The moon wasn’t yet up, and thin clouds obscured all but the brightest stars. He hadn’t far to go, and he struck out southward, intending to keep his distance from the castle and approach the sanctuary from the west.
That plan soon fell apart. He hadn’t gone more than a block or two on a curving lane when he heard footsteps ahead of him. The street was dark, and he could tell that those approaching carried torches. Resisters or soldiers. Either way, they wouldn’t be able to see much beyond the light cast by their flames. Tobias ducked into the yard of a modest, white stone house.
They came into view a heartbeat later: soldiers; two patrols’ worth. Tobias doubled back the way he had come, keeping to shadows, making as little noise as he could.
At the first corner, he headed westward up a crooked street, retreated several paces and waited. The guards continued past and disappeared from view. Tobias walked on.
Over the next quarter bell, however, he encountered several more patrols. They might have been enforcing the curfew, but Tobias thought it more likely that they were searching for him.
Time and again, he had to change directions. He managed to keep his distance from the castle, and to navigate the web of lanes without directly confronting any soldiers, but he wasn’t drawing any closer to the spires of Sipar’s sanctuary.
He tried to force his way toward the center of the city, but here the patrols grew more numerous. As he neared a corner, now south and west of the temple, he heard yet another group of soldiers. He halted and turned back, only to see a second patrol enter the very lane he had been following.
Using the cover of darkness, Tobias eased into the nearest yard and crept toward the back of the house.
He hadn’t gone far when a dog inside started barking.
“Who’s there?” called one of the guards. He carried a musket at waist height. His bayonet glowed with torch fire.
Tobias couldn’t flee, and he couldn’t afford to be found. A dark-skinned Northisler in violation of curfew? They’d have him in chains before he could blink. He had no choice but to hide in the shadows. Inside the house, the dog continued to bark.
“What is it you heard?” another solder asked the man.
“That dog. It must be barking at something.”
“Yeah,” said another soldier. “Us.”
Others in the patrol laughed.
“It started before we got close.” The man sounded defensive.
“My neighbor’s dog barks if I fart too loud. It’s nothing.”
Most of the rest muttered their agreement and started walking again. The man who’d made them stop scanned the lane for a fivecount before following them.
They continued along the lane, passing within a few strides of where Tobias hid. But they didn’t see him, and he made not a sound.
The guards reached the bend and continued straight along the lane past more houses. Only when they had crossed a second street did Tobias emerge from the yard and return to the lane. The dog still barked inside the house, and a man within yelled at it to quiet down.
Tobias cut eastward at the next corner and, enjoying a few moments of good fortune, managed to draw near the sanctuary. Additional patrols – or ones he had encountered before – forced him to backtrack or hide several times more, but at last he reached the temple.
It was immense. A fortified wall, much like the one surrounding the castle, encircled the sanctuary grounds. The wall’s battlements were empty of soldiers, but the gate at the northeast end was guarded by two women, both dressed in white and armed with curved swords.
They eyed Tobias as he approached, no doubt aware of the Sheraigh curfew. They might have known that the soldiers in blue searched for a Northisler.
“How can we serve you, sir?” one of the women asked in a strong alto.
“I… I seek refuge.”
“Refuge from whom?” asked the second warder.
“From the soldiers of Sheraigh.”
The second woman nodded, but neither of them stepped out of his way. “So you wish to enter?”
“Not immediately, no. There is another. I seek refuge for both of us. If you agree, I can have my… my companion here before midnight.”
“Who is this other?”
“I’m not prepared to say. Not yet. I wish to speak with whoever is in charge.”
“That would be the high priestess, Nuala.”
“Actually,” came a voice from behind him, “that would be me.”
Tobias spun, reaching for his blade.
“I wouldn’t.”
The words stopped Tobias. The click of several flintlocks kept his hand frozen in place. He glanced back at the two guards, who stared at him, hands at their sides, swords sheathed. Tobias thought he saw regret in their eyes.
He faced forward again, watched as shadows advanced and coalesced in the light of the sanctuary torches. Seeing the face of the man nearest to him, Tobias let out an audible gasp.
The assassin from the night Mearlan died. Behind him came three men dressed in black, all with pistols raised, all carrying those odd sextants with the three arcs.
Mearlan’s assassin took the dagger from Tobias’s belt and handed it to one of his men.
He wore a ministerial robe, one trimmed in blue rather than the red Mearlan’s ministers had worn. Sheraigh colors. His complexion was nearly a match for Tobias’s. The same could be said of the men with him. Of course. They were all Travelers. Did the assassin hail from Trevynisle? Or from one of the Sisters? Onyi perhaps, like Tobias himself.
On the night of the killings, the man had worn his hair tied back. It hung loose now, and Tobias could see that it resembled his own. The bronze was streaked with gold, but he and this man could have been taken for countrymen. The stranger’s eyes were widely spaced in a square, handsome face. He wore a placid expression, and held himself with the grace and confidence of a man who feared no one. At least no one here.
Tobias had as much reason to hate this man as anyone, and yet he could see why soldiers – or killers – would follow him, would heed his orders and fight to protect him. He had the look of a warrior king.
