A pigeon landed on the sill of the nearest window. She watched it watching her. Its face was diseased, its left eye blind. The corruption in its figure and form made it incredible that it had flown so far. Through its right eye, it glared at Elianor.
“Where lies my duty, little bird?” Elianor said.
“Oh-oo-oor,” said the pigeon and then flew away, up towards the sky. It didn’t make it very far. About three storeys up, it suddenly veered and thumped into a window. The collision was as loud as a gunshot. The pigeon fell onto the sill and lay ready to decompose, feet pointed into the air.
“My lady? Elianor?”
Nathaniel hopped the step into the Dead Garden. He had changed his clothes. A white shirt hung over leather breaches; he had no sword belt and his hands were bare. He looked as if he had been out all night, which of course all of them had.
“You seem to be in a better mood,” she said.
“Well, we’re on the same side again. Right?”
“Yes. We’re on the same side.”
“Harran and the last team are back,” he said. “We searched the tunnel right out to the north exits, but we need light to check the mountainside. Anton says—"
“I don’t care what Anton says. I have to stop the execution.”
From nearby came the sound of a hammer against wood.
“I made a mistake,” she said. “If I’d listened to Derec Garn in the first place, then this wouldn’t have happened.”
Nathaniel came to stand next to her. She faced the crumbling vines and tapped a leaf with her finger. The structure trembled, the memory of life the only thing holding it up.
“He left you on the mountain to face the Black Dog alone.”
“Derec made a mistake, but I let him anger me. I should have done as he asked. Citizen Garn should be waiting for his breakfast not waiting for the rope.”
“If you’d done as Derec asked, you wouldn’t have made it here on the first night, and I couldn’t have shown you what is happening. The Garns are playing the game, just like everyone else.”
He edged closer to her and tried to look her in the eye. She stared at the vines. Their hands were close enough to touch.
“Last night you were willing to come to blows in defence of the Garns,” Elianor said. “What made you change your mind?”
“You did. What? Why so surprised? I listened, to what you said, to what he said when you put him under pressure. You were right, before. I’ve been naive.”
“What is happening here, Nathaniel?”
“I don’t know. There is something wrong, something wrong with the monks, something wrong at Demon’s Pass, and it’s affecting everything—the mountain, the town, all Shadowgate. And it won’t stop here.”
“Do you think your father is responsible?”
“Why would my father kidnap local women?” Nathaniel trailed his fingers in the foliage. “If he did, why would he need to hide it?”
“You think there’s a connection between Lord Vile and the Black Dog?”
“I’ve never seen the Black Dog,” he said, a little wistfully.
The dead vine twitched beneath her fingers every time he moved his, the withered fronds connecting the two of them.
“Nathaniel, I saw your tattoo. In the tavern. When you were fighting the mercenaries.”
He touched his chest with his hand.
“A gift from my father. What about it?”
Did that mean Persephone and Anton were marked the same way? And what more could she say to Nathaniel? Wow, that’s interesting, because I saw a tattoo just like yours on the Black Dog? Are you, your father, your brother and sister, and possibly every other bastard on this mountain, by any chance, some sort of Kindred monstrosity? Now will you help me save the Republic? Elianor bit the inside of her lip and swallowed, trying to think of some way to get him to tell her without asking the question.
“Anton and Persephone say they fought a Kindred on the mountain,” she said.
“Demon’s Pass is the key. Persephone’s been saying that to my father for weeks.”
“Is that why you wrote the letter to Lord Carada?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. “We need help. I’m glad you’re here.”
“I doubt anybody else is. Particularly the Garns.”
“The Garns have a lot to answer for. Why are they hiring mercenaries? Why did they hide the cart?” He took her hand. She did not pull it away. “You’re doing the right thing.”
Elianor put her free hand on his cheek and kissed him. She hadn’t been sure she was doing it until her lips were on his and gently parting. She pushed her hand into his hair, then pulled her face away by a few centimetres.
“I need to see your father.”
“I’ll take you to him.”
The room was dark, the fire out, the main door closed. On the dining table a dozen candles were lit, and there stood Arbalest Vile counting coins into a leather bag. He rubbed each coin with his thumb, as if he thought the numbers might change.
“Lord Vile,” Elianor said.
“I hear you assaulted Sergeant Rees last night, then threw him into one of my prison cells.” He did not turn as he spoke. “Do you intend to explain yourself?”
“No,” Elianor said. She stood on the dais and rested her hands on her hips. Nathaniel waited behind her. “I don’t want you to execute Derec Garn. I am prepared to drop charges against him.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
“He insulted my guest.”
“What’s the real reason?”
“Truthsense never made much sense to me.” Vile gave up counting and dragged the last coins into the bag, which he tossed to the centre of the table. “If you Magistrates could do everything you say you can, why aren’t you in charge of things? Why did the revolution fail? Why did we lose the war against the North?”
“Why won’t you let Derec Garn go?”
Arbalest banged his fist on the table.
“Because the Garns need putting in their place,” Arbalest snarled. “I am the only person allowed to build an army on Shadowgate Mountain. And I need Tannyr Brek happy to keep the farmers in line. Is that clear enough?”
