“Doesn’t change things, Ridge,” Rett argued, although his voice was tight with pain. “I’m the only one who might recognize either the power or something of what I saw. There were faces, but it was just a flash. Not sure if the images were blurry or whether I couldn’t take in everything they were sending.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Still doesn’t change things,” Rett countered.
Ridge swore under his breath. “All right. Let me see what I can come up with for a distraction.”
“We don’t have to put the whole camp into chaos,” Rett said. “Just pull the guards away from that tent long enough for me to slip in.”
“And how are you going to get out?”
“I’ll come up with something,” Rett promised.
Ridge’s expression made it clear he was unhappy with the plan, but he couldn’t think of an alternative. While they both had the Sight, only Rett got visions, and it seemed the invitation was directed specifically at him.
They worked for the rest of the afternoon without mishap. Edels seemed to find excuses to walk by and check their work but made no comment. Still, his presence was a silent warning and a threat. Ridge’s mood darkened as the day went on, and Rett appeared to be lost in thought.
“I’ve got an idea for a distraction,” Ridge said as they finished the ties for the last tent. “But it won’t keep the guards away for long.”
“I just need time to get in,” Rett replied.
“If the guards go back too quickly, I’ll look for another chance to stir something up,” Ridge added.
“That’s definitely what you’re good at. Just don’t burn the camp down—yet,” Rett said.
Chapter Four
Rett moved in the shadows once night fell. He and Ridge had purposely chosen civilian clothing in dark shades, both to hide the dirt and to make it easier to blend in.
The guarded tent sat along one end of the camp, out of the main flow of traffic. Any time the caravan stopped, a bustle of activity erupted to feed the travelers and fix anything that had gone wrong on the road, in preparation for their next departure. Tomorrow, the camp would see a steady stream of merchants from nearby villages coming to purchase goods for resale and catch up on gossip from the far corners of the kingdom. A few nosy townsfolk and some of the local boys might try to steal glimpses of the merchants’ wares, but they would be sorely disappointed if they expected this caravan to be like the traveling faires that sometimes brought jugglers, exotic animals, unusual food, and wonders that would be the talk of the countryside for months.
Rett sized up the area with the eye of an assassin. Two men guarded the front of the tent, and one watched the back. He frowned, wondering if that meant the caravan leader feared that someone would break in—or those inside might escape.
If it were just a matter of getting into the tent and then getting away, killing the guards wouldn’t have been a challenge. While the men were large and brawny, Rett doubted they could match a trained assassin in a fight. But without any idea of what or who was inside, and how the caravan might have a connection to the waybills in Destwiler’s crates of smuggled weapons, Rett couldn’t afford to leave a trail of bodies.
As he neared the tent, an explosion from the other side of the camp rumbled like thunder. The guards tensed, and two of them went to investigate. That left one man at the front of the tent and none behind. Rett smiled and jogged closer, already eyeing escape routes.
Just before he reached the back, the presence touched his mind again. “Hide,” the voice said, coupled with an image of dropping flat to the ground. Rett took it as a warning and threw himself to the ground, seconds before two men walked past on their way to the front of the tent.
“We’ve got a buyer,” one of the men said. Rett recognized the voice as Edels.
“For which one?” The second man had a gruff manner, and Rett could not place him.
“Doesn’t matter, if the skills are right,” Edels said.
“They aren’t easy to replace,” the second man warned. “Can’t count on when we’ll find another.”
“Make enough money off one, and we don’t have to ‘find’ that many. Feeding them cuts into the profits,” Edels replied.
Rett heard the rustle of the tent flap, and then the high-pitched voice of a young boy. “Stop! You’re hurting me! Don’t take me away! Please don’t!”
Rett winced as he heard the slap of a hand against skin, and the boy’s protests turned to sobs. “Come on. Your new master’s waiting. Wipe your face. Think he wants to see you covered in snot?” Edels snapped.