All of this occurred to Tobias in the span of one heartbeat.
In the next moment, he recognized what should have been obvious from the start: his life was forfeit, and if he uttered a single wrong word, so was Sofya’s.
The assassin barked a command in what might have been Oaqamaran, and the men concealed their devices under the cloaks they wore.
“You will withdraw,” he said to the sanctuary guards in the language of the Ring Isles. His accent was nearly perfect. “Lock your gate if you must.” He glanced at Tobias. “No one will be entering the grounds tonight.”
To their credit, the guards didn’t flinch or jump to obey his command.
“The sanctuary is open to all who reside in this city,” one of them said. “We answer to the God and his priests and priestesses.”
“No one here questions the authority of your God or his servants. But in this city, until a new duke is invested, I am lord. Tonight you answer to me, and to the sovereign of Daerjen whom I represent.”
“If we refuse?”
His smile was thin and icy. “I know better than to strike at Sipar’s guards.” He indicated Tobias with an open hand. “This man, though, whom you seek to protect, will suffer doubly for your interference.”
The two women considered Tobias again, and he them.
As formidable as they might have been, they carried only swords. The three men in black still held their full-cocked pistols. Despite what the assassin had said, Tobias didn’t doubt that he would order the guards killed if they hindered him in any way. He had enough blood on his hands tonight.
“It’s all right,” he said, pleased to hear that his voice remained even. “I have nothing to fear from these men. Do as he says.”
After another moment’s hesitation, they bowed to him, closed the gate with a clang of iron, and stepped to the guard house.
“This way,” the assassin said, indicating with a compact motion of his hand that Tobias should follow him.
They started northward, away from the temple walls.
“That was wise of you,” he said. “Notwithstanding the lie you told.”
“What lie was that?” Tobias asked, though he knew. His stomach tightened painfully, and his breath seemed over loud.
“You have a great deal to fear from me, as you well know.”
Back in Windhome, Feidys, the master of statecraft, had taught Tobias and the other novitiates how to control their breathing, their pulse, and their nerves in negotiations. Tobias drew upon all of that training now.
“Why should I fear you?”
The man eyed him askance, raising an eyebrow fractionally. “You truly wish to maintain this deception? No matter the cost?”
Tobias didn’t respond. That phrase – no matter the cost – reverberated in his mind.
“You look familiar to me,” the man said, facing forward again. “And you recognized me the moment you saw me. So drop the pretense, and tell me where she is.”
This he was prepared for. Of course the man would ask about Sofya. If not for his search for her, he would have killed Tobias already.
“Where who is?”
The assassin’s laughter was harsh, ugly, utterly at odds with his smooth manner and appearance. “Fine, I’ll play along. I heard you speak to the guards of a companion. Where can I find her?”
“Why would you care about Mara?”
A frown greeted this. “Who is Mara?”
“My companion,” Tobias said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re to be wed–”
The blow seemed to come from nowhere. One moment he was talking, and the next he was on the ground, blood from his nose gushing into his mouth, choking him.
“Enough,” the assassin said, standing over him, his fist still clenched. “Pick him up.”
Two of his men grabbed Tobias’s arms and hauled him to his feet. The assassin hit him again, a punch to the gut that left him doubled over and retching.
By the time Tobias managed to raise his gaze once more, the man had turned and walked away.
“Bring him,” he said over his shoulder. “The castle dungeon is well-equipped. I’m sure we’ll find something there that I can use to pry the truth out of him.”
Chapter 25
23rd Day of Sipar’s Settling, Year 633
The men half-carried and half-dragged Tobias the rest of the way to Hayncalde Castle. The Sheraigh soldiers at the main gate leered at him as he and his captors passed, but they didn’t speak a word, knowing better than to call him “shit-skinned” or “gaaz-demon” in front of the assassin and his trained killers.
The assassin led them through the length of the castle, to the farthest ward, and then into a keep at the western edge of the structure. There they followed a winding, dank stairway that descended into the bowels of the fortress.
Fresh torches burned in blackened iron sconces set into the walls, but in every other way this place reeked of years of neglect. Cobwebs and ancient dust coated the stairs, clung to the rough stone, and all but concealed the piles of pale bone and disintegrating rags that littered the dirty floor.
Tobias almost would have preferred to be greeted with the stench of rotting flesh, of vomit and urine and excrement. Those, at least, would have spoken of life – broken to be sure, but lived and lost within memory. The air here stank of oblivion, of death so old it no longer mattered to anyone alive. He gagged on it.
Shifting flames threw into grotesque relief spiked cages, iron pikes and wheels, blood-stained tables fixed with gears and cuffs, and an array of blades, hammers, and hinged devices that burrowed like rats into the darkest recesses of Tobias’s imagination. All of them were rusted and filthy, yet he didn’t doubt that each could still perform the precise evil for which it had been invented. He quailed at all he saw, certain that he would die in this place and terrified of what he would be forced to reveal before he did. He could barely stand for the shaking of his legs. Had it not been for the men holding him up, and his refusal to collapse onto the mouldering remains of some previous unfortunate, he would have fallen to the floor.