“You’re killing him for politics?” she said.
“Yes. And I’m doing it within the law. So, my question to you, little Miss Magistrate who likes to take evening jaunts across roofs and into tunnels, then attacks my people and makes accusations she cannot support: Elianor Paine, what do you want?”
Derec Garn dies for politics. She took a deep breath.
“In no particular order. I want my rifle back. I want the Black Dog dead, any Kindred incursion stopped, and women to stop disappearing from Shadowgate Town. I want you or your representative to come to Lutense with me for the Senate vote. I want you or your representative to tell my master, Théophile Carada, that they will vote against the Republican motion. And then I want them to walk into the chamber and vote in favour.”
Arbalest laughed until the forced laugh became real.
“And in return?” He stopped laughing as quick as he had started.
“And in return I leave and say nothing more about what I’ve seen here.”
“Until the next time you want something from me?”
“I’m glad we understand each other,” Elianor said.
“You’re thinking you can return with more Magistrates.”
“I’m thinking you had better make yourself useful. And that if you kill me now, I have allies in the Magistry who will not prove as pragmatic as me. Listen well, Vile. Voting against the Republic will not save the Queen. Did you need a law to protect your right to primogeniture? Does he?” She pointed at Nathaniel. “Anyone who needs this law is too weak to enforce it. Anyone strong enough to rule will write their own laws.”
“Hah! It seems you have learned something from Shadowgate.”
Vile jogged up the steps to the dais, a cheery jig come to replace his normal military stride, then stood before her.
“I want Nathaniel,” she said.
Vile chewed his fingernail, his eyes alight with amusement.
“Perhaps it is time for his second chance. Paine is old family, and we could achieve much together. I will vote in the capital, but Nathaniel will accompany us.”
He spat on his palm and held his open hand out to her.
Fucking peasants, Elianor thought.
Had she been manipulated? Was this what Arbalest Vile wanted all along? No, it couldn’t be. Look at him. He can hardly breathe without opening his mouth. She was winning. This was her plan. She was winning.
“Done,” she said, and shook his hand.
Day 4
21 Ventros 1682
To return to the capital in time, Elianor must complete her mission and leave Shadowgate within 3 days.
Chapter 40
Elianor stood on the Manor steps and watched the crowd gathered in the courtyard. The wind stung her bruised cheek and dust played at her feet. The guillotine had never proved popular outside the capital: Royalists associated it with a brief rupture in the rightful rule of Kings. So Shadowgate’s guards had spent the morning constructing a simple wooden scaffold. Now a young man—Elianor thought it was Harran, but she had trouble telling one guard from another—led a horse and cart to stand beneath the scaffold. Derec Garn would face a noose and a short drop.
A rush of whispers spread though the mass of people come to see the show: made-up men and women in pretty clothes, labourers given the morning off, and miners unused to the sunshine. Elianor recognised some of the miners, more of the farmers. She saw a man Nathaniel had pointed out to her as Hodri, the father of Seren and Begw. Could she look him in the eye and say everything possible was being done to find his daughters? Beyond Hodri, Fyrsil, the sandy-haired mining foreman, leaned against the blacksmithy wall. Eira Brek had fetched a seat for her wounded brother Dale and placed it by the boilers. There was no sign of her oldest brother, Uwen, or her mother, Ifanna. Still, the farmers outnumbered the miners three to one. Elianor had seen Tannyr Brek in the Manor and moved swiftly to avoid speaking with him.
Anton Vile called Fyrsil’s name from the blacksmithy. They spoke, then Anton looked across at Elianor, pointedly, and disappeared back inside. Fyrsil folded his arms and stood in the doorway. Persephone had lined the guards up to bisect the courtyard, so they made a barrier between the Manor and the people, between Elianor and the smithy, between the cart and the main gate. This left a wide space between the guard’s picket and the guardhouse door. Last night, Elianor had strode across that space, swearing she would find Begw and Seren. Now she stood here waiting for an execution.
What did it say about Shadowgate, Elianor wondered, that they had no permanent structure in place for executions? Lack of organisation? Or merely no regular need? A gentle wind set the noose swaying on the end of the scaffold. Elianor counted the guards. Five in the cordon, not including Persephone. Harran by the scaffold, feeding the horse from his hand. Another stood at the guardhouse door. Presumably one or two with Derec inside the house. None on the wall, none at the gate. A total of seven or eight guards, a mere fraction of the numbers in the crowd, not nearly enough to keep control if there was trouble.
Persephone stood at the centre of the picket. Gwyion was talking fast at her, waving his arms. Persephone stared past him. The main gate was deserted of the usual guards. But the Shadowgate Warden stood on the parapet above the barbican, motionless, black screen over its face, blue helmet protecting its head. Had Persephone seen the Warden do something? No. It seemed to Elianor that Persephone was trying to look through the stone, beyond the plunging bridge between Shadowgate and the road down to the mountain. Anywhere that would not involve looking at Gwyion Garn. The thought came, unbidden: if your brother had agreed to help, you might be trying to kill me now. Shadowgate was too broken to fix. All Elianor could do was complete her mission and get home.
The Manor door opened.
