by Kim Wedlock
He grunted a laugh. That didn't surprise him. Doana were not known for the same tolerance of magic as Turunda - eastern mages were oppressed and taught only what their military needed of them. There was no room for fine-tuning, no opportunity to practise and learn. They were as good as slaves.
And look how Turunda's mages repaid their own country's benevolence. With murderous rebellion. Give them an inch, and they try to take the country. Perhaps Doana were on to something...
He knelt quickly beside the ornate cedar wood bench and pushed the matching screen away. No sooner had it shifted an inch than he heard the hollow tilt of the flagstone. A victorious smile flickered. As the chaos continued outside, he prised it up with one of the fine, flat blades he withdrew from his boot. And there it was. The lockbox.
It was small, about the size of a book and just as deep, half the size of the flagstone, and constructed of steel to protect it against the moisture inherent in a bath house - or the flooding of a field, or the damp soil of a lake or river bank.
Victory surged - until some nagging voice at the back of his mind pointed out somewhat belatedly that he had encountered no resistance in freeing the box.
And he could still feel the spell.
It was locked conventionally and he hadn't the key - that was a problem that could be overcome. But breaking the spell that shrouded the box itself rather than the hiding place, that would be another matter. One that could also be beaten, but certainly not here. He had no time. He had to get it back. His heart was racing in anticipation.
A warm light flared through the window above him, and he lightened on his feet. It was time to leave before anyone returned.
It was only then that the atmosphere struck him.
The screaming outside - it was still lively. Too lively. And his fires hadn't moved - in fact they should have diminished - yet the light through the glass was that of flame, he was sure.
Clutching the lockbox, he scraped the flagstone back into place and returned the screen before hurrying back down the private hallway and out through the rear door.
Heat rushed over him the moment he stepped outside, and firelight rose from the wrong end of the alley. He rushed towards it, the screaming, the chaos, adopting as he went a look of panic that was not entirely false, and skidded to a halt at the edge of the square. His heart roared. Mages.
Then it lurched, and a shattering understanding kicked in.
His own ruse had triggered an attack. Perhaps they'd been ready, awaiting a signal and his distraction had come first, or perhaps they were merely opportunists. Both were equally possible, and it sickened him to the point of dizziness as he watched three figures with zealous looks upon their foul faces, twisting their fingers into strikes of fire and lightning, that he had been party to this...this.
But as a lash of light crackled into existence and whipped out towards the fleeing crowd, his eyes dropped unbidden to the lockbox in his arms. Quick calculations brought his moment of monumental struggle to an end. The trio were not likely to kill. Doana were.
He turned and bolted back towards the cobbler's shop.
Chapter 40
Aria breathed the latest mindless sigh of relief as she skipped along barefoot beside her father. For three days, they'd been free from towering trees and ominous shadows, and for the first time in two weeks could see more than ten paces ahead of themselves. Spirits were high even in spite of the rough terrain; the earth, first soaked into mud, had been trampled and churned by horse, deer and cattle before being baked dry by the barren heat into all kinds of treacherous lumps and holes. But it was a small price for being able to see any and every enemy coming, and not having to remain on their guard against the very bark of the trees.
Even so, they steered towards thickets and dells all the same, and otherwise trusted their concealment to the assumption that other travellers would have more sense and stick to the roads. As a result, they encountered no one along their way.
But their luck, by its very nature, soon ran out.
At the slackening end of the final valley, a sprawling array of tents and wagons had entirely consumed their destination's approach, stretching well into the surrounding woods. Any hope of hiding within those trees was shattered.
Stopping at the edge of the dell, the group crouched low and surveyed the encampment.
"Refugees," Garon observed. "From Toakh, I'd think. They would be most at risk if Doana brought in reinforcements." He sighed and shook his head. "What a sorry state of affairs this country is falling into."
"It can't be helped," Rathen grunted remorsefully. "What do we do?"
"We need supplies and information. And there may be someone in there who can help us. I'll go in and see if I can find them. Petra, you wait with Eyila and Aria - keep as far from the camp as you can."