“It seems Mearlan and his father didn’t use their dungeon much,” the assassin said, the words pealing like sanctuary bells in the oppressive space. “But everything appears to be functional.” He rattled a set of wall-mounted manacles, the ring of iron on stone jarring and discordant. “Chain him here.”
They stripped off his shirt and clamped the chains around his wrists and ankles. Using a winch he hadn’t noticed, they ratcheted him to the wall, the chains at his hands pulling until his arms were taut above his head. The manacles at his ankles, it seemed, were fixed to the floor.
“To be honest, I don’t like torture,” the assassin said, gazing up at him, a benign smile on his lips. “I would rather not resort to the… uglier implements at my disposal. That, though, is entirely up to you.”
“I don’t–”
The man raised a hand, silencing him. “Let’s not begin badly. Allow me to ask you some questions. Simple ones at first. And we can work from there. Agreed?”
Tobias faltered, then nodded.
“Good. Let’s begin with your name.”
“I’m… I’m Bale. Bale Lijar.” His brother’s given name; Mara’s family name.
The assassin’s lips twitched. He glanced at the man by the winch and dipped his chin.
The gears of the winch creaked and shifted. A single snap of the rusted gear, but that was enough to jerk Tobias’s arms higher still, wrenching his shoulders, his neck, his back. He gasped.
“I asked for your name. That was as simple as any question you’ll face in this chamber. And you couldn’t answer that without a lie. This bodes poorly. Shall we try again?”
Tobias told himself it wasn’t surrender. Quite the opposite. If he was to be whole enough to withstand questions about Sofya, he would need to accede to the man’s interrogation early on.
“Tobias Doljan,” he said.
The assassin’s smile appeared genuine. “Much better.”
Again, he nodded to the man by the winch. Another creak and echoing click, and it seemed to Tobias that hot steel pierced his shoulders.
He cried out, squeezing his eyes closed. The pain crested and slowly receded, like a moon tide. “I told you the truth,” he panted, glaring down at the man.
“And I’m glad. But I felt the need to impress upon you that lies will not go unpunished. I assume I’ve made my point?”
Tobias swallowed, nodded.
“Excellent. Where are you from?”
“Redcove. It’s–”
“On Onyi. Yes, I know of it. You lived most of your early years in the palace at Windhome, isn’t that so?”
His first instinct was to deny it, but already he dreaded the turning of those gears.
The assassin faced his man again.
“Yes,” Tobias said quickly. “I grew up in the Travelers’ palace.”
A smirk tugged at the man’s lips as he turned back to Tobias. “You’re a Walker, yes?”
“That’s right. And you’re a Spanner.”
White teeth flashed in the dark face. “Yes, I am, and a good one. Don’t interrupt me again.” The threat of pain hung in the words. “What are you doing here?”
“Here…”
“This time, this place.”
“I was summoned from the palace to the court of Mearlan IV, and upon my arrival the sovereign sent me back to this time.”
“Why?”
This time, his hesitation lasted too long. The assassin gave a flick of his fingers, and the winch groaned and ticked. Something in Tobias’s shoulder popped and he howled, unable to stop himself.
“You seem to believe that with each question, you have a choice as to how to answer, whether to answer.” As he talked, he stepped to the nearest sconce, and retrieved the torch it held. “You don’t.”
He returned to his spot in front of Tobias. “I ask, you answer with the truth. That’s all.”
He thrust the torch at Tobias’s chest, allowing the flame to lick at his skin.
Tobias screamed and writhed, straining against the chains, twisting his abused shoulder. All to no avail – the chains held him fast.
He couldn’t have said how long the assassin held the fire there. It might have been a tencount. Maybe less. It felt like an eternity. When at last the man lowered the torch, tears streaked Tobias’s face.
“Why did he send you back? It was a long time, wasn’t it? A very long time. He must have had some vital purpose in mind.”
“I suppose. I’m just a Walker. It’s not for me to judge–”
The torch again. Searing agony.
“How long?” Orzili roared. “How many years did he take from you? How many have you taken from us?”
“Taken from… Truly I don’t understand.”
Flame raked at his chest. He bucked and screamed, until finally he could take no more. “Fourteen years!” he bellowed. “That’s how long!”
The assassin stared at him, mouth open, and let the torch fall to his side. “Fourteen,” he repeated, the word coming out like the whisper of steel clearing leather. “Fourteen years.” He raised the torch, holding it just below Tobias’s chin.
Tobias tried in vain to twist away. He would have done nearly anything to make it stop, but the man hadn’t asked anything more. He held the flame there as if it were a punishment, for what Tobias wasn’t certain.
By the time he lowered it, Tobias was weeping.
“Why did he send you?” the man asked. “I want an answer. And if fire and chains aren’t enough to draw one from you, I’ll find other means.”
It was, Tobias realized, a secret robbed of import. That future was lost, and if he was to make it whole again, he would first have to destroy this man. In either case, what he said now was of little consequence.
“I came back to stop a war. Mearlan was about to commit to a prolonged campaign against the autarchy, one Daerjen was destined to lose. The Mearlan I served, the one fourteen years in the future, came to recognize his error. He sent me to prevent it.”
Time's Children Page 28