Rett’s fists clenched as he heard lighter footsteps join the other two men on their way to the tent’s opening, and guessed them to be guards. “No trouble from any of you, or there’ll be no supper tomorrow. You hear me?” Edels threatened.
Rett lay still, waiting for the men to leave before he tried to move. Another image hit him, forcing its way into his mind. No words this time, just a picture of someone coming into the tent he shared with Ridge.
Before he could catch his breath, the toe of a boot in his ribs made him gasp. “What are you doing here?” The guard towered over him, and Rett managed his best drunken smile.
“Just goin’ back to my tent, mister,” Rett said, slurring his words. “Don’t know how I got down here. Musta missed a step somewhere.”
“Get out of here, before I report you,” the guard said. “Lucky for you, I don’t want the bother. Now go!”
Rett made a show of unsteadily getting to his feet and swaying once he stood, schooling his features to look as if the idea of walking taxed his capacity. He stumbled off, intentionally going in a direction different than his tent, and kept up the facade until he turned down between two rows of wagons and the guards were out of sight.
He let out a long breath and looked skyward, giving brief thanks to the gods for his escape. The camp had quieted from its earlier hurried preparations, and now most of the merchants had retired either to their tents or their wagons. Ridge waited in their small shelter, and from the impatience on his face, he had beaten Rett back by long enough to warrant worry.
“Well?”
“Nice explosion,” Rett said quietly, using a flash of his extra magic to assure that no one was close enough to overhear.
Ridge smirked. “It worked, didn’t it? What did you find out?”
Speaking low, Rett filled him in. Ridge frowned, thinking through what Rett said.
“Why would the caravan bother with slaving?”
Rett tensed. He had survived on the streets for a year before the orphanage, and before then, the adults who provided enough to keep body and soul together put their charges to work. Sometimes that meant stealing or hard labor. Other times, darker uses. Ridge had spent his early years in a real family, with people who must have loved him, people he loved in return. Since then, he knew Ridge had seen his share of evil, especially in his time with the king’s army, but to a street rat like Rett, his partner could often still be slow to realize possibilities.
Rett shrugged. “Anything for a profit, I imagine.”
Ridge had moved quickly from worried to angry. “There’s an open warrant against slavers,” he mused. “No one could fault us for taking action.”
Rett frowned. “I think it’s more complicated than that. Let’s see if we get a visitor tonight.”
Ridge and Rett lay awake, fully clothed, weapons ready. Rett listened for the sounds of footsteps. Few people except, perhaps, master hunters, could sneak up on professional assassins. Sure enough, once the camp fell silent in the darkest hours, Rett heard soft footsteps, too light to be those of an adult, just outside.
A shadow slipped inside their tent and stood still in the doorway. From the silhouette, Rett guessed their visitor to be a young boy, maybe ten at the most, skinny, and from his posture, used to curling in on himself to fend off blows.
“I can feel you in my head,” the boy remarked.
Neither Ridge nor Rett move
d, though they were both ready to defend themselves.
“I heard you when you called to me,” Rett said. “Do you know how you do that?”
The boy nodded. “I felt it when you came into the camp. In my head. And I thought if you could hear me, you could help.”
“What help do you need?” Ridge asked in a careful voice as if he soothed a spooked horse.
“They took us,” the boy replied. “Because we see things. Know things. Sometimes, things that haven’t happened yet.”
“So there are others?” Rett thought again about the boy he had seen dragged away.
“Six. There used to be more. Sometimes, they sell us to people who want to make money by having us find things out.”
“Like the boy they took today?” Rett questioned.
“Mitchell. He was my friend. He won’t come back. They never come back.” The world-weariness in the boy’s voice reminded Rett too much of his younger self. At least he had found a friend and defender in Ridge, a bond that had grown into brotherhood.
“What’s your name?”
“Sofen.”
“How did you manage to come to us?” Ridge asked.