"I'll handle the supplies," Anthis declared quickly, his voice still tinged with the unrelenting bite.
"Be careful," Rathen warned him. "There are more eyes out there than there should be." He ignored the young man's unappreciative grunt and turned towards Garon. "I'll wait with Petra."
"No. You're coming with us." Rathen baulked, for which the inquisitor merely cast him a sideways look. "The refugees will have stirred up chaos. No one will notice new arrivals, and no one will be looking for us, especially if we split up. Taliel mentioned surveillance spells and I want you to look for them. If you can find them, you should be able to ward against them - correct?"
"I suppose...but even so, those bounty posters will be everywhere by now--"
"And among the refugees, we will only add to the sea of unfamiliar faces. No one will notice us."
"Can't you cast some kind of illusion?" Eyila asked.
"Illusions, yes, but I can't conceal us. Only those among the diz'al in the front- and rear-guard can do that."
"What about masks?"
He looked down at Aria. "Masks?"
"If you cast an illusion of a mask, we would all look different but we wouldn't be hidden."
Rathen blinked at the simplicity of the thought, but the idea quickly frayed. "Any mages wandering around will see right through it, and Salus's surveillance spells might be able to as well."
"It's not worth the risk," Garon agreed. "Not yet, at any rate. We need more information on those spells of his and on the state of the Order before we can go casting anything ourselves. For now, we'll trust the upheaval the refugees will have brought with them." He rose slightly from his crouch and made his way down the slope. The others reluctantly followed.
They kept to the thin, sparse trees as best they could and soon began to divide. Petra led Eyila and Aria away into the denser folds of the woods, Garon and Rathen made themselves as inconspicuous as they could and approached the camp from the edge, while Anthis moved brazenly head-on, empty bags slung over his shoulder and a rustle of parchment inside his sleeve. They'd seen him filtering through the less savoury contents of his satchel the previous night. They each privately hoped he succeeded.
Rathen's shoulders grew increasingly contracted as they neared the haphazard camp, full as it was with people and all the noise and smells that came with them. By the time it swallowed them, he'd rounded so nervously that he appeared crooked and much, much older.
Garon, too, had taken on a transformation, but his had been voluntary: his hair mussed, his shirt untucked and untidily laced, one trouser leg lying lower over the top of one boot than the other, which themselves were already dirtied from the fields. He shuffled along no more or less downcast than anyone else around him. Together, the pair appeared merely to be going about their own unfortunate business.
But above the general chatter and occasional groans of pain, from injury or illness or fatal insult at the loss of status in such a ramshackle setting, there came a more fevered ruckus. Something about it struck them both unpleasantly.
Neither made any outward show of noticing, but they each sharpened into it as they made their way around tents and wagons, moving unfortunately cl
oser to its source all the while. They soon distinguished cackled insults and accusations, curses and slurs, then the air began to prickle dangerously. A few more moments and a crowd fell into view beyond the disorganised refugees, in a spot they'd vacated beside the old walls. Most had turned their backs; a few looked on in horror.
Rathen knew what he was about to see, but he couldn't pull his eyes away from it even as his blood ran hot with rage.
A man, tawny of skin but where it had bruised, swollen and split, was lifted by three men and stood upon a barrel. His hands were bound, as his ankles probably were, but he made no attempt to writhe, jump or struggle.
A woman, pleading between her wails, was cast suddenly from the group. She'd also been beaten, the evidence far more obvious on her much paler skin, but she rose and threw herself right back into the crowd, scratching and clawing and ripping her way back towards the man upon the barrel, the man who continued to deny every accusation being thrown at him with perfect conviction, even as a noose was drawn about his neck, lashed to the strongest bough at the edge of the forest.
'Why doesn't he run?' But Rathen knew the answer. Even had he not been bound, they'd have caught him easily, and it was more than likely the woman would also suffer for his escape.
Just as she would if either of them were to get involved and break their own cover.
