. "The guard must have their own ideas as to who's responsible. The entire country will help flush them out."
"And you, Dennick."
"You want me to actively search for Ranith?"
"That, and more. The longer Aenik is in disarray and so ineffectual they cannot protect—or find—their own heir, the stronger our position will be."
"What do you want me to do, Vuldt?"
"Find the kit," the Mouth said, "and make sure no one else does, and that Ranith is not recovered. Or returns. Ever."
"Keep him hidden?" Dennick openly scowled. "Send him off to the Clans, you mean, and raise him in secret?"
Vuldt shrugged. "We cannot ignore the fact that a similar strategy has proven beneficial."
Dennick wanted to break the teeth in Vuldt's flinty smile into bloody shards.
Vuldt glanced at Dennick's clenched fists. His smile only broadened. "And what a fine instrument you have been. But… no. I don't want us to play such a long game."
His smile flattened.
"If his kidnappers plan to kill him, make sure they succeed, Dennick. If they have other plans, capture the kit, and do it yourself."
Dennick recoiled. His mouth dropped open.
"What?"
"Ranith must never be reunited with the Alwardendyn. The heir must die, and all of Kaebrith must know Aenik could not protect their son."
Dennick swallowed bile.
"You want me to murder a child."
Vuldt's tone was relaxed, as if he was asking Dennick to fetch him a snack. "Assuming he's not dead already. Either way, be sure to leave the corpse somewhere public and obvious. Make it a final embarrassment for the palace guard and for the Alwardendyn."
The proposition physically disgusted Dennick. He shook his head. "You ask a great deal of me, Vuldt. Far beyond the conditions of our arrangement to date."
Vuldt met his eyes. "Yes." The smile was back.
Dennick said, "What gives you the confidence I will find Ranith and his abductors before anyone else? Or that, if I do, I will be able to take him from them?"
"You don't necessarily have to find him first. In fact," Vuldt considered, "it might make sense to find the person or party most likely to find him, and let someone else do the hard work… so long as they never succeed in the end."
Dennick stood up as quickly and indignantly as the cushion would allow.
"I will not. Find another."
Vuldt leaned back, the better to look up at Dennick.
"You will. There is no one quite so capable and qualified as you. So, no, I will not find another, for there is no other to find." Vuldt's tone veered toward conciliatory. "I understand you find politics distasteful; the machinations of state…"
"Politics?" Dennick spat the word. He paced. "Killing babies is not politics. Do not—"
Vuldt came slowly to his feet. "This is what I mean." He tsked. "You have no mind for this. Death has always been an instrument of governance. Babies, the elderly, the weak, the strong." His eyes hardened. “The ill.”
He straightened his robe. "You will do this, Dennick, and once it's done… I will not ask for anything else."
Dennick stopped. "You would release me. The Plainslord..?"
"You were Gragag's creature, never his."
Dennick fell silent. A swarm of possibilities careened behind his forehead.
There had to be a way to make this all work.
Vuldt smiled. "That's got you thinking.”
“What of Agane’s medicine?”
“Well, let me add this wind to the storm between your ears: I have learned of a healer among the Clans who, it is said, cured a boy of the wasting."
Dennick shook his head, despairing. "Vuldt. Do not… Agane should not…" It could not be true.
Vuldt raised a stifling hand and shook his head. "Do this last thing, Dennick, and not only will you be released from all this covert Palace District drama, I will guarantee passage for you and Agane to meet with this healer."
Dennick’s hands flapped at his sides.
"How long have you known?" His voice sounded harsh and black to his own ears. "Vuldt. About the healer."
"Oh, I don't know. It's not important. One hears things."
Dennick understood. The monster had been holding this token until he had something on which to spend it.
Dennick need never again doubt his assessment of his ward-cousin. This last footnote completed a thick tome of abomination and cruelty.
Still.
If there was even a chance to save Agane…
Dennick felt as though a heavy cloak had fallen across his sagging shoulders. If he must wear it, he would make it serve. Somehow.
He spoke from the least part of himself.
"All right, Vuldt."
Vuldt studied him long enough for Dennick to draw and release four tremulous breaths.