“I can make people not pay attention,” Sofen replied. “It’s hard, and I can’t do it long.”
“Can any of the others do that?” Rett asked.
“Don’t think so. They can tell what people are thinking, or see things that haven’t happened yet. That sort of thing.”
“And you can do those things, too?” Ridge kept his voice low.
“I can hear thoughts,” Sofen replied. “But if I do it too long or there are too many people, my head hurts. I took a chance and thought back at you.”
“If you can make people not pay attention, why didn’t you run away?” Ridge asked.
Sofen looked down. “They could catch me. And the others wouldn’t make it.”
“We’ll get you out of here,” Ridge promised. Rett raised an eyebrow, though the darkness likely hid his surprise. “Do you think your friends could stay on a horse?”
Sofen nodded. “Me and Belan are ten. We’re the oldest.”
Rett closed his eyes. He didn’t have to use much imagination to remember times he had outrun predators in the alleyways, men who wanted him for reasons he hadn’t stuck around to figure out. A wrong turn, a twisted ankle, and he could have ended up like the children in the tent. Getting caught by the monks and brought to the orphanage had been a mercy, no matter how unfriendly some of the other residents had been.
As if he guessed Rett’s thoughts, Ridge elbowed him. “Here and now,” he murmured. Rett nodded.
“You’d better go back,” Rett said. “I don’t think I can send a message to you, and if you push too hard, your message hurts me. But we’ll figure a way to get you out.”
“Tomorrow night, after midnight,” Ridge said, clearly having already come up with a plan. “Have everyone ready. We’ll come with horses, so have your shoes and cloaks and whatever you want to take with you.”
“Thank you,” Sofen said. “I knew if you could hear me, you’d help.”
“Be careful,” Rett said. “Don’t get caught.”
Sofen shot him a lopsided grin. “Don’t worry.” He vanished, and Rett could barely hear his footsteps.
Rett pushed himself up on his elbows and looked at Ridge. “So we’re doing this? Just like that?”
Ridge shrugged. “No time like the present. What if another buyer comes tomorrow?”
Rett sighed. “You’re right. But where do we take them? We can’t go to Burke. Too many questions and all the wrong answers.” Explaining why they had freed the children would lead to having to give the reason for their kidnapping and the value for the slavers. That would not only reveal the children’s magic, but also Ridge’s and Rett’s abilities.
“We’ll figure it out once we’ve got them clear,” Ridge said with a vague gesture. Normally, Ridge’s penchant for making things up as they went grated on Rett’s need for order, although Ridge was right far more often than he was wrong. Now, Rett felt glad he did not have to argue with his partner to get him to save Sofen and the others.
“I wish I knew who the man was with Edels,” Rett murmured. “And I wish I could have used my Sight on him.”
“Keep an eye out tomorrow,” Ridge said. “Listen for the voice. My bet is he’s the caravan master.”
“We still don’t know where the weapons come in.” Rett arranged his rucksack so that he could lean back on it. Since they arrived with the caravan, they had taken shifts on watch, unwilling for both of them to sleep at the same time.
Ridge turned over, shifting between the hard ground and his cloak to get comfortable. “We’ll find the pieces and put them together. We always do.”
The next morning, Edels came by as Ridge and Rett chopped firewood. “I need a hand unloading a wagon,” he said. “Come on.”
They followed him to the road on the edge of the camp. An empty wagon waited with a driver who was clearly in a hurry to be elsewhere. “There are four crates in the back of that cart,” Edels said, pointing toward the merchants’ vehicles. “Get them loaded.”
Rett risked using his Sight. The driver did not carry the touch of the Witch Lord, but Rett picked up a darkness that limned his aura. Perhaps he had not sold his soul, or maybe the offer had not been made but would have been willingly accepted. Whatever the reason, the driver was not a person to be trusted.