But still Rathen argued the point internally. Unfortunately, he ran out of time.
The barrel was kicked out from beneath the man's feet the moment they drew level, and a righteous roar erupted from the crowd, drowning out the heart-wrenching cries of the bereaved widow.
They turned their eyes away, and shame engulfed Rathen's soul.
On the other side of the walls, the tone contrasted with sickening cheer, and the fiery colours of red, orange and yellow hung as pennants and bunting from building to building, suspended above the streets. Rathen's tightly knotted eyebrows rose at the sight of them. "It's Midsummer already?"
"Just about," Garon replied, sparing them a passing glance between surreptitiously eyeing the locals. "You were in Khry's Glory for a month."
"I guess I've not recovered quite as many bearings as I'd thought..."
They continued on and made towards a tavern, where Garon stopped and appeared to inspect the noticeboard outside. He dropped his voice low as he lingered on an advertisement for carpentry services. "We don't have much time. Walk around, stay out of sight, and see what you can find. We need to know exactly what these spells of his can do."
But they both froze, their blood turned to ice, as a hand clapped Garon heavily upon the shoulder and a strong, authoritative voice rose at his back.
"A word, sir, if you wouldn't mind."
Warning and quickly-devised instructions passed to Rathen in a glance, even as his expression softened into the confused but amicable look of any innocent and high-spirited stranger. But when he turned at last to face the man, it dropped into genuine surprise. "Taric?"
Rathen turned to discreetly hide his face, but he listened closely to their movements, torn between dread and relief as he processed his glimpse of the familiar black and white uniform, and the White Hammer insignia on the hilt of the formidable sword hanging at his hip.
But despite Garon's recognition, which he realised had been whispered, the man didn't smile. Instead, he regarded him firmly and gestured towards the garden seating of the tavern. "It's a hot day - perhaps we could discuss matters over an ale. It would make the situation easier for the both of us."
Then, Garon's flawlessly obedient and amicable smile returned, and he bowed his head. "O' course, sir. Anything to help the constabulary."
He didn't pass Rathen another look as he followed this inquisitor beneath the tavern arch and around to a small table just within the shade, and Rathen wasted no time in leaving. Trying not to appear ruffled, he moved on casually and around the side of the tavern as though attempting to find some shade of his own while he checked over his boots, but all the while he listened intently, watching the pair out of the corner of his eye, certain that Garon would find some way to give him a signal if action was needed.
But instead, and much to Rathen's surprise, the officer - both officers - appeared to relax.
Taric gave Garon a careful look as the maid turned away to fetch a pitcher and glasses. "You don't look as smooth as your poster."
"A regretful situation," he replied dismissively.
"And vague. I can't seem to find any substantial reason behind it. I take it things aren't as straight-forward as you'd hoped?"
"When is anything straight-forward?"
"Quite." He leaned forwards seriously, appearing to any onlookers as though he were about to begin his questioning of this unfortunate refugee. And, in a way, he did. "How is it coming, this self-enforced mission of yours?"
"It's...progressing." He watched Taric nod woefully, personally familiar with the true meaning of that tight-lipped statement. "But, the Order has no hand in it."
He sighed deeply through his nose. "A shame that news has to come so late. But is magic truly responsible for all this destruction? I find it hard to believe..."
"Then you'd best adjust your faculties. I would tell you more if I could, Taric, but the matter is painfully complicated. All the more so now we have the Arana on our backs. They're the reason our faces have been emblazoned throughout the cities. Fortunately, they've yet to hinder us, but they're not making things any easier."
"No, I imagine not..." His dark eyes became suddenly shrewd, and he regarded Garon with open suspicion. It was hard to tell whether or not it was for the benefit of onlookers, but it didn't break when the maid returned with their beverages. When she left, his voice dropped even lower, and he spoke but two words.
Unaware that Rathen had turned white in the corner, Garon didn't flinch. He poured the pitcher and raised his foaming tankard to his lips, then bobbed his head as though flicking his untidy hair from his eyes before taking a sip at last.