“Lord Arbalest Vile,” Lena proclaimed.
Lord Vile came out at speed. Tannyr Brek came after him, laughing as if told a particularly funny joke.
“Your honour,” Lord Vile said to Elianor. “Do you have anything you want to say?”
She remembered Seren’s eyes.
“No,” Elianor said.
Persephone pushed her way over to them, one step ahead of Gwyion Garn.
“Captain Persephone,” Lord Vile said. “Is everything ready?”
“Will you speak with Gwyion?”
“I will speak to everyone,” he said. “Have them bring out the prisoner.”
Persephone gestured smartly to the guard at the far end of the courtyard. The prison door opened. Two more guards—Elianor thought one might be Ty—led Derec into the sunlight. His hands were bound behind his back, and his feet by a length of rope long enough to allow him to walk but too short for him to run. The bruises on his face had turned blue overnight. He did not struggle, instead trying to look the crowd in the eye, one at a time, but he flinched when he saw his father and bowed his head. Gwyion Garn stopped struggling. He turned so white it seemed his heart had stopped.
It was only because she was looking toward Gwyion Garn, while everyone else watched Derec, that Elianor noticed Fyrsil slip through the door of the Blacksmithy after Anton. Elianor walked towards the picket line. She counted again. Five in the line, Harran holding the horse, two with Derec on their way to the back of the cart, beneath the scaffold and the noose, two more stood by the entrance to the guardhouse. Something was wrong: something in the details she had seen but couldn’t recall. Behind her, Lord Vile began to speak.
“People of Shadowgate,” he said. The crowd hushed. They had been waiting for this. “We are gathered in judgement of Derec Garn, son of Gwyion Garn, who three days ago did knowingly disobey a Magistrate in the course of her duty, did assault said Magistrate, and make off with her belongings and badge of office.”
Half the crowd looked at her now, stopped still at the line of soldiers. The guards brought Derec to the end of the cart and helped him climb up, in much the way one might help a sack of potatoes onto a market stall. Derec looked at the noose.
“We are the guardians of the Kingdom,” Lord Vile continued. “For us, the threat of the Kindred is not a far-away story, or a childhood lesson to be learned and forgotten. It was our fathers and mothers, our uncles and aunts, our brothers and sisters who died resisting the last great incursion. It is our daughters who are taken when the Black Dog returns. We only survive when we stand together. As one people. Beneath the law.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Sergeant Rees’ eye had swollen shut where she had struck him the night before, and his aggressive hook of a smile showed a newly missing tooth.
“Get out of my way, Sergeant,” Elianor hissed quietly, so as not to interrupt Lord Vile’s speech. “I need to get through the line.”
“Yesterday, my son Anton and my daughter Persephone fought a Kindred, the first to come across the mountain in thirty years. It is only due to their skill and courage they escaped alive. We cannot be complacent any longer.”
Lord Vile raised his fist. Next to him, Persephone turned pale and wide eyed, as if it were the first time Vile had praised her to her face. To hide her embarrassment, Persephone stepped down from the Manor and strode along the picket line towards Elianor.
“Tomorrow, I will return to take my place in the Senate,” Vile said. Elianor froze in place. “I will warn them of this danger. I will make them hear. But this time they will listen.”
“Is there a problem?” Persephone said. She stood between Elianor and Rees.
“No problem,” Rees said.
“Magistrate Paine is the only person to have fought the Black Dog and lived,” Lord Vile continued. “She has seen the danger of the Kindred first-hand. She will stand at my side and tell the Senate to defend Shadowgate.”
Was this his endgame? He
was right, of course. She would have to report the danger to the Senate. She reached out and moved Rees to one side. He put his hands up, palms out, mocking her.
“She came to Shadowgate to help us,” Lord Vile said. “Derec Garn disrespected her and endangered our community. And that cannot stand.”
And Elianor realised what it was she had missed.
“Captain, who are those guards? By the prison door?”
The crowd chose that moment to cheer, and Persephone was too busy snarling into Rees’ ear.
“Guards, place the noose around his neck,” Lord Vile shouted over the noise.
Derec was too stunned to resist. He bowed his head as the guards placed the rope around his neck. They fiddled with the noose as if Derec’s comfort was a factor. Persephone shoved Rees back into the picket line and rushed over to Gwyion. The two new guards Elianor had seen walked from the prison door to stand at the back of the cart.
“Doesn’t he have the right to last words?” Gwyion shouted, just as Persephone came and took him by the shoulders. Lord Vile shrugged, bored from standing so long in one place.
“Derec Garn, you may speak.”
Derec looked at Elianor, not Lord Vile.
“This is a mistake,” he said. “You don’t have to do this.”
She wished she could tell him he was dying for a greater cause, for a victory in the Senate that would lead to a better future for Trist, to a Republic of Trist. But then, it was the nature of martyrdom not to see the future for which you died.
The crowd waited in silence for her to respond. A child spoke and was hushed. The sunlight illuminated Derec’s face and he squinted, his knees wobbling.
“Very well,” Lord Vile said. “Guards! Execute him!”
A rifle shot rang out across the courtyard.
Vile Page 21