Ridge and Rett headed for the crates. Ridge pulled back the cloth covering the wooden boxes and caught his breath. The same symbol from the waybills marked each one. A glance between them conveyed the question without words. How do we find out who’s in on the smuggling and who’s receiving the weapons?
It took both of them to move each crate. Edels and the wagon driver watched in silence, impatience clear in their faces. Rett looked for any possible clues about where the wagon might be headed. He stole another glance at the driver. The man spoke with a northern accent, and while his clothing looked plain, it did not appear as hard-used as that of most wagon masters. Rett wondered if he might be a servant, sent out on an errand for his master, and not usually a driver.
The crates had no markings on the outside; given their contents, neither the sender nor the receiver would want to be traced. Just the odd sigil, a code revealing the contents to those who were part of the secret.
He paid attention to the merchant’s wagon as well, each time they went back for another load. From the way Ridge lingered, just a few seconds each time, he knew his fellow assassin was also scanning for any way to identify whoever had brought the weapons to the rendezvous point.
“That should do it,” Ridge said, as they settled the last crate into the second wagon.
“Where’re you bound for?” the wagon driver asked Edels.
“We go west from here, on to where the weavers and lace makers live,” Edels replied.
“Mind you don’t take the Coburn Bridge,” the driver warned. “Bad rain last week flooded the river. It’s none too steady. Wouldn’t risk it.”
Edels gave a nod of thanks, and the driver urged his horse into motion as Ridge and Rett headed back toward the firewood.
Ridge glanced over his shoulder to make sure Edels hadn’t come up behind them. “I think I know whose wagon brought the crates out here,” he murmured. “I’ve been trying to match faces to wagons, in case we found something. I’ll see if I can find out a name.”
“Sofen and his friends might know something. We can ask once everything’s settled,” Rett replied.
Rett’s errands took him back and forth across the camp, and any time his path brought him near the tent with Sofen and the children, he scanned the area to assure that the security had not been tightened. One time when he passed, Edels was berating the guard at the rear of the tent, but Rett was too far away to hear what was being said and had no good reason to move closer.
The driver’s comment about Coburn Bridge stuck in Rett’s mind. He tried to remember who
the landholders were on the other side of the river and whether any had been rumored to be enamored of the Witch Lord. Nothing came to him, although he vowed to have a look once they returned to Caralocia and he had access to good maps.
As he walked back toward the firewood, Rett kept his ears open, listening for anything that might be useful.
“…not sure what the hurry is, but Master Kurren seems to be in a rush to get back on the road,” a passing merchant said to his companion. “I think he’d have us pulling up stakes tonight if he thought he could get away with it.”
“…don’t know what’s put everyone on edge,” complained another man, whom Rett recognized as a rug dealer. “We did a good business yesterday, and again as much today. I wouldn’t mind seeing if anyone else comes in tomorrow, but I hear we’re moving out.”
Did something spook Edels and Caravan Master Kurren to make them rush departure? Are the merchants taking advantage of their customers, so we daren’t stay long enough for them to be exposed? Or were they just anxious to be gone, knowing the truth about the weapons they transported and the kidnapped children they brokered like horses? Rett wondered.
Ridge had finished splitting most of the wood by the time Rett got back. “Nice of you to take your time,” he drawled.
“Didn’t have a choice. Edels seemed to think I didn’t have enough to do. Every time I finished and headed back here, he sent me off to fetch water or unload more hay for the horses.”
Ridge frowned. “You think he’s suspicious of you?” he asked with a glance around to make sure no one else was near.
“I think he’s suspicious of everyone,” Rett replied, pitching in to finish the last of the wood. “If he had the Sight or abilities like Sofen, he’d have figured us out by now—probably when we first came looking to hire on.”
“Maybe,” Ridge replied, and his eyes narrowed the way they did when he wasn’t convinced. Rett had been watching his friend’s expressions for most of his life, and right now, he knew Ridge was already considering alternatives in case their plan went badly. It was a lifelong habit.
Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1) Page 4