Taric's expression didn't change. "Petra Dalton and Anthis Karth's posters came up at the same time as his. 'Disorderly conduct' and 'trespassing', as I recall. I could believe that, but hardly worth a bounty. Are they yours, too?" He raised an eyebrow as he nodded. "Strange band."
"They weren't all planned. But they have their uses." Garon's eyes widened as he noticed the sudden intensity in his colleague's, and he lowered his tankard slowly. "What is it?"
"I don't believe it. Garon Brack: you've got a thing for your duelist." His smile widened in amusement as Garon rolled his eyes and denied it.
"For the love of Vastal and all Her effigies, would you turn your analytical brain off for the moment, Taric?"
"Not a chance. I might miss something important. And I dare say, old friend, that this is one such thing - but I won't pry. We both have other matters on our minds..."
"Yes," he turned a frown at his companion, ignoring the lingering smile. "What are you still doing here? I thought you'd have left a month ago."
"Ah, well," he smiled, "'when is anything straight-forward?' The counterfeiters I was tracking were just one part of a vast collaboration conspiring to flood the opiac market. I just got back from tracking down a few others, and the whole thing seems to tie up here. I've almost got them."
He raised his tankard with a grim smile. "Well done. Then perhaps it'll free up some guards to bring these lynch mobs to an end. I doubt the one outside on our approach was the first to have happened."
Taric's expression became sullen. "That's all part of it, I'm afraid. There are elements encouraging it as a distraction while they transport materials and 'goods' to their various holdings, and it gets out of hand. The guards can't keep up with it - and I get the sense that not all of them care to. I've issued my reports and it's being handled, but it's happening across the country. People seem to think they're 'safer' when they take justice into their own hands. The trouble is, they have no idea that when they run out of one minority to condemn, they'll just look to find another,
and then another, until finally they begin to use it as a means of exacting vengeance for personal wrong-doings and then inevitably get snared by it themselves. They won't know how to stop."
"An unfortunate truth..."
The pair were silent for a moment, brooding over their ales, until Garon pushed the tankard away and rose to his feet. Taric followed so swiftly, anyone would think he'd risen first. "Thank you for your co-operation, sir," he said only a little louder.
"Not at all, kind constable. Always happy to do my bit. And thank ye for the ale."
"Don't thank me," he replied quietly, "thank expenses. And I'll handle the posters. You'll get an official pardon and the rest will take some doing, but they should be gone by the middle of next month."
"Thank you." He bowed, then, and left the inquisitor beside the table.
Standing in the shadows, Rathen shook his head to himself, somewhat baffled, but satisfied, and turned away at Garon's momentary sideways glance to begin his search for the spell.
Eyila straightened abruptly in her spot upon a rotten tree stump and looked intently off to the right. Petra's hand tightened around her sword and Aria shuffled closer to the pair, but they all eased when Anthis came hurrying through the trees.
"You're back quickly," she said, forcefully restraining her disgust as she noted the liveliness to his eyes, though the biting tone, which had been creeping into her voice ever more frequently these past few days, managed to slip through.
"Yes, I am." He ignored her manner about as easily as the others had come to ignore his own recurrent fits. "I had some luck." He dumped the full bags on the floor and looked purposefully towards Aria. "I need your help."
"Her help?"
"Is it about what you said before?" She asked eagerly, to which the rejuvenated Anthis nodded, and she looked hopefully up towards Petra.
She regarded the pair very carefully, and Eyila particularly focused her curious-cautious frown upon Anthis. A moment later the duelist appeared about to speak, but the words didn't make it past her lips. Her eyes narrowed only further until, finally swayed by the urgency in Aria's eyes, she nodded - though she was clearly still far from convinced. "Keep her safe," she said, confident at least in the fact that he was presently in a position to do so, though the means truly sickened her. "Be back before the others - Rathen will kill me if he finds out. And in any case, none of us want to stay here longer than we have to."