The Mouth of the Plainslord then lowered himself back to his cushion with practiced, deliberately languid grace. He made a show of investigating some undoubtedly imaginary spot on his robe.
"All right, then, Dennick."
Dennick straightened. "Is that all?"
Vuldt nodded. "Just to say: this is a very delicate situation, all around. The Alliance cannot be seen to be complicit. And, as I said, the heir cannot be allowed to return to his parents."
"As you said."
"No. Hear me, Dennick." He looked up at his instrument. "If you fail… in every way that matters, the result will be the same: you will be released, and Agane will no longer suffer. Do you understand me?"
"You're threatening her?"
There was no thought driving the impulse. One blink, Dennick stood there, enduring. The next, cushions scattered and he was on one knee, a hand around Vuldt's throat.
Vuldt's eyes bulged, but he was calm. He didn't even raise his hands.
"Who lingers,” he rasped, “near your heartfast while we speak here? Do you wonder? What are their instructions, do you think, should I meet some unexpected… inconvenience..?"
Dennick released him and stood in one smooth, unbroken movement.
He seethed.
There had to be a way to make it work.
There had to be a way.
Vuldt adjusted his collar and threw a loaded look past Dennick, to the door.
"Move your feet, Sword. Things will happen quickly come tahigh, and you'll need to be nimble."
Dennick saw the impressions of his fingers on Vuldt's neck. There might be bruising.
Nowhere near enough.
It would have to do for now.
Dennick found he was not compelled to so much as glance at the Plainslord's tapestry on his way out.
~
In the minds of many in the Palace District, Dennick was that magn raised as a prisoner of the fierce and bloodthirsty Plainslord of the Alliance of Clans; a victim of violence restored to civilization through deft diplomacy.
Others thought of him as the Sword whose childhood in the Clans gave him martial skills like few others in Aenik; the outsider whose students included most of the Palace Guard.
Above all, everyone knew him as the heartfast of Agane, the most admired and sought-after artist in the city.
Agane's paintings were part of the Alwardendyn's private collection and hung in the homes and wagons of dozens of merchants and caravanteers. To hold a gathering and not invite Agane was to risk disappointing your other guests. Last year, when Agane entered the dining hall at a feast celebrating the conception of the heir of Aenik, no one held hand to shoulder with her longer than Alwarden Deanae herself.
Agane was a treasure of Aenikantag. Now that the fact of her illness was widely known and she would likely produce no new work, those who possessed her art displayed it with an uncomfortable blend of delight and shame.
<
br /> Dennick knew his heartfast's wealthy admirers viewed him as Agane's fascinating accessory; the affectation of an eccentric artist. The orphan raised by savages (the stuff of tavern songs!) who still accepted payment to teach others how to fight when Agane's talent and fame surely brought their household more than enough wealth and status.
Could he even read and write?
The professional respect of the palace guard, and the somehow dismissive fascination of the Palace District elite, served Dennick very well in both his everyday life and the covert efforts he grudgingly pursued as Vuldt's instrument. That his heartfast enjoyed more attention and affection… he minded that not at all.
Now Dennick's dual loyalties had finally brought peril to Agane. As if she had no other burden!
Dennick ruminated on all of this, and on the impossible choice ahead of him, as he approached their home. His chest ached.
He passed through their gateway and frowned at the state of their garden. Agane had designed it as a living artwork, but had not been strong enough to tend to it for some time. Whenever she felt well enough to venture outside, she preferred to stay in, where applying pigments to stretched hide would always take priority.
Dennick had suggested hiring some help, but Agane was not ready to let another artist work her canvas. So, as unwanted growth obscured the delicate beauty inherent in its design and designer, the garden grew more and more unkempt. To Dennick, it was still an expression of the artist; a way for the world to reflect on the state of the gardener.
Still. He often wished for a taller fence.
"Agane," he called as he came into their home, "I have returned."
He could tell her cheery tone was the product of effort. "Here, Dennick."
He followed the sound of her voice. The closer he came to her making room, the more he dared to hope. "Are you painting..?"
From the doorway, he saw her standing before her easel. A smile bloomed on his lips.
Her own lips fluttered before she said, "I was."
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